Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Peter knocked on the Stilinski front door impatiently. In his left hand, he held his phone with an opened dialogue with Stiles which only showed him that his 27 messages were unseen. He was worried on his way to the house, but when he got in the close vicinity and heard his boyfriend`s steady heartbeat he calmed down. And then he heard the phone vibrate near Stiles on the desk but it was clearly left unattended as he did not make a move to get it, nor even pay the slightest attention that it was actually there and had an incoming message.

Peter rang the doorbell. Still nothing. He banged on the door with his fist. Stile`s breath hitched as if he might have noticed somewhere in his periphery that someone was calling him.

“Stiles!” Peter shouted and gave a powerful series of knocks one more time. He heard an uptick in boy`s heart and could imagine him flinch. Then he heard cursing and running down the stairs.

When the door opened, Peter was greeted with a face with dark bags under the glass-covered eyes. He frowned.

“Peter!” Stiles exclaimed in his lost unsure yet somewhat happy wow-you-are-here voice and leant in with a quick peck on the lips. “Back so soon? I thought you`d be gone for two days, at least. Negotiations, shmegotiations. You know, you were there. Anyway, emmm”, he trailed.

Peter delicately smelled the air – the boy was not drunk, but his hands gave off a distinctive smell of ink.

“Today is Monday”, Peter said gloomily. “And I was gone for a weekend,” he lifted an eyebrow accusingly and said, “in case you didn`t notice.”

Stiles flailed a bit. “Of course, of course, I did,” his heart gave out his total lie, “sure, yep, I did, I so did, notice that my boyfriend was gone for two long days, God, did I notice”. What an exaggerated lie, which brought Peter even in the more foul mood.

Peter strode into the house, stopped in the middle of the living room and looked around.

“What were you doing, Stiles?”

Stiles looked away guiltily and clasped his hands behind him.

“I was studying,” he said nonchalantly.

Half-lie. Well, maybe he started with studying.

“And If I walk into your room,” Stiles pursed his lips at that, “what will I find there?”

Stiles shuffled his feet, then stopped as if in a totally different mood with new thoughts bugging his head, and with furrowed brows he asked, “What are you doing here anyway?”

Peter sighed and shook his head in disappointment. Here we go again, he thought.

“We had a date scheduled, or did you forget?”

Stiles` face was completely blank, but Peter knew, that somewhere deep in that brilliant head, Stiles was looking for the exact moment when they had planned their date, for that little notification that was blaring in alarm, offended for being forgotten.

Peter`s shoulders slumped and in a slightly hushed voice he said, “This is the fourth time you forget,” he could see the younger man flinch in guilt and continued mockingly, “and let me guess why.”

And Peter knew exactly why, yet he could not understand. Was he not enough? Did he not provide enough informational thrill for Stiles? Did his knowledge lack in any sphere? Had he read not enough books? Had he not seen much in his life? Was he boring Stiles? The last thing he knew, Stiles could keep up with him, but that`s about it. Yes, they complemented each other while Stiles was trivia master – his random knowledge of facts in different spheres was astounding, – Peter was well versed in folklore, history and art.

Were their conversations not stimulating for Stiles enough? They could talk for hours, and yet Stiles never forgot himself with him like with those damned papers.

“You have a crossword on your desk in your room,” was a statement of solid fact.

Stiles scrunched up his nose and gave a slothful shrug, hands still clasped behind him.

“Maybe,” he murmured.

“But it`s not just one, is it?”Peter started derisively, because, in all honesty, he was sick and tired of being forgotten and overlooked. He started pacing. “I can bet you have a whole stack of them!”

Stiles flinched. So he was right, it was more than one. It was like an addiction.

Stiles huffed and relaxed, dropping his hands to his sides.

“What`s the big deal anyway? Peter, if you want to go on a date like you said we were supposed to, then just say so, I’ll change and we’ll be on our way to, em, another restaurant, café, whatever. Do you really have to interrogate me?” Stiles looked as if the only one who was posing problems was Peter.

The nerve of that boy. It would drive him insane someday. For the second time.

“Is this a fucking joke to you?” Peter sneered. “I am saying,” he emphasised through his teeth,” that you missed another of our dates and didn`t even notice I was gone for two bloody days and all I get in return is wondering what fucking big deal it is? Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Peter,” Stiles sighed as if he was explaining basic notions to a child, “yes, I was solving some crosswords, yes I lost some time, and yes I forgot about you for a bit, you know I get distracted easily, and I am sorry for all the dates I`ve missed.” He came closer to Peter so that they had one single tiny step between them. He tilted his head and looked up into Peter's eyes apologetically. He took his hand and interweaved Peter`s inert fingers with his.

“I`m sorry, ok?” He peered into his eyes pleadingly. “I`ll make sure it won`t happen again.”

His boyfriend looked so earnest. Peter almost gave in, but his mercy was replaced with a frown and a step back with the loss of connection via hands. Stiles looked forlornly at Peter’s hand.

“This is what you are saying every damn time, Stiles! And I always fall for that and forgive you, and I know this is a problem for you, and I fucking know you didn`t mean to!” he trailed. “But do I?” he stared questionably at him.

“Do you what?” Stiles looked lost.

“Do I really know that you didn`t mean to?”

Stiles looked perplexed.

“Are you serious?” he asked in disbelief. “Do you think I do this on purpose? Blow you off because I`d rather have a crossword in my hand?”

Peter`s stare was intense.

“You do, don`t you? You think I prefer a piece of paper over you? Is this some kind of new form of twisted jealousy to inanimate objects? What the fuck, Peter?”

“I sometimes wonder whether you listen to me at all,” Peter murmured. With a deep humble sigh, Peter freed the resolution that was cooking for a while already.

“I am tired,” he peered meaningfully into his boyfriend's eyes. “Do you understand?” Judging by Stiles` shocked face he did understand, unfortunately for him.

Stiles gave a nervous laugh.

“Is this an ultimatum?” he asked in disbelief. “Are you making me chose? Peter, this is ridiculous!”

“Oh, is it?” Peter questioned dryly. “What is truly ridiculous is when I worry what happened to you when you don`t answer my or anyone’s calls for two days straight and I race back to make sure you are alright, or when I wait for two hours for you only to find out you were so engrossed in your fucking crosswords that you forgot!” Peter gave a half-crazed chuckle. “Or how about when I made dinner for just the two of us in my apartment with all the romantic bullshit you always complain we don`t have and you just didn’t come. Again!”

Peter really and truly seethed. If he was a dragon, he`d breathe fire now. “Should I go on?” he asked angrily.

Stiles with eyes round shook his head in silent “no”.

“Then yes, Stiles, I am making you choose. Your legitimate boyfriend,” he pointed at himself, “or your affair.” He spat out that word as if something filthy.

Stiles pursed his lips. Peter decided to write off the minute of silence in favour of the utter shock of what was happening and not count it as if it was hesitation.

Stiles turned his head to the side and slightly nodded.

“Fine,” he said and with a deep sigh as if preparing to go into battle, “the book is on the desk. You may take it now.”

Peter clenched and unclenched his fists. A whole fucking book, no wonder. He couldn`t help but spit in malice, “I hope it wasn`t a hardship to choose.”

He decisively walked to the stairs to take that book full of crosswords and fucking burn it but was halted by, “For fuck sake`s, Peter! I chose you!” He turned back to face his boyfriend, blood boiling, eyebrows pulled together by the force of strong emotions shocking his body, “I apologised! I promised not to do it again! I`m giving the entire fucking book for you!” he was gesticulating wildly, “What else do you want from me?”

Every day Peter felt an uncomfortable gut-wrenching tug in his heart.

“A token of your love, goddammit!” he roared.

He looked downward in despair, turned around and quickly climbed the stairs. For the first time since the fire, he would love to watch something burn.

Chapter Text

Peter knew that his biggest rival was Lydia Martin. They competed in two fields: maths and Stiles. The first one he could not give a damn about, whilst the second…well. He thought he won that battle when they began dating. But boy was he wrong.

The first few weeks were great, wonderful actually. They could not get enough of each other – there was the spark, the heat, some mystery, plenty of amusement and tonnes of sarcasm. Their little perfect recipe.

Or so he thought.

It seems to him now that what they had was just Lydia Marti having a break and focusing on something else, in other words – she gave Stiles to him, on the silver fucking platter with words “we are only friends, that is all we can ever be” engraved with large letters on the top and highlighted with neon lights . But Peter had his suspicions that she was just teasing. Look what I have at my beck and call, look how great he is, take and have a taste. And Peter like an eager dog bit into the bone. But the thing was – no one told him she`d be back to collect, to take what is hers back.

And boy was he mad. That little brat did not want Stiles, she never did. She was just used to having him by her side and did not want to lose that unconditional worshipping obsession Stiles had for her.

Yes, Peter was slowly but surely losing the battle with the prize in face of human who got his long slender fingers around his cold suspicious heart, who took over his thoughts and guarded him from his nightmares. He was losing him to someone who did not even compete. At least not for the reasons they should.

Peter had just put a cup of coffee with five spoons of sugar on the table, just how Stiles likes it when the aforementioned man emerged from Peter`s bedroom. Peter smiled to himself and took a tentative sip of his own – even thought he could heal did not mean he wished to burn. He was just about to reach a packet full of still warm croissants with strawberry filling he bought just this morning for Stiles – they were his favourite - when he noticed Stiles putting on his shoes in a hurry. Peter frowned, clearly puzzled by this development.

“Where are you going?”

Stiles flailed, craned his head from where he was tying his laces in a fleeting glance at Peter.

“Oh, you know,” he mumbled, “to Lydia’s.”

Peters grip on the cup tightened.

“So early in the morning?” he asked innocently.

Stiles straightened and fixed his hoodie. “Yeah, she likes having everything done in the first half of the day”.

“And dare I ask what are you meeting her for?”Peter hoped his voice did not sound as strained as every cell in his body was.

Stiles` hand twitched at his hoodie when he said, “Study group.”

Peter`s eyes narrowed.

“Maybe I could help with something?” In his mind, Peter begged Stiles to take him up on his offer. They spent less and less time together, and Peter was losing badly.

“No,” Stiles was quick to respond. “We just need to go over some notes on, em, you know, math. I tend to lose numbers when I`m distracted and then the results do not come together with the answers and it takes me ages, just ages to figure out what I missed. And Lydia, she`s good at this, quick, knows this stuff and…yeah, she`s good. Helps. Lots.”

Stiles was nodding to himself by the end. Peter put the cup on the table – he was on the verge of breaking it so he leant onto the counter and gripped its edges. Did he just lose the first one?

“At least come get some breakfast.” Peter held on the last thread of hope and he mentally begged Stiles not to cut it.

“Nah, not hungry.” Stiles stepped back looking for his phone. Peter sighed and walked to him.

“It`s in your right pocket,” he said stopping right before him.

Stiles` hand stopped over that pocket which was harbouring his phone. Right pocket, indeed. He lifted his head and smiled warmly at Peter.

“What would I do without you?” he said with a contented sigh and leant to give Peter a goodbye kiss.

It was too short.

“I`ll call you later, ok?” Stiles threw over his shoulder as he exited the apartment.

And Peter. Peter just stood there, rooted to the same spot with his head just as it was when the kiss occurred, in the same position.

He took a deep breath in. Then blew it out. Took another one in. And then out. In and out.

He bent over, leant with his hands on his knees, his whole body tiredly bending, and closed his eyes.  In and out.

That bitch was creating a rift between them. And no matter how hard Peter tried to sew it back together or stuff its holes nothing seemed to work.

In and out.

Their coffee got cold. And bagels belonged to a trashcan now.

He had to try harder.

And with that thought, Peter grabbed his keys and a wallet in a hurry to get to the nearest magic shop. If Stiles could not resist something, it was magic. And Peter was only glad to indulge.

But only if it meant that it would bring them together.

Peter never ever ever wanted to drag Stiles into magic, never wanted him to develop that spark of his, never wanted him to be “on the radar” of the magical community, - even more, as he was a human in a pack of ‘wolves after all.

But desperate times call for desperate measures.

Peter would protect his love. Even at the cost of his own life.

He closed the door and marched to his car, still irritated.

He did not even like strawberries.

Chapter Text

The trip to Las Vegas and back took Peter 14 hours. While the traffic was awful, his mood was even worse. He had to endure a restless and monotonous drive to the city where he once lost two hundred thousand dollars along with a rare baseball collection card to a woman with no shame. And Peter Hale did not like looking like a fool. Suffice to say, he had to drive to a city he did not have good associations with. What made it even worse was that the book he intended to buy was selling a “professional” magician – a witch who kept shooting sparks at Peter, asking him to pick a card and running his mouth about some garbage –but not like Stiles, never like Stiles and his obscene mouth. And that moron did not even use magic in his performances – a witch who did magic without magic. What a moron, Peter thought.

Life was all about seizing opportunities. So Peter found comfort in a thought that while that piece of an idiot in a striped suit did not see an opportunity then at least he himself could. Which is why with a growl as a setback he passively aggressively painted in vivid pictures how he would eviscerate him bit by bit and keep him alive as long as possible so that he would see how good his meat fries and then tastes. Tinted green and profoundly disturbed, Mitchem Mitcherid sold him a rarity with an ironic title – Do Not Sell Your Spark – which was basically a beginners course for sparks – for a ridiculously low price. Which meant that someone did not do their research. Or just wanted him to stop the death talk. And at that case both were possible.

Despite how annoying the fool was, or how traffic was awfully slow then fast then slow, or even his horrible mood caused by closed space and immobility, the most upsetting thing was a blank screen on his phone. This glorious cherry on top of his glorious trip was that Stiles did not even call him once. Not even a text. Not even second-handed message via at least someone in the pack. 

And Peter checked, of course, he did. His phone was never off these days, he always made sure to stay in the coverage zone in case someone needed him, in case Stiles needed him and did not let it out of his sight. So Peter knew what he was talking about when he was stating that Stiles did not call. 

Last two hours of his trip Peter’s leg bounced, a hand drummed and an eye ticked. He was out of his territory, all day in a car since the disastrous breakfast, Stiles once again did not call him, spending all his time with that Martin girl. In times when he was not dying of jealousy and speculating about what those two were doing in her room, he was mulling over the ways how to with minimum suspicion to himself introduce Stiles to magic and gift him with knowledge – he did not decide yet, he was always vocal in his disapproval about magic and this sudden shift was hard to explain – then he switched to planning the devastating fallout between Lydia and Stiles where Peter would have his lover all to himself once again. In the end, after so many hours of suffering in the car, he indulged himself with the plotting of Lydia Martin’s death. The last two hours of his trip were the most entertaining, so to speak. 

When he finally got home with a hefty book in his hand it was already 10:21 pm. He was tired, yes, and hungry, and stressed, and was he holding a slight grudge? And some hatred in his heart? Well, definitely yes. But he also was giddy. All he had to do was to find the right moment and of course, words to show Stiles the salvation – even though temporary, he was man enough to face it – to their relationship.

Peter did a quick job of ordering Thai food enough for two werewolves and sat down on a leather couch deep in thought. What would he do if he was Lydia Martin? What kind of game would he play? 

The goal was obvious – win Stiles. The reason was too – to bask in his undivided fascination and probably finally date him. How Peter saw it – enslave him, basically. What had to be done, the top priority in order to let that happen – get Peter out of the way. 

Peter relaxed his body and channelled all his energy to his brain. 

To break them apart she would need to start with something small – forgot a date, forgot to call – honestly, to distract Stiles is the easiest task on the planet with that ADHD of his. Even though Stiles was good at ditching Peter by himself, Peter was sure that Martin gave a hand at that. Evidence 1: the crossword book – no, even a whole fucking tome – was not bought by Stiles because a) he seldom forgot he even liked solving them, b) he preferred to forget that he liked solving them while it took a lot of his time and focus and it was not their first fallout Stiles and Peter had because of them, hell, even the Sheriff did not approve, c) Stiles did not like shopping – malls were insufferable although for Peter insufferable was Stiles’ whining and while small shops he did not mind not even a single one of them was selling a monstrosity Stiles had on his desk – Peter checked while in a jam, d) Stiles could not deliberately by himself buy that thing via internet as he specifically for this – and other few things – had a sticker or a few on his laptop and a desk with threats from himself so that he would not be tempted not only to buy, but also even look for it. So point here being made is that someone encouraged him to buy it and who else he would listen to if not Martin? 

Peter hummed to himself. Perhaps, he could not hold a grudge over that anymore. And for today he was contemplating to forgive him to due to Evidence 2: Stiles could never say no to Lydia because a) she is somewhat pretty b) Stiles probably has a fetish for redheads, c) she could be considered smart, d) ???? e) ????

Peter sighed. He did not know what Stiles saw in her. School crushes were supposed to stay in school.

After small things, which at first and second and third seemed accidental, Peter would get bolder and unobtrusively hint at his opponent’s possible future actions that his target is deeply afraid of. Usually, those were lying, cheating, abusing, stealing or just leaving, - the tragedy of break up.

Before Stiles Peter always mocked those couples, the overdramatic lovers who cried months in a row and threatened to kill themselves as they could not stand the living without their loved ones.

Peter thought that everyone was expendable and replaceable – except family by blood of course. He mocked and rolled his eyes – everyone was so ridiculous and pathetic.

And then he met Stiles – he did not roll his eyes at heartbreaks even once since.

So yes, usually, hinting at all the usual things. But Peter was a special cookie. Since he was a werewolf, as rumour said it – loyal to a fault, he would not have thrown those accusations his way. There were other qualms he had to prepare himself to.

Was he still insane? Did he want to be an Alpha again? Did he want to create his own pack? Was he toying with murders? Did he enjoy biting into jugulars and ripping people to death with his claws and teeth? Though Peter already had that particular thought directed at one particular person – once, or maybe twice. If to state the question right or at the right moment, Stiles would even dedicate his board to answering questions like – Peters goal – apocalypse and world domination?

Of course, she would accuse him of something nefarious. It was non-negotiable. He had to look at his schedule and check whether he could prove his true, not guilty in any charges location at any time of the day.

As Peter was looking through his calendar, he heard a key turning in a lock. He contemplated his chances and decided that he was somewhat ready in case some questions arose. He quickly turned on the TV and tried to look as unassuming as possible.

He frowned when he heard scratching and cursing. Last time he checked, the lights in the corridor were on at this time.

When Stiles finally managed to stumble into the apartment, Peter could only frown and then scrunch his face at the atrocious smell of wine assaulting his senses. Drunk Stiles was not reasonable Stiles, meaning – not his favourite one and yet adorable at times.

This time, however, he looked like a sad drunk.

“I don`t even know why I came here,” he said, clearly upset and rooted just a step into Peter’s apartment.

Peter tensed and turned to him in his seat, giving Stiles his undivided attention – this could be anything.

“Did you drive here?” Peter asked cautiously.

“What?” Stiles finally looked at him – those eyes were drowned in pain and accustions. “Why? What do you care?”

Peter stood up and took a step closer. Stiles was a cornered animal, a prey; Peter was the hunter. The air was pregnant with tension.

“I care because I love you and would not tolerate anything happening to you.” Peter was proud of himself, hell, even Talia, his older sister would be proud because of this open manifestation of affection.

Stiles’ shoulders sagged and he deflated. Peter was not foolish to think this was over.

“You did not call,” Stiles sniffed.

Ahhhh, Peter cursed himself inwardly. Sometimes, just sometimes he had a habit of seeing just Stiles’ faults. Today was that day. He could`ve called, sure. But he preferred to spare himself the pain when his phone call would`ve been inevitably missed. Pain spared, but all evidence in his defence lost. Peter vowed not to ever make that mistake again.

“I`m sorry, darling,” Peter was finally in a touching distance and took his lover’s hand, “I had a small road trip and there was no coverage where I went. But I believe you were busy today too, were you not? How did you even get drunk, Stiles? You said you were going over to study?”

“We did. It was very, very productive,” Stiles nodded to himself and then promptly got lost in a thought for a moment and Peter found it unsettling, “and then, you know, it just happened,” Peter held his breath – that was how people usually described one night stands, the accidental case of sex, “we went to eat, and nearby was a bar, and there`s some..thing going on, yeah, the quiz night, randomly we get there we did, and Lydia and I made a team, even though all the other teams had at least four members, four, yeah, you should`ve joined us, it was cool, and they kept serving, we kept winning, and drinking, laughing, so much fun, Peter, and I know it`s only nine and I`m kinda smashed but I had a great time today.”

By the end of his speech, Stiles was already in Peters embrace and hugging him closely with his head buried in Peter's chest. Peter was happy for Stiles because he had such a wonderful time; he was just not pleased that it was spent in a company of his main rival.

They stood like that for a few minutes, with Peter knowing that his prying would not be appreciated right now – he took a deep gulp of his favourite scent and almost choked when his nostrils flared after inhaling Lydia’s perfume with a hint of wolfsbane – and with Stiles resting in Peter’s arms, until Stiles abruptly pushed Peter away.

“What road trip?” he asked his face suspicious.

Peter frowned – where did that come from? “It was pack business, Stiles. I was just reaching out to one prominent werewolf family. Establishing contacts is good for us.” Stiles was nodding along and relaxing and understanding, until Peter said, “They`re old friends of the Hale’s. I know them since I was a kid.”

That riled Stiles up for some reason. “Oh yeah? Since you were a kid, right?”

Peter could swear there was a fire playing in Stiles’ eyes. “Yes, our families were close.”

“Oh, so your families were close?” Peter held himself in one place – taking a step back would be a mistake. “So you did not go and visit some old girlfriend of yours?”

Peter`s face was expressionless. So that bitch decided to go with the usual suspicions. Maybe he still had a chance…

The doorbell rang. Stiles was livid. He started violently pointing at the door and shouting, “Is that her? Did you forget something at her place, huh? Or did you think I would not come by today? And that`s her, isn’t it? Isn’t it? I`ll show that bitch…”

Stiles intended to open the front door and Peter had no desire from keeping him to do so - he could smell his order just on the other side of the door so he took out his wallet in order to pay.

Stiles threw the door open and froze with equally wide open mouth without a doubt prepared to accuse. He snapped his mouth shut at the words, “Delivery for Mister Peter Hale?” And that`s when Peter swooped in. As he paid and took the order, he put everything on the table in front of the couch and went into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of wine.

Stiles closed the door gently. “That still,” he stumbled over his words, “still doesn`t prove that, that you..” The boy was close to tears.

Peter took pity on him – he put the glass, strode over to Stiles, took his face, red tortured face in his hands and kissed him with all he had. The moment of passion did not leave Stiles out and he was soon as enthusiastically involved. Peter pulled away first restraining himself from giving in to the eager mouth that was still chasing him.

“I had one girlfriend in my life. She was a good match. I liked her very much and was very protective of her, but…that relationship was not meant to be – she perished in the fire just like the rest of my family. Losing my pack, my sister, nieces and nephews, my girlfriend, and gaining only burns, loneliness and six years of coma drove me insane and on the vengeful rampage against the ones who I held responsible.” He got quite for a moment and then whispered, “but losing you, just you alone, would make me burn this world, as it would have no sense in existing without you. You are the only one who makes it better and nothing would ever make me happier than having you by my side. You are it for me, Stiles. And nothing and no one would ever change that.”

Peter kissed Stiles’ guilty tears-stricken face. And then Stiles jumped in Peter embrace one more time and started vigorously nodding. At that Peter could only sigh internally in relief.

“I ordered enough for two. I always wait for you to come. I always hope that you chose to stay here, at least for the night.” He reinforced those words with a kiss to the forehead and a squeeze. Then he let him go, took his wine and went to the couch, expecting Stiles to follow.

As he watched Stiles wipe the tears of jealousy he could not help but think where did those thoughts come from. Lydia could not be so forward.

Or could she?

Anyway, he had to speed up his plan.

This was Martin’s third attempt, and Peter was yet to strike.

3:0 That would not do.

Stiles sat down on the couch and cuddled close to Peter, probably expecting him to feed him like a spoiled drunk brat he was. Peter smiled to himself.

He admired Stiles’ bravery and his decisiveness to sort everything out. At least what he had noticed.

He was flattered by Stiles' jealousy. That meant he still cared enough to come to him and sort everything out even if it took smacking someone.

Good. 

The whole thing at the end turned in his favour. He intended to repeat his success. No matter what it cost him.

Because Peter Hale was honest today – Stiles was it for him. And he would paint the world red if he ever lost him.

Chapter Text

As Peter laid under the blankets he could not help himself but stare at the sleeping boy at his side. Drunk and full with food, he slept peacefully snuggled on Peter’s chest, safe and protected in his embrace.

Peter was not relaxed though. Sure he loved having Stiles in his arms, and in any other circumstances, he`d already be in a dreamland along with his lover. But his body was strung with tension that he tried to keep in all the evening in the presence of the precious company.

Peter listened to Stiles’ heartbeat, made sure he was deep under the spell of sleep and then slowly extricated himself from the warm body. As he stood up he waited for a minute at the foot of his bed to make sure Stiles would not wake. A slight frown passed his boy’s face and then he shifted closer to the spot Peter had just vacated and buried his face in Peter’s pillow, sleeping on.

Peter smiled at that adorable display. He was so far gone he did not even scoff at those signs of affection anymore.

He walked to his wardrobe, pulled out soft grey sweats and a green t-shirt, put them on and left the bedroom, silently closing the door in order not to disturb his love from sleep. He did not bother taking his phone, walked straight to the shoes by the door, put them on and was out of the apartment seconds later.

As soon as Peter stepped out on the street from his apartment building he took a deep gulp of fresh air. He exhaled in relief that he no longer had to smell that atrocious perfume traces of which Martin made sure to leave all over Stiles. And then he just ran.

His first place of destination was Stiles’ home. The Sheriff had just returned home and was taking out a veggie lasagne Stiles had made for him a day before. He was tired and hungry but overall fine. Peter circled the house, just to make sure no one was there to creep around and plan something harmful. Peter smirked to himself at the irony. Then He took off after a few minutes to his next destination.

Four blocks over from the Sheriff’s house was the Martin residence. Peter thought he could just pass by, spy into any windows if he was interested enough, listen in and just other completely innocent stuff. But as he got closer to the territory the house was planted on he could feel strange vibrations against his skin. He came to a halt two steps later in caution as he felt some energy gently brush up across his face saying hello. He was sure that if he made another move that energy would brush up against him in more hostile manner.

Wards. Of course. That banshee knew what she was getting herself into with messing with Peter and she was prepared.

Peter took a careful step back. And then another one, and another one. No tips for him then. He was fine with it.

He turned around and ran away. It was time to clear his head.

The farther his feet carried him from the building, down the block and to the far left, the deeper into the woods, the more relaxed he became. The delicate smell of the forest at night was engulfing him from every side. His head felt clear, his muscles seemed stronger, and the smile on his face grew. The only thing he felt sad about at that moment was his inability to shift. When he was younger, when the fire did not take his sanity away, he used to run with his family on the nights of the full moon, or sometimes in situations like these – to shrug off all the stress, or just for fun with his siblings, or nieces and nephews. He used to shift into a massive dark grey wolf, his size did not concede to his sisters, well, maybe an inch in height, she was an alpha after all, but that did not matter. That sure as hell did not matter now. She was dead, he could shift no longer. Those losses he mourned deeply.

Peter came to a halt at the sight of his old burnt to a crisp home. The Hale House. Peter tensed. Derek should have demolished it long ago. Letting it stand there and harbour drunken teenagers and serve as an unpopular hero in horror stories was not honouring their deceased family.

Talking about Derek. Peter rounded the house and there he was, his nephew, sitting on a porch with a bottle of whisky in his hand, slumped and gloomy. Peter took a delicate sniff – alcohol was laced with wolfsbane. And at that Peter could only sight. Derek’s rendezvous with a bottle were getting more and more frequent.

Peter was barely three feet away from Derek and his presence should have already alarmed his nephew – he was a crazy zombie uncle after all – and yet Derek did not even twitch, his heartbeat did not give any indication that he had noticed Peter’s arrival.

“You look depressing as fuck, Derek,” Peter said with a frown at what Derek slightly raised his head and graced Peter with a glassy look.

“No,” was how Derek replied. He looked utterly pathetic.

“I know I am in no position to give you any pieces of advice,” Peter furrowed his eyebrows disapprovingly and sighed, “but Derek, please go home and have some sleep.” The deep dark smudges of tiredness under and a haunted shine in his eyes were disturbing. Peter eyed the bottle in his nephew's hand and wondered where did he even get that?

Derek stared at him unblinkingly. When Peter moved to take the bottle away, Derek abruptly flinched and hid the bottle under his jacket, as if successfully hiding it. Which only proved that Derek was just a kid. And yet.

“You have had enough for today. Stop being disgusting and give it to me,” Peter outstretched his hand in demand. One look at his uncle’s face and Derek relented, giving up the bottle.

“Good boy,” said Peter, at which he only received a half-assed glare from Derek.

“You spend too much time with Stiles,” he remarked.

“It`s only natural as we are dating.”

Derek scrunched up his nose at that and it irritated Peter immensely. What was the reason now? Why did he not like them together? Age difference? Gender? Or did Derek still think that Peter did not deserve being happy?

"You hate me," Peter stated calmly, without a single expressive emotion on his face. "You hate me because I killed Laura, your sister, your only family you had left because of your long blabbering tongue that got sucked in the evil depth of the hunting monster you once claimed to love. I know you will never forgive me for that. And while you hate me, Derek, I absolutely despise you."

"Stop," Derek begged in a whisper. But Peter would not relent. They had been walking on eggshells and he had had enough, Derek was going to hear him out, he had no strength to struggle, all left at the bottom of the bottle, poisoned with wolfsbane. Peter was not a good person, so he was seizing this opportunity when the nephew would not throw his weakened uncle through the walls; right now he could not even muster a decent threat. It was Peter's turn to talk. He was not giving it up.

"Because of you, I lost everything I had. I lost my family and was saddled as a consolation prize with you, pathetic little Derek and his sister Laura, who first thing after the fire abandoned me, left me at the mercy of hunters. I was a burden you did not want nor need despite me being your uncle. Your uncle, Derek! I taught you how to ride a bike while your parents were always so busy with their everything, do you remember?  I taught you and Laura how to hunt, I taught Cora how to play chess, and do you remember the monopoly night we used to have? You claimed I cheated whereas, in fact, I was distracting you so that Cora could cheat for the both of us and bring our team to the victory. Do you remember the seasonal fairs I used to take you to? We'd play games and eat all the junk sold in the stalls. I had a job, my responsibilities as the left hand, personal life and yet I always found time to spend some with you and your sisters. I even used to read to you so you'd have colourful dreams as you claimed. Come to think of it, I acted as a third parent to you, though it sometimes seemed as the only one. And what did I get in return? You. Abandoned. Me!" Peter was shaking with rage.

Tears were streaming freely down Derek’s face.

"They are dead, Derek. And then you left me to die. Were your parents not enough? Were you aunts and uncles not enough? Were your cousins not enough? And yet you felt no need to save me... Did you know that wolves heal faster together? If you had only stayed or taken me with you, or hell, given up the power willingly, I would have healed in a few month and we would have been a family, a family who did not cower in shadows and let the killers of their parents, sisters and cousins walking around freely. We could have dealt with everything. We could have upheld the Hale legacy. We could have had a life. We could have had a normal functional family! But instead, you left me to rot! And now Laura is dead because she was an irresponsible cowardly alpha!"

Derek choked out a sob and covered his face with his hands.

"And now, look at you. Pathetic, "Peter spat the last word as if it was poison."You and your little bottle of poison wasting away life at a burnt-out ruin of a house. Is it your new family, Derek?”After a small pause, he continued. “We are bitter shells of who we used to be. But at least I have Stiles. Who do you have, Derek?' Peter sighed deeply and shook his head in disgust. "You ruin everything in your way. Maybe you are cursed, I do not know."

Peter's heart stuttered. What would Stiles think about his display of this malicious cruelty? He tried to convince him once to reconcile with Derek - where did that come from he did not know, taking into the account their shared history.

Peter took a few steps to his weeping nephew and loomed over him. He tentatively put a hand on his shoulder and reluctantly said, "But you are the only family I have left."

He could not muster any more words, he did not know what else to say, he could not make himself, he ran short, out of words. His thoughts were plagued by the past and then brutally murdered by the reality of today. He was torn. So he did the only thing left - he turned away and ran. He did not worry about Derek - he was always the one to survive. He'd be fine.

Peter, on the other hand, needed to clear his thoughts with a run one more time. He refused to bring his conflicted sad sad feeling back to Stiles.

His boy deserved better.

Always.

Chapter Text

Peter opened his eyes slowly and turned in bed seeking for the heat of his bed partner. When he found none he lifted his head and looked at the empty spot in confusion all while blinking the sleep from his eyes. He looked around the room and did not find a trace of his boyfriend. He concentrated on his hearing and ah, there he was, cursing furiously in the kitchen.

Peter’s head fell then onto the pillow, back into the warmth and comfort. Stiles cooking meant breakfast but judging by the smell it was not done yet. Peter closed his eyes in contentment and smiled – maybe Stiles decided to surprise him with a breakfast in bed, his little apology for the behaviour Peter had to tolerate the previous night.

He could see it clearly now – Stiles would bring breakfast into the room, put it on the nightstand, lean over him then and wake him up with kisses at which Peter would wrestle him into his bed and kiss him senselessly. Maybe it would grow into some morning shenanigans which would definitely leave both of them very satisfied. Peter felt the blood rush to his cock, just from thinking of what may be.

Peter was picturing their lazy morning together with a lovestruck smile on his face when he heard boiling water hit the floor and Stiles’ yelp, a pan being thrown into a sink along with the towel and Stiles’ rushed padding into the bathroom; the shower was on then and the water was muffing Stiles’ hisses. Peter smelled burnt flesh and was out of the bed in an instant.

Peter’s heart was pounding in his ears. As he passed the kitchen what he heard was proved by the sight of the pan and a towel in the sink, the stove was still on, but it was sensor so as long as it had nothing on it no harm was to be done. He headed straight to the bathroom. The door was open and when he entered he was met with a sight of Stiles standing barefoot in the tub, the head of the shower posed over his feet, pouring cold water.

Peter was rooted to the floor. He felt his breath hitch. Stiles only looked at him sheepishly and said, “I`m alright. It`s just an accident, Peter,” and then absolutely unnecessarily added, “sorry.”

Peter just stared at Stiles’ feet. This could not be happening. For a second Peter got overwhelmed with flashbacks – his family screaming, his family burning; when he himself was burning, when the flame was eating his flesh alive and leaving no patch of skin untouched. His skin was red then too, and then covered in blisters; it was burning through every layer – clothes and skin likewise; he felt like his bones were on fire – and maybe they were.

He shook himself quickly, successfully chasing away the painful memories and focusing on the present. At Stiles scrunched in pain face Peter barked, “What do you need?”

Stiles hunched in on himself and turned down the water. He felt guilty, Peter could tell, guilty for making a mess. As if Peter cared about that.

“What do you need, Stiles?” Peter growled. He was clenching and unclenching his fists, barely keeping still – he needed to help, he needed to do something, go somewhere and bring help, he needed to be proactive, but the problem was that he did not know what to do, he needed Stiles to tell him what to do, Stiles needed help immediately, and Peter was profoundly unsettled, he needed to act, now.

Stiles thought Peter was angry, when, in fact, Peter was panicking; raw and unadulterated panic was settling in his bones, scratching under the surface of his skin, making it crawl from immobility.

“Stiles!” he snapped at his boyfriend’s lack of the answer. Peter knew it was not the way to deal with it – but that how he did, and he would just have to apologise later when Stiles’ wounds were treated and taken care of.

Stiles silently looked down at his feet and furrowed his brows. “It`s not serious, I guess. Just, just maybe some ice or more cold water? I need to keep it cool.” After that, he grimaced as if the pain was coming back and strong, and he turned on the shower once again.

At those instructions, Peter rushed out of the bathroom and into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and pulled a form with ice and frozen peas. He then hunted down some more towels and put the ice in them. He put the towels and the peas on the table, and halted for a second, thinking.

He decisively walked into the bathroom, and never minding Stiles’ confused expression turned off the water and picked Stiles up. Stiles was apparently silenced by the shock from what was happening. Peter carried him to the couch, put him down and very carefully laid Stiles’ feet on the table. He then fetched the prepared sources of coldness and presented those to Stiles.

“Jesus, Peter,” Stiles could only say while staring at Peter in bewilderment. “It`s not serious, babe, just calm down.”

Peter looked sharply at him, “I will calm down when the doctor will say it is nothing serious. Are you the doctor, no!” He then fled to the bedroom to take his phone and keys. He also grabbed Stiles’ hoodie.

“Well, you are not the doctor either, Peter,” he could hear Stiles say with a scoff.

Peter emerged from the bedroom and when neared Stiles immediately picked him up. “Neither are you, that`s why we are going to go get one.”

Ignoring Stiles’ protest, Peter marched with his lover in his arms over to the front door.

Peter was pacing in the ER. He could hear Stiles talking to the doctor and the Nurse, Melissa McCall. Peter was asked to wait outside and wait he did.

The nurse, the one behind the station in pale scrubs, was glancing him furtively every other second. Sure, Peter was an interesting sight to behold; after all, he was pacing barefoot in his pyjamas with only his keys and a phone in his hands. He looked ridiculous, but it was the last of his concerns at the moment.

He stopped abruptly in the middle of the room, body poised in front of the door – Stiles came out just a minute later, limping, his right foot in bandages, followed by Melissa. Stiles greeted him with a sheepish barely there smile and stopped in front of him, waiting for the reaction, Melissa was obviously confused.

“You heard everything, right? I’m okay, Peter. I should change the bandages twice a day and cover the burn with some gel, but otherwise, well, it`ll heal in a week.”

“Two or three, Stiles,” corrected him Melissa. Peter was still silent. He was tense, and worried, and would believe it`d heal when he saw it. And yet, he thought it`d take too long.

One beat, two and he surged to smother Stiles in a hug. Stiles gave out a surprised yelp, but Peter could feel him smiling in his shoulder. Peter buried his nose in the juncture of his neck and breathed in deeply, trying to sooth his nerves, to calm himself down. After a few shuddering gulps he hesitantly released his boyfriend, took a step back and addressed Melissa.

“Thank you,” he said. Stiles rolled his eyes.

“For Christ sake, Peter, it`s gonna be alright. I’m sorry, okay?”

Peter frowned, “Why are you apologising?”

“You’re mad, I can see it,” Stiles replied miserably.

“Stiles,” Peter sighed, “I`m not mad. I was worried and rightfully so, as you are injured. Besides,” he added self-deprecatingly, “it happened in my apartment.”

“Yeah, I was a clumsy dumbass who spilt boiled water on my feet. You had nothing to do with it,” he rolled his eyes, “So stop it. Stop blaming and worrying. I need a boyfriend without wrinkles.”Stiles trailed his finger over Peter’s forehead gently, at which Peter finally hesitantly smiled.

“Stiles,” Melissa cleared her throat, she had been standing awkwardly behind them all this time, “you should call your father and tell him what happened.” Stiles pouted at her, Peter thought it was adorable. “Do it yourself or I will. You know how he gets.”

“Yeah, yeah,” was Stiles’ only reply. He sighed disgruntled and said, “He`ll think it`s your fault. And before you say anything, shush, it was not, throw that crazy thought away from your head.”

“You should tell him anyway, and I am ready for the consequences,” he took Stiles’ hand and added, “as long as you are okay.”

Stiles did not know what to answer, some complicated emotion passed over his face but in the blink of the eye, it cleared and he smiled lovingly at Peter.

“Just take me home, Peter.”

Peter felt resigned. Not only his boyfriend got injured, now he could not even take care of him.

“It makes sense, you want to tell him immediately,” Peter nodded to himself, resigned.

What he did not see was Stiles rolling his eyes. “No, dumbass, I meant to your place.”

At that, Peter brightened considerably. His heart skipped a beat – Stiles had just referred to his apartment as home, his home - their home. Peter could not be happier.

“After all, if you take me to the house, how are you going to take care of me? I expect cuddles. And maybe some actual food, as you see my breakfast in bed failed, tragically.”

Peter surged and stole a kiss from Stiles. Melissa was long gone, no long creeping behind their backs.

“Thank you,” he added.

“Do not even think to pick me up,” Stiles warned him threateningly, and Peter barely hid his pout. He liked carrying his boyfriend around. As long as he was in his arms he would agree to anything.

Instead, Peter put his hand around Stiles’ waist and started leading him towards the exit.

Stiles rolled his eyes at his stubbornness, but let the hand stay. He took a step and winced, before giggling amusedly.

“We look ridiculous,” he said.

Peter followed Stiles’ gaze which landed on their feet – Peter had no shoes on, while Stiles had light blue shoe covers to protect the bandage.

But at least they were ridiculous together. That`s all Peter`s ever wanted.

Together.

Chapter Text

Peter was lying in his bed with Stiles next to him, who was curled into a blanket and had a right foot carefully resting on the pillow at the end of the bed. Peter had his right hand interwoven with Stiles’ left. Stiles was sleeping noiselessly and peacefully; Peter was haunted by insomnia.

Peter laid on his back, staring at the ceiling with blank unseeing eyes. All his energy was directed at controlling and calming down his heart beat as well as his breathing. There was a lump in his throat which made it so hard to focus. His head was pounding, his breath was coming out erratically despite his best efforts. He was lightly squeezing Stiles' hand, just to know he’s there, he’s near, that he’s alright. Peter was trying to ground himself and somehow he was both successful and at the same time not. Flashes of the night of the Hale fire were stuck in his mind; they stood in front of his eyes and kept imposing on the peacefulness of his mind.

The flames, the screams; lifeless eyes of his little niece, motionless body of his brother; sizzling hot metal grates, burning ground underneath his feet… Peter blinked, and blinked, trying to chase it all away. He squeezed Stiles’ hand tighter, and it almost worked, it was about to, he was sure, but then he caught sight of Stiles’ bandaged foot and his breathing returned to its quick pace.

He was grateful that there was no fire in the apartment, but Stiles still got the burns which was disturbing.

Stiles got hurt, Stiles got hurt, Stiles got hurt… The thought was going round and round and round in his head as if spinning on the carousel. And how he got hurt! Stupid, so stupid and yet too close to home. Peter let that happen in his apartment, in his den, to his…

He closed his eyes. Just a second later he regretted that deeply and bolted upright, shaking his head slightly and still squeezing Stiles’ hand. He was alright, Stiles was going to be alright, everything was going to be fine.

There was one other thought that kept bothering him – the thought that the Sheriff could assume that it was Peters’ fault, that he caused his son harm, that he was the one to wound him.

Even the assumption, just a thought of such possibility cut him deeply. He would never, never in million years, under no circumstances harm Stiles. He’d rather die first.

He’d vowed that to himself at the beginning of their relationship.

“I’ll never do you no harm,” he whispered and placed a light kiss on top of the hand tightly clasped in his right.

Peter was under a lot of stress lately. And about 80% of it, despite the fact how hard it was to admit, was because of Stiles. His information addiction, Stiles missing his calls, Lydia shenanigans, and of course Stiles’ obliviousness and recent sudden mistrust were not helping. It was all taking a toll on his sanity.

Sometimes, just sometimes, in moments like these, he couldn`t help but wonder if it was worth it. Was Stiles worth it? Was this all worth it?

He also wondered – after all of this, after everything he had endured, after what he had survived, did he not deserve to be happy? To be just loved, by an uncomplicated love in an uncomplicated relationship full of trust and fucking peace?

He supposed it was a price to pay for dating a teenager – a hormonal, reckless, irresponsible, troubled, uncertain in himself and everything around him teenager.

But was it worth it? Was it worth giving up his sanity bit by bit after every missed call, “study-date” and inevitable injury? Were his contributions to their relationships worth of Stiles’ unreasonable doubt, constant neglect and impressive level of obliviousness?

Peter swam in the sea of uncertainty. He could feel himself drowning in doubt, slowly slipping under. Why was he with Stiles, why was he with him, why were they together if…

“Peter?” Stiles sleepily mumbled. “Why are you up?” he turned on his side and put his right hand on peter’s shoulder. “Come back to bed, let`s sleep.” At Peter’s obvious reluctance he added, “it`s going to be alright. We’ll talk in the morning about everything.” He buried the side of his face in Peter’s pillow. “I can listen to you all day long and I gladly will. But for now,” he yawned, “stop worrying me and yourself. So just come back to me, creeperwolf, and keep me warm.”

Peter reclined back into the bed and pressed himself closely to Stiles.

Stiles placed his head on Peter’s shoulder and then slowly crawled and put his face into the juncture of Peter’s neck, gently caressing the skin with his nose.

“Love you,” he mumbled and at once his breathing leveled, indicating that he was already deeply asleep.

Peter listened to Stiles’ heartbeat and tried to match his breathing.

He remembered then, he remembered why he was willing to suffer through and deal with any hurdle on the way of their relationship.

Because he loved Stiles. Despite everything he loved him. And that was all that mattered.

He finally closed his eyes and let himself fall into the dreamless darkness that enveloped him soundlessly. Nice and warm darkness, protected by Stiles’ left hand in his right.

Chapter Text

Peter was pacing, walking back and forth, from one corner of the room to the other; then he would stop, somewhere in the close vicinity of the leather couch, and start tapping his foot in a quick beat, impatiently. His hands he would hide behind his back, clasped tightly, fingers interweaved; his head was bowed just an inch down, brows furrowed, little thin lines creasing his forehead. Too restless to stand in one place and merely use his one foot, he would start his stiff gait anew.

Despite his restless and hasty movements, his eyes were solely focused on Stiles, always, no matter where his footsteps took him. His eyes were focused on the man, who was sitting on the edge of the aforementioned couch hunched over the book, arms barely touching the coffee-table. Stiles` concentration was taken up entirely by the thick leather bound book that Peter had presented him just an hour and thirty-seven minutes ago, by Peter`s latest countdown.

Peter condemned that day when he thought of introducing Stiles to magic. That damn Lydia Martin, she pushed him to this radical action of trying to keep his lover by his side, with him; nothing else really mattered to him, not for a long time already. Why, just why he had to be so foolish when it came to women. If Peter had time to spare away from the watchful eyes he would bang his head against the wall. Though he wasn`t under the watchful eye, and that was exactly the problem. Stiles` attention too often jumped away from him. Is it a crime to want to be loved? To spend time with the one who is the dearest to you? To be loved and cherished back?

Peter thought long and hard how to present a book on magic he had bought in Vegas. He wanted to wait with it, but when he noticed Stiles slipping away from him once again, he just dumped the news on him, presenting him with a book.

He did not think it through. Not at all. He thought of many outcomes, romantic and sexy ones, excited and serious ones, hell even angry surprised shouting, but none of the scenarios included silence from his chatty lover.

First ten minutes Stiles was just blankly staring at the book while Peter was staring at Stiles, waiting for at least something. When Stiles slowly sat down on the couch and put it in front of it, Peter thought he would flop on it himself after him, but he stood his ground. Only his eye was twitching, the traitor, but not blinking, vigilant.

When Stiles` hand twitched to touch it Peter almost jumped but restrained himself in the last second, holding it all inside. When Stiles finally touched it Peter was ready. He was following closely every reverent Stiles` movement. With his eyes so round and unblinking he resembled an owl. A weird goggling owl.

Now it`s been an hour since Stiles started reading it. His look was intense, posture stiff, his all self-engrossed. And Peter was pacing with little stops in the name of diversity.

The desire to snatch the book was growing every second.

His swift movements abruptly ceased with a phone call. A shrill melody of Stiles` phone flooded the space of the room. Stiles did not even twitch.

The noise stopped. Then started anew again. With a growl, Peter whirled to the direction of the phone, taking his eyes off of Stiles for the first time. He walked to a kitchen counter and there it was, ringing, with “Lydia” shining on the screen.

“Stiles,” Peter drawled, making no movement to bring the phone to him. “Lydia is calling.”

“Not now,” Stiles responded load and clear, not even taking his eyes from the contents of the book.

Peter thought his eyes would roll out of his sockets, join the mariachi band and travel across Europe, that`s how crazy he though Stiles` answer was. Every cell in Peter`s body froze. He`d been dreaming about such a moment, or at least something like this, for ages it seemed like. Joy was filling his heart, the warmth of which burned at his eyes.

But after years of waiting, Peter felt like he needed more. He needed her to know that Peter had won. He was not above goading. Sure it was an overconfident move, but it was a risk he was willing to take.

So just before it would stop ringing, Peter picked up the phone and purred, “Hello, this Stiles` phone. Peter is speaking. How can I help you, miss Martin?”

Peter was avidly tracking every Stiles` movement, which was not much.

“Peter! How lovely to hear you,” spoke the saccharine voice, full of faux-niceness. “But could you pass the phone to Stiles now? I need to speak to him, it`s quite urgent.”

Peter mentally held his breath and said, “Unfortunately, my boyfriend is not available right now.”

He could hear her rolling her eyes and Peer wanted to grin so badly.

“Well,” she chirped, “tell him to get his little butt out of the bed; I need to speak to him, now.” She was getting impatient, Peter could tell. She was not used to waiting. Peter was praying to all the higher power for the next minute to go as planned.

“Just a minute,” Peter told her innocently and then pulled the phone from his ear, directed it`s dynamic Stiles` way and said, “Baby, Lydia insists on talking to you. Maybe you would like to answer?”

What came next Peter would remember and cherish for the whole year.

“Not now,” Stiles growled. “Tell her not to bother me. I`m busy.” Then, after a brief pause as if he was talking to himself he said, “Jesus Peter, why are you the only one who understands what I need?”

Peter could barely contain his glee. As if she was not supposed to hear what Stiles said, he pushed the phone to his ear once again and said, “I`m sorry, Lydia, but he cannot come to the phone right now. Maybe he will call you later, once he is free?”

Someday next never? Peter thought in satisfaction.

“Fine,” huffed Lydia petulantly and ended the call. Peter looked at the phone in amusement and put it down back on the counter.

He looked at his lover and sighed happily, his gaze adoring. This nightmare of a day was turning to be the best one he had for a long time.

He took a few measured steps and sat on the leather chair in front of Stiles and relaxed into it. Whatever Stiles was doing, he could wait. After all, he was in his apartment, reading his gift, grateful for his presence. And as a bonus, Lydia Martin got rejected. It was a good day.

“Take all the time that you need, Stiles,” Peter murmured lovingly.

Just a few seconds later, for the first time in almost two hours, Stiles looked up and stared straight at Peter. A small grateful smile rose to his face, his eyes were filled with warmth that could shelter Peter from cold even in winter. Stiles devoted to him only a few seconds before ducking back to reading a book. Just a few seconds were enough though; enough to fuel him till Stiles was ready to talk again.

And Peter was only glad to sit in his favourite chair and watch Stiles doing what he loved best – learn.

Chapter Text

Days of learning magic with Stiles were more than Peter could ever hope for. Reading, researching, browsing, debating, improving, agreeing and on the knowledge high - fucking.

Just the two of them in the apartment. Going out for lunch and dinner every day - that was their third only break from accumulating knowledge, after sleeping of course. They went on the research binge together and Peter had never felt so alive. He did what he loved with a person he loved without any unnecessary pack interference.

Stiles hadn't slept in his childhood house for 19 days. And all that time he spent with Peter and books. Sometimes they worked together, sometimes separately while sitting near but always at the end of the day comparing notes, telling each other what they'd found in the excitement that came from fresh rare knowledge.

Some considered such close existence the horror of being. For Peter it was bliss.

6 incoming calls from Martin, one answered. It's duration - 0:21. Stiles was too distracted to even comprehend what was said on the other side. Stiles meant to call back but Peter "forgot" to remind him. He was busy as well after all.

It was all Peter could ever ask for and even more, really.

Then the Sheriff noticed his son's absence. Everything went downhill after that.

Stiles suddenly remembered Scott, and Lydia, and then with horror realised that his distraction led to Sheriff's change of diet. After that, they saw each other 2 hours a day, tops.

Peter had surely pondered his clinginess and dependence on Stiles for a few minutes, thought about getting back to work or something, but then he thought to fuck with it and called Stiles. If life had taught him something it was that time with your loved ones was precious and limited. They could die any day or he could get burned for the third time.

Or they could leave you. That was probably his biggest fear, after Stiles dying, of course.

Funny thing though, all the aforementioned possibilities did not touch Derek. He would avenge him, surely, blood is blood, although he wouldn't hold his breath for the same courtesy from his nephew, but crying about it? That was too much.

Basically, Peter lived for Stiles. He considered him the only one to be worthy of his time on this earth.

Being not Stiles' first priority was not a problem for Peter. After all, he had his family, friends, youth and a very bright future. Peter was even glad because it meant life had not been as cruel to him as to Peter. The problem was that sometimes it felt like he was not even on the list at all.

Today was one of those days.

Peter hadn't heard from Stiles since yesterday when he called him once at noon and sent a few texts in the evening. Having not heard from Stiles in the morning, Peter decided to check on him and ran to the house. There he saw Stiles, on the floor, papers and books scattered around him; he’s on his knees in the middle of the chaos with a pen in his mouth and one behind his ear.

He was researching without Peter.

Peter looked at his phone, then at Stiles so deep beyond, then at his phone again. With a sigh, he put it back in the pocket and turned around to walk away. Calling Stiles was useless when he was like this, time proofed. He could come in and join, or ask...something, or, or... But if he wanted Peter there, he would've called, or texted, or came over even.

Peter put on a brave face and tried to assume the nonchalant position - his boyfriend was doing an individual study, all by himself, alone in the house, - everyone did that once in a while, it didn't mean that he didn't want Peter there, it didn't mean anything.

He stepped into the wood and vanished in the trees.

Breathing, smelling, running. He let the wolf have a free reign; he had to intrude only when it gravitated in Stiles' direction.

Having relaxed, Peter stepped out of the woods and found himself in a park. Children, whose parents had just taken them from school, were running, chasing each other on the grass and playing on the playground. Peter found the furthest bench from them and sat down, gaze unfocused on the forest.

He could still hear and see them though. If he closed his eyes he could easily imagine little Cora and Laura playing chase with Derek, or Jemma and Jimmy hiding from their mother, changing their hiding spot every few minutes and giggling infectiously. The lazy chatter of parents reminded him of his sisters and brothers-in-law.

And so he did. He just closed his eyes, and for a single moment, he could imagine them all back. As if he still had that life, his pack that loved him and needed him, and cared for him. Talia, his anchor, his guiding star. Sofia, the mother of the twins, after having taken over the denmaking duties, reminded him a stern but reasonable and always calm parent. Jessica, his little sister, with whom he loved to prank their big sisters, just to see how they would lose their shit. She would've been Laura's age now.

With a heavy sigh, Peter blinked away the tears pooling in his eyes. It was too dangerous to linger just a bit too long in his memories, especially with a visual and auditory reinforcement.

A hand touched his and he jerked with a start. His eyes flew open and landed on Stiles, who was now sitting beside him and looking at the forest, giving Peter a few seconds to compose himself.

Peter cleared his throat and asked, "How did you know I was here?"

Stiles directed a small smirk his way. "How do you think?"

Of course, the answer was clear, there was no need to ask. The only way Stiles would know his location was if he used the location spell. Which meant that he figured it out and learned it without Peter.

It was alright though, or at least it had to be. No one said Peter had to be there every step of the way, especially if Stiles did not even want that.

"You finally learned the location spell," Peter said stonily. He had to work on emotions control around Stiles some more. He looked at the trees again, his captivating trees, and felt a deep desire to run away, to be there again, alone, where none could hurt him but enemies.

His head turned sharply to the left when he heard Stiles snort.

"Dude, no, are you kidding?" Stiles looked at him with a kind gentle smile. "You know I wouldn't start without you. I wouldn't even know where to start. And anyway," he continued shyly, "I kinda hoped you would be there for me when I did my first spell."

Peter felt as if his heart was about to beat right out of his chest. He wanted to hug Stiles and never let him go. Instead, he just squeezed his hand that was still in his and leant to kiss his cheek. He trailed the tip of his nose over his cheekbones and down to his neck, deeply inhaling his favourite scent.

"Of course," he murmured. "That was the plan."

"Good," Stiles breathed out somewhat nervously. "Good, then. I thought maybe I could stay over today and uh, we could, umm, probably try. Yeah?"

Peter smiled and kissed the knuckles of their intertwined hands.

"I would love that."

Peter couldn't feel any lingering tension in his body. Finally, he was once again content. Sitting in the park with a person he loved, breathing in the fresh forest air and bathing in the rays of light.

He closed his eyes and embraced the warm feeling enveloping him.

"How did you find me though?"

Stiles let out an indulging sigh.

"It's your favourite place in the whole town, Peter. You weren't in your apartment, so it was my second choice."

Peter frowned and looked at Stiles intently. Stiles also frowned in confusion.

"What?"

"It's my favourite place?"

"It's your happy place."

Peter opened his mouth to say something but nothing came. They've never been here together so how did he...

"It's fine, Peter." Peter could barely stand his own inertness at the loving smile directed at him.

He lunged forward and captured his boyfriend's lips in a slow kiss.

"My happy place is in bed with you," he whispered seductively against his lips.

Stiles leant back a bit and let out what he must've thought was a manly giggle.

Chapter Text

Peter is woken up by the sounds of keys in the lock turning and the front door slowly opening. He slowly shifts on his back and languidly stretches. Him sleeping only in his boxers with a silk sheet covering him just barely over his navel and with his arms stretched behind his head, muscles tense and bulging, makes a very lascivious picture. Peter slowly opens his eyes and gives a little purr, feeling happy that Stiles decided to join him this night.

The door opens with a "Shhh!" sound just behind it and two pairs of steps come in. Peter immediately frowns - who did Stiles decide to bring to their home this late at night?

He hears a click-clack of heels and once an Aqua di Gioia Cologne assaults his nose, he sits up in his bed as if electrocuted. Lydia, he brought Lydia into their home. Immediately his fangs drop, the shift catching him by surprise, and barely catches himself before letting out a growl.

"Just let me take the book and we'll leave," Stiles says in a hushed tone, takes his sneakers off and tiptoes in the living room.

Peter shifts his legs over the edge of the bed in slow preparation of standing up and listens in on the conversation carefully.

"Why can't we just stay here?" Lydia asks rather loudly.

He hears Stiles stumble into the couch and hurriedly shushes her again. "You'll wake Peter up, keep your voice down!"

Peter smirks proudly to himself, take that, Martin, my boyfriend cares about me.

He hears some movement and then Lydia asks, "Are you even sure that he's home and not out somewhere?"

Peter freezes. She did not just imply that he's out and about with someone else, doing god knows what, she really did not...

His inner monologue is interrupted by Lydia's next question, "You know, hanging out, with someone. He surely knows people, maybe someone from while back..."

Peter freezes and curses Lydia for her choice of words. She could've said friends but it would've been too much of a platonic implication so she kept hitting and insisting on 'someone'. And that 'while back', thing? It sounded too damn familiar the only thing different was that it was coming from Stiles when he was drunk and generous with accusations.

Peter waits for Stiles' answer with baited breath, praying for his boyfriend not to choose to be dumb now.

"Of course he's home," Peter can imagine him rolling his eyes like he always does when he uses that voice and feels like getting all offended because he could be out somewhere when Stiles continues, "He had a meeting with his lawyers, he must be exhausted. So, Lydia, really, keep your voice down."

Peter grins to himself smugly and stands up. He did have a meeting today with his lawyers, they had to discuss all the assets there were on the Hale name. It was horrible and exhausting, brought up a bunch of painful memories and took half of his day. What surprises Peter is that Stiles actually remembered this. Peter mentioned it once like two weeks ago although there was also a reminder hanging on his fridge. Peter feels irrevocably pleased with Stiles for remembering such a detail.

"He's a werewolf, Stiles," she scoffs, "he's already awake."

Peter chooses that moment to step out of his room, just in his boxers with a small sleepy innocent frown on his face.

"I actually am," Peter rasps and scratches at his stomach which immediately draws Stiles attention. Peter smells a hint of arousal in the air and crows on the inside.

"Peter!" Stiles exclaims and rushes at him to give him a hug which Peter gladly returns by wrapping his arms around his boyfriend possessively and nuzzling in his neck, at the same time glancing at Lydia, cocking his eyebrow and making a statement. She sniffs contemptuously at them but it disappears in a second.

Stiles leans back a little and immediately starts ranting, "I'm so sorry we woke you up, I really am, I just wanted to show Lydia this book you gave me, she wanted to see a passage on fire," at that Peter's gaze quickly shifts to Lydia who wears a micro emotion of smugness and then looks back into Stiles' pleading eyes, "I thought I could come in and take and we would be off, without disturbing you, I don't even know what I was thinking, I practically live here and still stumble into furniture, so of course I wouldn't be quiet, God, babe, I'm so, so sorry, I swear, I didn't mean to wake you up, it's just I can't find it anywhere, ugh, I can't even remember where I put it, how was I even supposed to find it here quietly..." 

Peter chooses to look at Lydia once again, catches her eye and deliberately leans in and catches Stiles by surprise by kissing him, successfully distracting him from his nervous rant. He is pleased when Stiles is immediately into it and gives out a little moan. He is even more pleased with how Lydia crosses her arms and scowls at them angrily.

Peter breaks their kiss, satisfied and says, "It's on the top shelf in the wardrobe. You didn't want to touch it this week so you hid it there."

Stiles curses loudly and with a "Just a second," which was probably sent to Lydia, but he didn't even glance at her so who knows, he bolts out of the living room and into the bedroom.

Peter traces him with his gaze until he is out of the sight. Then he lazily turns to Lydia who just raises her eyebrow at him.

"I heard you were spreading rumours about me," Peter drawls, completely unimpressed with her.

"Oh," she lets out, looking completely guilty free. "I am just looking out for my friend." She delicately shrugs one shoulder and stares at Peter impassively.

"It's not a very polite thing to do," he continues, "trying to turn someone's boyfriend against them. Although, it seems like this word is not even in your dictionary."

Lydia huffs and lets's out a tiny smirk. She shrugs as if she could care less, then spins a little on her heel, looking around. Peter doesn't like it.

"What a tiny place," he says noncommittally and Peter immediately tenses. "Where does even Stiles keeps his books?"

Peter glowers into the side of her head but does not let her comment affect his tone.

"He has enough space here."

Lydia hums again and says, "Enough sounds a little pathetic, don't you think?" She turns to him slowly and looks him directly in the eye. "I have a whole library at my place. Stiles loves spending time there."

This piece of news is new to Peter. He feels his left eye tick and Lydia immediately notices. A slow smile spreads over her face.

"I can buy him a whole library," he argues somewhat childishly.

Lydia clicks her tongue and smiles at him like he's the most pathetic creature she has ever seen beneath her.

"Money can't buy you love, Peter Hale," comes in a condescending tone.

Peter flexes his hands. It had never been about money between Stiles and him.

"Oh honey," he drawls, mimicking her tone, "do you think just because you dye your hair strawberry blond and have a manicure every other day then you will bring all the boys to the yard?"

Lydia huffs and crosses her hand on her chest, assuming a defensive pose. "I am smart. Stiles likes smart. Though I don't know why he's with you then. An old man like you cannot rely only on his body for long."

And then she pointedly looks at his naked body.

So Peter really hasn't been imagining this whole time and she really wants his boyfriend for herself. Well, she has another thing coming.

"He is with me because we share something that you've never heard of and absolutely never will experience with Stiles," he pauses for dramatic effect. "Passion. A deep connection to each other. A bond. A spark."

Her heart stutters and he knows he nailed it right on the top. His chest puffs a little, feeling that he did well.

She purses her lips and says quietly, "I always get what I want." And raises her chin up high, like a snobbish brat that she is.

Stiles chooses that minute to trip over his feet into the room with a book in his hands. "Found it!" He exclaims loudly and raises it above his head as if proudly showing it off to the world.

Lydia paints a fake smile on her face and says, "That's great, Stiles. But I probably should be going, it is pretty late."

"Oh," Stiles says, letting his arms slide down. "But I thought we would look it over," he then turns to Peter a little as if looking for confirmation.

"Maybe next time. I really should be going."

"I'll walk you out!" Stiles exclaims a little too enthusiastically for Peter's taste and bounds after her out of the apartment.

Peter scrunches his mouth in distaste and goes to the kitchen to make some coffee for the both of them.

When Stiles comes back, Peter sits behind the counter, his mug in front of him.

"Hey," Stiles says and comes closer. He stops though just a few steps before him and starts fidgeting.

"Hey," Peter echoes. "I made you coffee if you want it," he says softly.

"Oh," his gaze darts to the cup and back to Peter. "Yeah, thanks." But does not make a move to get it, just fiddles with his keys to the apartment in his hands instead.

"Is something wrong?" Peter asks his mind suspicious.

"I, uh," Stiles starts unsurely and ducks his head, his gaze trained on the floor as if he's an insolent puppy who pooped in the middle of the kitchen and is guilty about it. "I'm sorry I brought Lydia here. So late at night. And you were sleeping. I, uhm. Sorry."

Peter hummed and took a sip of his coffee. "It's fine," he replied easily, although it was not fine. If she had touched one of his things, he would've ripped her arms out of the sockets and beat her with them. Peter really did not like her.

"I know you don't really like people in the apartment," Stiles sighed deeply and furrowed his brows. "I just... I'm just so used to inviting my friends over at my house that... I just spend so much time here that it feels like my home here, like our place, so I guess I wasn't thinking, I..."

But Peter does not let the doubt continue. He springs to his feet and envelopes Stiles in his arms.

The thing is, yes Peter absolutely despises that Lydia Martin was in their apartment. However, he is absolutely thrilled that he is not the only one who refers to this apartment as theirs, as his and Stiles'. He is absolutely over the moon that Stiles considers this his home.

Peter has been aiming for this outcome for months now. He stored his boyfriend's favourite food, beverages, asked him about colours of the walls and furniture, bought his favourite DVDs, set up a Netflix account, bought a gaming station thingy, gave him space in his closet, has his shampoo and a gel and what not. Because Peter has been setting up this apartment as theirs from the beginning of their relationship and it seems like it has finally paid off.

He clutches Stiles in his arms and inhales deeply. Meanwhile, Stiles sputters and flails but then settles his hands on Peter's back, relaxing a little although Peter can feel confusion on him. Peter draws back a little and looks at the perplexed face of his boyfriend.

"Stiles," Peter says fondly. "Of course it's ours. I was just waiting for you to catch up."

Stiles looks around a bit, taking in the state of the apartment, how much their stuff is intermingled, and realisation slowly dawns on him. "Oh," he says quietly and then again loudly again, "Oh! Oh my god!"

Peter chuckles good-naturally and grins at Stiles' expression? delighted.

"Oh my god, Peter! We live together!" Stiles takes a step back and grips his upper hands. Then he looks down and suddenly realises, "You're naked! While Lydia was here and you stood in front of her naked!"

He looks mortified and Peter rolls his eyes. That Martin again, ugh. And secondly, "I have nothing to be ashamed of darling," he purrs.

Stiles sputters and still does not take his eyes off of Peter's naked torso and of course his boxers. Peter smirks.

"If you'll stare at those boxers any longer they will burn under your gaze."

Stiles eyes immediately snap to his and his cheeks redden.

"Although I will gladly take them off if you will take something off of yourself too," Peter smiles devilishly at Stiles. His lover's jaw hangs open and his heart starts beating a little faster.

Peter slowly stretches, letting his chest expand and biceps flex. He knows it's a dirty move but it works every time.

"It's a little hot in here, don't you think?" Peter asks innocently and Stiles struggles to swallow.

Peter rounds him and starts heading to their room, taking off his boxers on the way and discarding them on the floor.

He smirks when he hears Stiles tripping over himself to catch up with him and taking off his clothes at the same time.

What a fantastic evening, Peter thinks. He'll just have to make sure that he has more of those.

And maybe start looking for bigger apartments. Or, houses.

It will certainly have a damn library.

Chapter Text

Something was up with Stiles.

It was the evening of Friday when he noticed it for the first time. Stiles had just got back from the pack bonding meeting, - to which Peter, of course, wasn't even invited, well, who cared anyway, he didn't, to hell with those kids, - and went to give Peter a hi-i'm-home kiss. Only once he looked at Peter, he quickly snapped his eyes away.

"Oh, man, I'm so full, damn, that last slice was.., and the movie, ugh, piece of shit, I swear I think I fell asleep for a few there. If Lydia wasn't pointing out all the inconsistencies I would've been out like a light after the first minute, I swear...ugh..want some coffee?"

Peter narrowed his eyes. Stiles, talking with his back to him, mumbling under his nose?

It rubbed him the wrong way.

"If you're making then sure," he murmured softly, locked the iPad he had in his hands and put it away on the cushion by his side. He clasped his hands in front of him and focused his whole attention on his boyfriend making them coffee in the kitchen. He smelled the air for any substances - no alcohol, no drugs, not even a little bit of weed; only his whole right sleeve was saturated with Lydia's perfume, where she supposedly was leaning on him during the movie. That's fine, as long as Stiles came home to him, that's fine.

What he smelled though was a great deal of nervousness, worry, regret, some pity and resignation. What he also smelled was not necessarily a lie, but more of an intentionally covered truth. It smelled like rotten lilies with a hint of copper. It did not mix well with Stiles' natural scent. It got even worse when he kept something from Peter. 

So he just sat there, watching his boyfriend's every move, and waiting.
Stiles started rambling on again once he turned around. He walked over to Peter, two cups in his hands. He placed them on the table once he sat down, his hands immediately clasping, and intertwined they worried. He did not meet Peter's eyes.

The steam was rushing up in the air, little bubbles of the cream were silently popping.

Stiles sat beside him, rigid, his eyes wandering, jumping from one part of the wall to another, straining away from Peter.

"If you need to calm down then coffee won't help you," Peter remarked dryly.

Stiles jumped a little and immediately grabbed his cup. "I like coffee, you can't take my coffee away from me,  our friendship is for centuries to last, I don't know what I'd do without it, I depend on it, it's like an addiction, I need it , I can't really help it, there is no way to resist-" at that Stiles suddenly shoved the cup back onto the table. It rattled in indignation.

Stiles looked intensely at his cup, his face assuming a weird expression.

Peter's brows furrowed as he looked at the confusing scene before him. "Stiles," he probed warily. When he got no response he suddenly noticed how uncharacteristically far away from each other they sat. So he shifted closer to his tense boyfriend and tentatively nuzzled his neck while putting his left arm around his waist.

At that Stiles immediately relaxed into his arms and let himself be stirred flush to werewolf's side. He gave up a deep tired sigh and completely gave himself up to Peter's hold.

"Is everything alright?" Peter murmured into his neck. It's hard to tell from his behaviour but this, this right here, freaked him the fuck out. He believed that Stiles would never do anything to deliberately harm him, no. But it didn't mean that he wouldn't accidentally find himself in a situation where he'd smashed Peter's heart by leaving all his faithfulness and intellect at home and falling onto Lydia's lap. Peter trusted him, he really did, - he just didn't trust her. However, Stiles in his arms was hiding something and he felt like it was the time to remember all the prayers so that it would not turn into his nightmare.

Relaxed and completely pliant in his arms, Stiles took a deep breath in and slowly exhaled, squishing himself even closer to Peter.

"The world is much better with you by my side," came the reply.
The heat of love and affection suddenly bloomed in Peter's heart. Having heard the steady beat of Stile's heart Peter could not help but wonder what he had done to deserve this young man. He felt like blushing.

So if Stiles did not feel like talking about what was bothering him then so be it. He had compensated with his loving words, it was enough for now.

"Would you like me to draw you a bath?"

He could feel Stile's pleased grin starting to bloom on his young face and smell the first signs of his arousal.

"Only if you join me," was the reply he always loved to hear.

"If you wish," Peter pressed a kiss to his boyfriend's neck, soft and gentle. In response, Stiles turned, exposing his pale neck in a full delicious view.

"I always do," and with those words, his strange prior behaviour was forgotten.

The next time when Peter noticed Stiles miserably moping in a scent of deception he called him out on it. What he didn’t expect was Stiles getting all defensive about it.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” an angry burst was supported by a belligerent scowl that in any other day Peter would love to fuck out of him. Today was not that lucky day.

“This is not the topic to get all defensive about and call to arms.” Peter was sure such a reaction was uncalled for.

“You just accused me of lying to you! What the fuck, Peter?” Stiles seethed. Subtle, Peter was not.

“I just merely asked you if you were alright,” was the nonchalant answer.

Stiles clenched his fists into tight balls of condensed anger and was a step away from stomping his foot.

“This, this is not showing concern for my well-being. This is some bullshit that literally came out of nowhere,” his heart tripped at that and Peter’s focus immediately snapped to Stiles’ chest, a predator zeroing in on his prey, “and you pour it onto me in a generous shower which is a totally fucking disastrous ending of our night! Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

Peter scrunched his nose at the involuntary vision before his eyes and shook it out of his head. He tried to reach out to Stiles for only his boyfriend to cross his arms on his chest and take a step back. Peter tried his best not to feel offended.

“Your overreaction says my bullshit is valid,” Peter replied in a measured tone. One of them being mad was enough so he made a conscious choice not to give in now but to sulk later.

“I’m not overreacting!” Stiles half-shouted and emphasised it with flailing arms. People around them outside the restaurant were starting to turn to look at them.

Peter huffed and squished every desire to just turn around and walk away. He did not feel like spending the night in a cold bed.

“Okay, Let’s try again then. Stiles, I feel like your mood has been significantly down for these past few days and even the adventure of tasting new cuisine did not cheer you up. I have been patient but I’m worried that whatever is eating at you is bad for your health,” Peter stated it all in a measured, in some places irritated, voice as if reading a medical report. He clasped his hands behind him, refusing any contact between them even if Stiles was in the mood which he so obviously was not.

At hearing the second attempt at trying to find what was bothering him, Stiles’ shoulders slumped in defeat and he looked sullen all of the sudden.

“It’s fine, I’m fine,” he said in a hushed tone. Then he gulped and added, “Promise.”

And again, that treacherous heart. Peter wondered if his lover thought that he was a good liar – which he obviously was not – or if he simply did not care and lied in order to get caught. Anyways, it was ridiculous and Peter would not have a minute longer of it.

“Well, if you promise,” Peter could not help but irritably snide at which Stiles guiltily winced.

Peter, with a deep frown that could match Derek’s, turned on his heel and started brusquely walking away. He halted though at the unsure voice.

“I can stay, right?”

This was the last thing Peter wanted. Well, the last thing he wanted was for Stiles to leave for Lydia if he was honest which could be a possibility now if he felt like he could not talk to him but still feel the need to talk to someone which would inevitably lead him to the redheaded bitch. So yeah, he stopped, of course, he did. He was invested into this relationship, he was deep into.

“Of course you can stay,” Peter half turned but did not directly look at him, “It’s your house too, remember?”

He could hear a deep relieved sigh then and the approaching footsteps. Peter waited for him so they could walk abreast. Neither spilt a word on their way home.

The next few days were slow. The air was charged, bodies tense. Peter did not ask Stiles about what he was hiding once. Stiles was sending Peter these little guilty glances from time to time. Peter pretended not to see them. What he saw was his iPad, or a book, or the screen of his computer. He only let his look linger at night when Stiles was deep into the dream world.

Peter would’ve never guessed that he had so much willpower.

They still had dinner and sometimes breakfast together, although without happy snarky completely smitten with each other banter. They still read together although now each had their own copy. They still slept together but without the passionate touches.

Peter was really stunned how long he lasted. So it came to him as a surprise that a strong, willful, although completely wrong in this situation, Stiles caved in first.

It was Friday again and Stiles was fussing about, getting ready for the pack night. Peter was sitting on his favourite couch, relaxed and reading, not paying attention to the hurricane of flailing limbs around him.

What he did pay attention to was when it suddenly stopped. A thunderous heartbeat filled his ears so he looked up and found Stiles sitting to his left in the armchair, solemn and unsure.

This was when they would talk then. Very well, was all Peter thought, squashing any hope that was trying to resurface. He marked the chapter and put away the book. He trained his eyes on his boyfriend.

They haven’t had a meaningful conversation what felt like in years instead of four days. Peter could not help but praise himself once again for his resolve. Especially, considering that his boyfriend was lying to him about something, something that he feared deeply was connected to one fickle whimsical bitch that was like a hidden mine on his away, a silent threat to his life.

Peter was watching Stiles closely. He saw him brace himself to say something important and then deflate and backtrack so what came was a hushed and guilt-ridden, “I don’t feel like going to a pack meeting tonight.”

Peter’s eyebrows flew into his hairline although he was really not amused. But if this was what Stiles decided to open with then so be it, he’d bite.

“May I ask why?” he asked in a politeness that could rival an English queen.

Stiles’ gaze was trained on his clenched fists. “I just, uh, I thought I could stay in, you know, with you.” The last part was so heavily doubting it felt like a question.

A smitten puppy inside Peter was waggling its tail eagerly and begging to play. He missed Stiles, he so dearly missed him, his touch, his brain, his lustful looks, his smart-ass remarks. He missed everything about him and in the past few days, despite them being near it felt like they were far away.

But if he gave in now – then what? The atmosphere is strained around them; any conversation would inevitably die out in it. There was nothing for Peter to say. But if he did, he would come off as a paranoid jealous asshole who had trust issues an ocean wide. He did not feel like introducing that dark part of him to Stiles anytime soon.

“Oh,” was all Peter said in return, blank as a wall.

A beat of silence and then a hesitant, “C-can I?”

Peter studied his boyfriend’s face closely. He felt like Stiles was trying to mend the gap between them without filling it in with honesty.

“I actually already have plans,” he lied.

At that, Stiles visibly deflated. “Oh,” he breathed out, disappointed.

“So if you don’t mind, I’d better get going,” he stood up and went into the bedroom to change. At the last minute, he dropped a, “Don’t wait up,” over his shoulder.

His “plans” consisted of running around the woods, wolfed out, lost in the scent of his woods, carefree and wild. The biggest temptation would be not to beat himself up with a stick for treating Stiles like that, or with a whole tree.

When he came back in the middle of the night he found Stiles sleeping on his side of the bed, clutching his pillow tightly. Peter walked over and caressed his lover’s cheek while marvelling at the beauty of the divine creature that he was so much in love with in front of him.

He did not think he could hold out much longer. The dishonesty was breaking his heart but he would rather have Stiles like this than no Stiles at all.

He took a quick shower to get the leaves out of his hear and dirt from under his fingernails. He then approached the bed and gently got in, pulling the pliant body of his boyfriend close, holding him tightly, breathing him in deeply, relaxing around him completely.

When he opened his eyes the next morning he found Stiles’ face an inch away, awake and smiling.

“Good morning,” Peter murmured on the exhale.

“Morning,” Stiles replied and shyly leaned in for a kiss. What first started as an innocent peck changed into a kiss of passion insisted by the initiator.

It was a bliss... for a first few seconds. Then Peter pulled away and turned onto his back, halting any procedures that Stiles wanted to initiate. A smell of distraught disappointment filled the room. It was not Peter’s favourite smell in the morning so he quickly got up and with words, “I’ll make us breakfast,” he left the room.

He felt like he deserved a medal although he would trade it in an instant for a drop of honesty.

As he was flipping pancakes with no cheerful tune in his mind to fill the silence he heard the approaching footsteps. He did not bother to turn around as he usually would just to grace his boyfriend with an affectionate smile.

The footsteps halted, deciding not to proceed further in his direction, pacing sideways instead.

Peter waited for Stiles to gather his thoughts but when he did, Peter did not feel amused in the slightest.

“Listen up, Hale! This is all your fault!”

Peter turned his head around to give Stiles’ an ‘are-you-for-fucking-real’ look over his shoulder. It was ridiculous, Stiles with his wrinkly shirt and mussed hair looked ridiculous, but at the same time, he looked sexy as hell. Trust or no trust, Peter thought there would never come the time when he would not want him.

“You wanted me to share? To spill the shit? Fine! Fine, have it your way!” Peter could swear that Stiles’ flailing arms were taking the most space of his apartment. He turned off the stove to brace himself for the tornado Stiles.

“But remember you asked for it! I didn’t mean to say anything. For once in my life, I chose not to be a meddling nuisance and here we are!” Everything coming from Stiles’ mouth was sounding so dramatic and loud as if he was performing on stage.

Peter tried his best to hold back a smile. Finally, the man he knew and loved came back. He was ready to put everything behind. But only if it wasn’t about Lydia. If it was about her...Peter prayed to mother nature for the monologue Stiles was about to indulge himself in was not about Lydia. He swore he would rip her guts out, slowly, piece by piece until she would go half crazy with a wailing of her own death. Anything but Lydia was that so much to ask, just not her, anything but –

“Derek is an alcoholic.”

Peter’s hand twitched and he whirled on Stiles, his face incredulous and shocked to his bones.

The anger and impatience on Stiles’ face in a second turned into guilt and compassion.

“Look, I-I did not want to say anything, but he is your nephew, your family, a-and...he’s hurting. So he’s drinking. The last thing he needs is your condensation and irritation. I know you mean well,” Stiles continued in a placating voice, as if he did not just insult Peter, although, when they had last met that was exactly what he did, “I know you still hold a grudge for what he did, and yes, I remember that we’ve already talked about it, that it’s not entirely his fault, and how you need to forgive him and move on, be positive, and I know that you’re working on it,” he really wasn’t though but maybe, just maybe, he should, after all, considering the new information about to be deeply revealed, “and I know that it’s hard, I know that it’s hard for you to talk to him, to be even near him but he needs you, Peter.”

Stiles crept forward to Peter, hesitating to take his hand.

“Babe, he really needs you,” was the pleading voice that always did the job of mellowing him out.

After he started, it seemed like the gate was open and there was no stopping Stiles confession time.

“When I went to his loft for a pack meeting last Friday I was the first one there. Isaac was in his room and Derek was standing in front of the window, slightly swaying and brooding and weird in general. Whereas the last two are nothing new but the first...my dad used to drink, I told you about that remember?”

At the earnest look in Stiles’ eyes, Peter could just nod, half-scared to say a thing.

“I recognize all the signs...It’s easy to spot them if you know what to look for and, Peter, Derek is like a classic example. I had my suspicions before but last Friday I got my proof.” Stiles took a deep breath, finally making a small air break from all the talking and then dived right back. “He reeked, Peter. He had whisky in his grip, his eyes glazed over, feet unsteady. When I approached him he did not even notice me he was so drunk. I, uh, I...” he stops again but this time unsure of himself, “I helped him to his room. He snarled at me when I tried to take the bottle away from him. So I just helped him go to bed. I was lucky he felt like it and I guess was dead on his feet. Everything could’ve gone so much worse,” A drunk werewolf? Of fucking course it could’ve gone worse, much, much worse, Peter seethed inside, “I was lucky I guess. He didn’t say anything just let me stir him to bed, except for...he said “it should’ve been me” and then he also said, “let me burn, I deserve it”. He looked so miserable, Peter.”

Peter felt conflicted so he focused on what was in front of him and in front of him was an upset boyfriend so he stepped up and hugged him tightly without any hesitation. Stiles melted into the embrace.

“I asked Isaac if this was the first time something like that happened. He said that it was the first time he saw him drunk in the loft. He usually drinks himself to death in your old house.”

Peter closes his eyes, feeling an irritating tingle of guilt under his skin. Because he saw Derek, a few weeks ago, he saw him drinking in their burnt-out shell of a house, he saw him wallowing, he saw him miserable and he did him only worse.

“He was very upset, Isaac. He was scared. He was the only one who knew and asked me not to tell anyone. He was scared that hunters would come for him. And I...I don’t know why I didn’t tell you. I guess...I just didn’t want you to be upset or, or I don’t know. Just...I didn’t tell you and it was wrong, you had a right to know and I’m sorry, okay? I’m really, really sorry, please don’t be mad?”

It was so dumb, Peter thought. From where he stood, there was no reason for Stiles not to say anything to him. He wondered if Lydia had a hand in it.

Maybe Stiles did not want to tell him anything because of his lack of compassion to Derek, and since he is the only one of the two of them who genuinely full-time cared about Derek, he decided it would be best if Peter did not know and did not worsen the situation with his “condensation.” True, but dumb. It was so not worth of the miserable days of being close but so apart.

Although that was the nature of relationships, was it not? Sometimes people got confused and situations got dumb. The important thing was to move past them.

Anyway, Peter thought that this time he should actually listen to Stiles and at least look for the road of forgiveness. Guilty or not, he was still a Hale, and Hales were not weak. He swore to himself that he would get him out of the hole of liquid self-destruction, by any means.

“I’m not mad. I wish you would’ve told me sooner. I’m not mad, maybe disappointed a little. Although I’m not sure in who.” He paused dramatically and felt Stiles tense in his arms. “I’ll help him so don’t you worry your pretty head about it anymore.” And with that, he placed a kiss on the crown of Stiles’ head.

Stiles twitched violently back to look at him. His eyes, so big and hopeful, peered deep into Peter. “Really? You will?”

Peter graced him with a gentle, intimate smile he reserved just for him. “Of course. All you had to do was ask.”

High on emotions, Stiles surged to kiss Peter which was a pleasant change from all the depressing talk. When they broke apart, the rosy colour filled his lover’s cheeks that framed a happy smile. It was so endearingly sweet Peter was getting a cavity.

He took Stiles’ hand and led him to the table.

“I’ve made your favourite breakfast if you’re hungry.”

The smile he got in return was blinding.

For the first time that week Peter felt alive.

Chapter Text

"I think..." Stiles started hesitatingly but cut off immediately after the first verb. He took a breath, chewed on his lip and then started again. "I think I'm ready to try wards."

Despite what evidently was a statement, the lines of worry and tapping fingers testified to him being uncertain.

Peter squinted at him, taking in every detail. Stiles who stood before him, before the kitchen table where Peter was drinking his afternoon tea, was so unsure of himself, an innocent fidgety creature.

"You're not ready," Peter cut him off without much deliberation.

Stiles face fell and his gaze dropped to the floor. Giving a helping hand at a progress might be the best course of action right now, Peter thought. Peter's good at giving hand at any time.

"Have you read 'Segue Letters'?"

Stiles looked around, trying to match the name to the cover. His gaze got drawn to the table, but when there's no luck it jumped to shelves beside the couch, then to the floor (Peter often berated him for carelessly leaving precious books on the floor but did not made a lot of progress - Stiles usually made it up to him in such a nature that after he even forgot what 'it' even was). He then directed his lost gaze to Peter who stood up and turned around, reaching to the shelf over the counter behind him. His shirt rode up but when he turned around Stile's look was solely focused on the thin little emerald book in his hands. His brows furrowed and he reached out to take it when Peter came closer. Peter transfered it to him while saying, "Read this first."

Without another word, he turned around and went back to his afternoon tea.

The next day when Stiles approached him on this topic it's early morning. Peter was trying to wake up while stretching languorously on his bed whereas Stiles as it turned out had not even had a wink of sleep.

The bed was jolted at Peter's side so it didn't take much out of him to stretch out his hand and touch the young, marred with dark circles under his eyes, face of his boyfriend.
"Okay, I've been studying all night, I've read every book that might be even related to warding, I've cleaned off all the shelves, I know I wasn't ready yesterday, I realise that now, you were right, you're always right, Peter. But, but! I'm ready now, okay? I think I really really am, let's go, let's try, Peter. Peter?" He stops at that then, takes a breath, rubs furiously at his eyes with his free hand and then says, "Seriously, I think I'm ready now."

Peter had successfully blinked the sleepiness away somewhere in the middle of his boyfriend's rant.

"No," Peter rasped out and closed his eyes.
Stile's grip on him tightened and he exploded.

"What do you mean 'no'? Did you hide something from me? You know I need everything I can use, the wards, Peter, wards are important. You can't hold out on me!"

As Stiles was going down the accusation lane Peter was trying to find comfort in that despite Stiles being unreasonable and angry his voice was still nice and soothing. He opened his eyes as Stiles shook his arm aggressively, demanding his attention.

"Stop," Peter growled out and flashed his blue eyes at him. And Stiles shut the hell up, his cheeks reddening.

"You will not try the wards now," Peter began his explanation with his voice calmer, "or at any point of this day. You haven't slept, you're tired and unfocused, getting aggressive and delusional. This is not the state to try magic in, especially new, especially when it's not an emergency. You are not ready and your mind is racing."

By the end Stiles slumped and turned his face away, his grip loose.

"You made some pretty horrible accusations just mere minutes ago. But I will forget for the book mania had taken over completely in there, obviously. So I will say this only once - Go to bed, Stiles."

Closing his eyes, Peter took his hand away and placed it on his own chest.

A minute later he heard clothes hitting the floor and then the hesitant rustle of sheets. They both laid there stock still, tense and apart until he reached out and drew his boyfriend into his arms and let him snuggle. Only then did Stiles relax and not the second later he fell asleep, letting Peter keep watch over him.

In the evening when Stiles woke up, Peter still had his arm around him, letting him take his chest and the whole side hostage while in the other hand he held one of the books from his "catch-up" list. Stiles stirred, rubbed his face in werewolf's collarbone and then immediately froze.

"I've ordered Thai. You must be hungry. It will be here soon."

Peter himself frowned at the tone of his voice and the clipped cold sentences coming out from his mouth. To mitigate the effect he must had be making on his lover, his leaned over and kissed the crown of his head, squeezing him just a little bit closer, scenting him further, telling him he was not mad.

"Are we...are we - good?" Stiles whispered, his voice hesitating.

"Of course we are." Peter responded confidently. "There is nothing to sulk about, there is nothing to forgive, or forget."

"I...Peter, I..."

"I will have none of it. Everything is alright. Just don't make it a habit," Peter said as he held his boyfriends face in his hands.

Stiles searched his face for any trace of a grudge and when he found none he leaned in and hesitantly put his lips over Peter's. One gentle innocent kiss later and Stiles was surging hungrily into Peter's mouth, his hands wandering, giving everything he got. And Peter, well, he was happy to get behind that and stretch his idle body.

The evening went and passed, they ate the delivered food, Stiles in Peter's lap, taking very little space on the couch. After, Stiles' eyes quickly darted to the books scattered on the table but he turned away from them, preferring to nuzzle into his boyfriend's throat. Peter frowned at this, at his lover's thinking that he had to choose or that his thirst for knowledge would come between them. Although, it wasn't not accurate, because it did actually, it did come between them before. But this was why he loved Stiles so much, for his passion, for his intelligence. That's what made him who he was, who he wanted to date, who he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.

Peter turned Netflix on to find some movie about crime he used to like before the fire. But as it went on, as the plot thickened, Stiles was not pulled in. Instead his gaze was more frequently flickering to his books.
Peter rolled his eyes and bottled the heavy sight that threatened to break out.

He put the movie on the pause - on the most interesting moment, dammit, - and at Stiles' questioning gaze he said, " I've been cooped up in the apartment for the whole day. With the approach of the full moon, I feel more and more that I need to stretch my legs." He gently moved Stiles on the flat surface and stood up. " I'll go for a run."

And with that he went to their room to change. As he was pulling on his dark green sweats he heard Stiles come in. He said, "I could come with?"

Peter tried not to let the frown to take over. He was giving them space, and also giving him the opportunity to read without feeling guilty. And what was Stiles doing? Playing to his desires of being together.

"The forest is a dark and wild place. Ever since my return I've been working on reacquainting myself with its expanses. I's rather go alone."

He turned to him, now fully clothed, and saw his boyfriend's contemplative face. Peter knew he was torn between arguing to go with and staying to sneak a peak at more words. However, Peter was making decisions now.

"I'll be back in a few hours."

And it was final.

As he was running around the neighbourhood, doing his usual check up, he could not help but think that night was dark and full of terrors. It brought a smile to his face. As he started trekking into the woods he steered clear of his childhood home - it was not a pleasant place to begin with but also he did not want to risk running into Derek. He still did not know what to say to his last living nephew, to his last remaining family.

On the one hand, he knew they had to reconnect at least to honour the memory of the deceased and to keep his promise he once made to his sister although he broke it with no chance of repeating when he killed Laura.

On the other hand, he just couldn't do it because he blamed him for the death of everyone he held dear. He blamed him for ripping the life he once had from him, for taking the security that only pack could give. Although Derek did lose all of that as well.

He also blamed him for the lost years, for the vulnerability he put him in when he and his sister left him to rot, for leaving him to the hunters' mercy.

He also blames him for not taking revenge on those who harmed his family.

Sometimes though he felt like blaming Derek was like blaming a car for a car crash in which it was simply a tool. He did not choose to be a victim of Kate, he did not want her to kill them, he could not know.

Sometimes Peter blamed himself for not paying closer attention.

And now he had a doubt that it was the same situation after which he would blame himself as well - for letting Derek's self destruction lead to his demise.

But wasn't Derek his own person, capable of making his own decisions? Most of the time - no, he was not. He was still a kid. He was still that naive kid who was taken advantage of.

He was still Peter's nephew.

He was still the one who brought the enemy to their home.

Peter's claws pierced the skin of his palms and he let a devastating roar that was building up for some time. The roar full of grief and regret, the roar full of anger and spite, the roar full of missed life.

Silence fell upon the forest. Peter leaned heavily on to the nearest tree and let himself slide down onto the spiky floor. He was breathing heavily, not knowing how to catch his breath.

Time went on as Peter rested in a mindless bliss.

When he felt ready to go back home to the one who, hopefully, waited for him, he stood up and shook off any lingering dirt on his clothes. As he was about to leave, he noticed a pair of glowing blue eyes shyly watching him from afar.

He was not ready yet though. He went home.

And there he was met with a prepared speech.

"Peter, I am ready for wards," he barreled on as soon as he saw Peter cross the threshold. "I know I can do it. I read and reread the books, I noted down as many useful facts as I needed, I even practiced drawing, and carving, and calligraphy to make sure I had everything perfect. I know I can do this, Peter. You said the forest is a dangerous place. Well, ours could be too so I want to protect it for you, protect it for us." His last words cracked and with his next words he toned down the vehemence and let a bit of vulnerability drip in. "I wanted to do this together, I wanted... This is our home, Peter, and I wanted... I need you to believe in me, Peter."

He looked miserable standing there in the middle of the room. Peter sighed and toed off his shoes.

"I've always believed in you, Stiles. When you told me for the first time that you wanted to do wards, I supported you fully. I believed you could do it and my belief did not waver even an inch since."

Stiles' jaw went slack and true confusion dawned on him. "Then - why? Why did you say that I wasn't ready if you though I was ready? Why did you..."

"Because you though you weren't," he answered easily. At Stiles' still confused face he elaborated, "You're a spark, Stiles. There are no rules for you. You can do spells like witches, or play with runes and balance like druids - and you would complete those tasks swimmingly even if you botched a spell or made a symbol crooked as long as you believed it would work. The reason I did not want you to do because even though you thought you were ready, you did not believe it then. You were a spark whose weapon is belief not believing in yourself. You could fail or worse - have it backfire and hurt you. I did not want that. So I let you have a few days to reinforce your knowledge and belief. It's magic, Stiles! You have to be responsible with it! I want you safe. What kind of boyfriend do you think I am not to want you safe?"

A rosy blush spread shyly over Stiles' pale cheeks and a small smile took root on his face.

"A loving one," was a quite response.

"Damn right," Peter said as if it was a known fact and thought to himself, and don't you forget it, ever.

They sat together then, under the dim lights of the room, and theorized over the details. They made out which runes were their priority - fire-proof ("I will never let anything of yours burn again, you will never have to start over again," Stiles would insist), magic-proof (against any magical influence), water-proof, sound-proof (to Peter's greatest delight). The apartment would also be intact after any natural disaster.

Those were easy. The only rune that actually took time customizing was against unwanted guests.

"Maybe pack and family entry only?" Stiles suggested.

But for Peter that would not do. He always suspected the pack in malicious intent, especially directed at him. Stiles, however..

"Look, we cannot just let any pack members come in freely in here. I understand that they are your friends but what if they are influenced somehow? What if a witch compels them? Or an incubus?" He did not dare to mention the case of possession, it went to that list without having to be mentioned.

"Maybe the ward would let the pack member in that is free from magical influence?"

That was not what Peter wanted either. "But what if you put, let's say, a healing spell on them? Or a protecting rune?" Peter offered. "Let's just make it simple and put a ward that will prevent anyone from coming in unless they have our explicit permission."

After a minute of contemplation, Stiles agreed.

Once everything was in order he got to placing them around the house.

Peter could not be proud of him more. Just like he could not be more relieved that Lydia would never be able to enter again without him knowing.

His house was Lydia-proof. Just like hers was Peter-proof.

All he had to do now was to make sure that Stiles would never have a reason to bring her here, or anywhere else, for that matter. It would be perfect if he never saw her again.

But having his apartment warded was enough for now.

Another battle won, a war to go.

Chapter Text

Stiles was rolling his eyes heavily, opening and closing his mouth, unable to insert a single word into the conversation.

"Scott, what exactly do you need my help with?" He finally managed to say in between his friend's breaths and then he openly smirked in Peter's direction as if saying all so amused 'I knew he wouldn't be able to last long without me'.
At Scott's new round of complaining Peter rolled his eyes and thought about how lucky he was that his boyfriend was so smart; so smart that he had actually graduated early and yet decided against the early admission in favour of staying these months in Beacon Hills with him, learning magic and chilling.
Stiles mistakenly thought that when the time came, all would get complicated in their relationship and the hardship of a long distanced one would hang over them uncomfortably.

Peter though did not plan on having such a relationship at all. Of course, the territory of BH was his, the Hales held it for centuries but he did not have any real attachments to it, not anymore. He burned and burned for it, and without Stiles or his family, it was not worth to waste his life away there. Sure, there was Derek but it was quite some time ago when he considered the kid as a family. His nephew planned to torture himself in the territory for his remaining life anyway so a Hale, at least in name,  would always be present there. There was no point in reestablishing the Hale claim onto the land, there was no one to leave such legacy to. It was not likely that either of the two remaining Hales could procreate, not even by accident. He was not an alpha either so he did not feel the desperate pull to have a pack and a territory. All he wanted was Stiles - he was his pack, his family, his everything.

Some nights he wished he had a reason to stay. Some nights he wished Stiles to want to hold the territory but not as a part of the McCall pack but as a part of Hale. There was no Hale pack though and sometimes he wished there was.
There could be one under Laura yet unlikely. How would she treat the bitten members if it was alright for her to leave ones by blood to die? How would she treat the adopted pack members if she was ready to sacrifice her family?
She was not an alpha worthy of leading the Hale pack, Peter never knew what Talia saw in her eldest. He did not regret killing her because in both of their eyes they were not family to each other. So if they were no one to each other what reason could his feral mind have not to kill her and heal his fragile body with power?

Sometimes Peter wished he had killed Derek too so that when the time came he could die peacefully. With current affairs, he could not see a chance for Derek to ever get better. He certainly was not strong enough to bring back the Hale name by himself. Even with alpha power and Peter's help, there was still very little chance to that. Yet there is a question - what could possibly motivate him to help. Maybe if only Stiles asked. Begged more of it, repeatedly and persistently. Just wanting it could work too though.

Peter suddenly snapped out of his thoughts as Stiles stood up and started walking away to their room while angrily muttering into his phone, "I will not listen to this Scott, you hear me?"

He stopped abruptly in the middle of the room, his free hand freezing mid its flailing dance in the air.

And with his back to Peter, he continued defending his point. "What the hell dude? Where did this come from? Did he ever give you any indication that he wanted it? - no, are you insane?! He would never do that! You're my best friend and he would never do that to me!" Silence. And then, " Jesus fucking Christ, Scott, what the fuck? No, of course not, why would you even think...fucking no, Scott! Shut the fuck up right now, he's changed, okay? I know that you know that - so where did this come from? He does not even have the murdering tendencies anymore so why the fuck are you worried? It's your territory, Scott, he's not going to...for Christ sakes, dude, no, his bloodthirstiness is at a low point now so you have nothing to worry about and even if you had..."

Peter pointedly cleared his throat. It seemed that he and the McCall boy had some similar thoughts, surprising really.

Stiles hunched in on himself and turned to Peter, his expression guilty. Peter was glad he did not get to listen how that sentence would end.

Stiles sighed and hung his head, his hand tiredly rubbing at his eyes. "No one is going to kill you, Scott, but I swear to god if you ever going to accuse my boyfriend of that shit again, I will cut your leg off and beat you to death with it myself, is that clear?"

Peter preened a bit under the threats of bodily harm, it was nice to know his boyfriend cared.

"Yes, Scott, you are the true alpha of the hood, mhm, yeah, aha, you are stronger than him," Stiles pointedly rolled his eyes and then again when, "you are faster than him, of course, sure, you are...okay now you are taking this too far, Peter is even smarter than me so don't even...yeah, yeah, okay..."

And here Peter though he could barely keep up with Stiles. Huh. It was nice to know Stiles held him in such high regard. He was smarter. Of course, he was. And to think that McCall thought he was smarter than him? That was a better joke than any on TV.

"Bye now, Scott, I won't come over today, no, no I won't, go have your study sessions with Alison, I heard it helps you a lot." He snorts loudly at that. "Laters, dude."

And with that, the entertaining phone conversation with Scott McCall ended. Took too long if you asked Peter.

Stiles looked at him sheepishly and slowly walked over to the couch, then he just stood there, his legs pressing into Peter's, him hovering over his lover.
“Sooooo... I guess you heard all that, huh?"

"Only your side,” Peter smiles mysteriously at him. "I am grateful to you for defending my honour though. I feel I should thank you properly."

He grabs Stiles’ hips then and makes him accidentally fall into his lap.

Chapter Text

Peter was lying on his stomach half-on top of Stiles with his head right over his boyfriend’s heart. The comfort of a couch did not matter, neither did a muted TV. What mattered was the welcoming heat under him and beat of the heart. It was calm and beating in a strict pattern. And then Peter would rub his cheek over the T-shirt, or inhale it deeply, or just trail Stiles’ side with a single finger and the heart would trip over itself, the rhythm would speed up, even if for just for a few seconds before returning to normal. And then Peter would wait a few minutes before doing it again. 

Peter sighed in content and happiness and lazily once again burrowed his face in Stiles’s T-shirt. There was nothing better than experiencing the rollercoaster of Stiles’ heart. Sluggishly slow and then rabbit fast. Slow, fast. Up and down, up and down. The delighted thrill and puppyish happiness came with the knowledge that Stiles cared for him and was affected even by a single touch. 

“Peter,” Stiles murmured, a smile on his face, “you’re distracting me.” 

“Oh, am I? I’m sorry, I was not aware that I was.” 

“Peter,” Stiles huffed, “you dirty old liar, you know you do.” 

Peter raised his head at that and glowered at his smirking boyfriend. “Who are you calling old?” 

“I did not mean it, babe,” he started carding his fingers through wolf’s hair, “lie back down.” 

After a beat, Peter did, now a tense current in his body. 

He closed his eyes and succumbed to the circular motion of long, knowing fingers. He relaxed with a sigh and once again rubbed his face over Stiles’s heart. 

“Peter,” Stiles huffed a laugh. “I’m trying to meditate, and you’re distracting me.” 

“Is that bad?” Peter asked innocently. He was very pleased with himself at the moment. 

“Very.” 

“But how can something so pleasing to me be bad?” 

“Dude,” an amused chuckle from his boyfriend, “do not get me started on this.” 

Peter fell silent for a second and Stiles’s hand froze in motion. Silence once again fell in the apartment. 

Stiles let his hand fall to his neck, “Peter?” 

“I would kill for you, darling. I would kill anyone who caused you any harm.” 

A beat, two, and Stiles’ hand moved lower and to the side, his fingers starting to trace slow soothing circles in Peter’s shoulder. 

“I know that,” Stiles whispered to the silence. 

Peter closed his eyes and gathered his confidence, “Would you?” 

The hand froze on his shoulder. In fear and disgust, or guilt and uncertainty, Peter did not know. What he knew was that the heart below was beating out of control. 

Peter was afraid to breathe. Was that too much? Was he taking it too far? But if he bared his soul, was it too much to ask Stiles to do the same? 

Or maybe he should not have asked. Maybe the influence of Scott McCall was too strong. Or maybe Stiles did not just feel the same about him. The elevated heart rate caused by touch testified to Stiles finding the older man attractive. It did not necessarily mean ‘feelings’. 

Could he live with that? Being just the object of lust? Probably of convenience? Because Peter could not imagine the universe in which he would’ve ever said 'no' to Stiles. Although he could easily imagine one where Stiles would say 'no' to him. 

“Of course, I would,” was finally the answer. 

Of course, he would. Peter should not have doubted him. He should have had a little more faith. At least in the fact that Stiles intended and believed that fact himself. Reality could always differ from expectations and resolutions. Although, if Stiles said something, that he usually did. 

Peter let out a gentle sigh of relief. It felt good to be reassured again. 

Stiles’ hand gripped his shoulder, “And don’t you ever doubt that.” 

Peter let out a satisfied rumble and went back to rubbing himself all over his boyfriend. 

“I’d do anything for you, creeperwolf.” 

And so they remained in their positions – Stiles soothing and Peter basking in reassurance. The sun was shining strong behind the window, the breeze was fresh and woodsy. Peace and quite was reigning the whole afternoon in their apartment. 

And then the phone rang. Peter flinched. Stiles frowned. 

Stile took his hands away to reach for his phone on the table. Peter was jostled so he grumbled disgruntled. 

The temptation to listen in was strong but Peter resisted. Stiles did ask for some ground rules after all. And Peter asked something back in return. He was fine with this mock privacy – his boyfriend would tell him all about it after anyway. Although he could save the time by letting him to listen in, but, oh, well. Who cared. Peter was thirsty. He got up with no cheer and went to have some water. He took his time drinking, enjoying the way water was sliding down his throat, so willingly, so placidly. 

He felt so relaxed as if he had a session of yoga. But all he did was lie (almost) still and match his breathing to Stiles’. 

He tried to synchronize himself with Stiles again, to feel that connection once again but failed, for Stiles’ heart was beating too fast. 

Peter walked back into the living room only to see Stiles’ worried face and to catch parting words, “ …yeah, we’ll be there in 15.” 

“Who’s dead?” Peter deadpanned. “And must ‘we’ go anywhere? They are your pack.” 

He knew he’d go anywhere if Stiles needed him. But someone asking was so nice to hear. 

But instead of rolling his eyes and some amused huffing, Stiles slowly rose from his place as if trying to placate some feral creature. But Peter was sane at the moment and only thing that had a chance in upsetting him – besides Stiles, he would be more than upset if something happened to Stiles, - was family, which these days, unfortunately, meant Derek. 

So instead, it was Peter who rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. Probably Derek finally found the death he’d been seeking. Peter was not ready to think how he felt about that if he did at all. 

“A girl was hit by a car not even an hour ago. Details are unclear. She was brought to the hospital.” 

Stiles gulped, his amber eyes were so troubled. Peter was confused. 

“Melissa, luckily for us, was on her shift and was one of the first ones to see to her upon her arrival. And good thing she did, for fractures or lacerations she might have had were already healed by then." 

“An omega?” 

“We don’t know. It doesn’t matter anyway.” 

But how could it not matter, Peter thought. He tolerated McCall as the head of the territory because he was a harmless idiot. But if some other pack tried to take over the territory, again, most of the furry heads would fall. 

“She had an ID on her,” Stiles gulped again and Peter was tired of the suspense. Stiles would make a good suspense story-teller though. 

“It said ‘Cora Hale’.” 

And then the world before his eyes shifted.