Chapter Text
Since his sister had been elected into office instead of ruling the community with her Pack-Alpha status, questionable territory connections and heavy use of rather unsavoury tactics…. Peter was bored. Her abrupt election after the town had sympathized with his pack following a rash of anti-werewolf acts, including attempting to turn his pack home into a pyre, meant he was the youngest person in the family to be retired.
Upstanding Talia Hale couldn’t be sending her shady brother to have things taken care of now that she was kissing babies and cutting ribbons. Of course, she was still maintaining her more bloodthirsty methods in guarding her territory. Mayor Hale just had to do it like every other new-to-power politician: quietly. Using people she couldn’t openly be affiliated with to spread the blame a little further than her (freshly) squeaky-clean, model of society, family.
When Peter was slogging through lists of lowkey shake-downs and threatening gestures he used to think he would love to retire into his own interest projects. Perhaps build his own little syndicate somewhere or tour European vineyards but, he was landlocked by his sister’s political career. Beacon Hills it turned out, when he didn’t have people to shred, was the dullest little town in the middle of the most boring county in the least interesting part of California.
However, as bored as he was, having Talia waltz into his apartment on a Saturday afternoon was not the enrichment he was looking for.
“The shine of our recent tragedy is starting to wear off for the community - People are getting more critical of me. My qualifications,” Talia lamented in that quiet unaffected way she had that made Peter want to rip his own nails out.
“I’m sorry, Tally,” Peter drawled in a sincere tone as he stared at his ceiling; neck leaned back against the top of his wingback armchair and his legs crossed. “I didn’t know you had qualifications.”
Talia shot him a slightly flatter look before she helped herself to a seat on the sofa. She leaned forward and adjusted a few stones in his tabletop sand garden; Peter narrowed his eyes at the disruption to his zen.
“I’m serious,” Talia continued on, as if he was equally invested in her concern. “If we’re to keep the momentum through to the next elections we need some decent press.”
Peter smirked, opening his mouth to point out he had been in more than one local tabloid recently but Talia raised one well manicured finger at him and he could only roll his eyes instead.
“Your bare ass caught with an omega in Beacon Valley, on the front page of a local rag, and an article about your eligible bachelor status is not helping Peter.” Her disapproval creased her nose. “Which brings me to why I came. You need to clean up.” Talia was leaning forward, her gaze warming up to a red glow of Pack-Alpha authority.
“Tally, come on, I’m neater than any of your brood,” Peter beseeched obtusely with a grand sweeping gesture around his spotless apartment. He didn’t say that in his excess time he had taken to deep cleaning the grout. Besides, he had done the decent thing and skipped to a different town to seduce multitudes of omegas into public indecency. She was being ungrateful.
Talia sighed at him enough to disturb the air between them. She stood before she reached into her purse and dropped a large envelope on the table.
“Have I been served?” Peter mocked as he eyed it.
“You’ll be doing the serving, actually,” Talia smirked. Her nail tapped on the label of the envelope to direct his gaze.
Peter leaned forward and his brows flew up as he gasped with bone deep indignation. He read from the envelope, “Werewolf Acceptance Group: Volunteer Orientation Package - You have got to be kidding me. You cannot expect me to go handing out pamphlets and organizing bake sales with those pyramid scheming, glassy eyed-”
“Stop, Peter. Just because they’re cheerful enough to give an entire pack gastritis doesn’t mean they don’t do good work. They have. Every town with affiliates from their orientation program has a much higher rate of bitten werewolf pack bonding, fewer violent human interactions, and-”
“And a direct increase in morons?” Peter finished with a sneer as he crossed his arms and glared at his sister. “If you think I am remotely interested in promoting peace and love in an era that frowns on acid-”
Talia sighed again, deep, and set the same look on him that could silence twenty-eight werewolves screaming over leftover birthday cake. “I don’t think you’ll like it. I don’t think you’re suited for it, but I do think that you need to be pushed into something that contributes to this town! You want to continue helping the pack - help me with this.”
Peter snarled at her, wet and angry, then he snatched the envelope on the table. “And if I refuse?”
“I’m not asking,” Talia said lightly as she breezed over, kissed him on the hair then stole a muffin off the cooling rack on the kitchen table on her way out.
Peter waited until his door was closed and he heard her lock it with her copy of the key before he muttered, “I’m not asking,” with a bobble of his head.
The orientation document was thirty pages long and forced him to pull up several brightly colored Youtube videos that he skimmed on double playback speed.
“Fuck me,” he hissed into his hands after he’d finished off an online quiz and sent his certificate and ID card to the printer.
___
Stiles hated hospitals, particularly visiting them, but waking up in them with blurry vision and pain lancing through his entire body wasn’t so great either. It took him a moment to blink his greasy feeling eyes clear enough to look around his curtained off bed and down at his bandaged up body.
His arm was carefully laid out, shoulder immobilized and wrapped up in a constricting way that filled him with the urge to jump out of bed and flex all of his joints. Could claustrophobia be applied to tight bandages? He’d have to look into that - or maybe this was a fear of being tied up? That would be more of a bummer.
“Hello?” Stiles rasped. His mouth was too dry from hanging open in hospital air. The curtain around his bed screeched on the track, fluttering wildly before his father was shoving his way through it with a takeaway cup of coffee. Coffee sloshed out of the little cut out in the lid and dribbled to the floor.
“Kid, jesus kiddo. You’re awake,” John leaned down and immediately kissed his son on the forehead before he bumped his own against him and just paused for a moment. “Kid,” he added as he pulled away to rub his hand through Stiles’ hair.
It was cute how much having a werewolf Scott and a new werewolf deputy had really rubbed off on his dad. Stiles smiled up at him, brow pinched, and his expression more of a beaten up grimace. “Hey. Uh. How long have I been out?”
“Just a day,” John assured as he pressed the call button with an impatient few pulses. “They put you through a bit of surgery, patched you up.”
“Sheriff Stilinski?” A nurse called quietly as he came through the hospital room and let himself into the curtained space as well. He was dragging a vitals tower behind him and smiling gently. “Oh sweetheart, you’re awake.”
Stiles wrinkled his nose up and took a little sniff, beta. His own omega-in-distress stink was still prominent though it smelled sponged off of him and covered with rust and antiseptic. “Ye-up,” Stiles said flatly, “Stiles is fine.”
The nurse nodded, “Of course, of course, I’m Brady Klein, I’m your nurse for today. Can you tell me where you are and what season it is?”
“Hospital, uh, winter?” Stiles said and leaned back into his pillow, twitching a bit and shifting his feet on the bed only to stop and grimace at the pull of bandages on his thigh against the skinny hospital blanket.
“That’s great, Stiles. So you were brought in last night, it’s currently 8:00 pm and you’ve been out for about 22 hours.” Brady bustled, taking off Stiles’ leads and replacing them with a pulse ox. clip before he pushed a thermometer into Stiles’ mouth. “Can you tell me what you remember about the incident?”
“About the attack, you mean?” Stiles said, around the thermometer before he was shushed by a raised finger and made to wait for the machine to beep and the plastic wrapped probe to slide out from under his tongue before he continued. “I was just outside of town, in the woods, waiting for my friend so we could - hang out.” AKA do secret werewolf training to help Scott fine tune his werewolf senses. “I got there first so I went to our usual spot and an alpha smelling wolf in beta shift came at me from the trees. They had Pack-Alpha eyes and were -”
“Take your time, Stiles,” Brady assured but he was poised with a pen and an overly kind smile.
Stiles wrinkled his nose a bit, shifted on the bed; a fresh pain stab of pain radiated through all of his injuries. He nearly whimpered but clenched his teeth instead and continued, “He said he wanted pack, he chased me down, bit me, clawed me up a little and tried to drag me somewhere but my friend showed up and - I don’t know what happened after that.”
“Well you’re very lucky, Stiles. Omegas don’t usually survive an attack like that,” Brady was nodding at him and Stiles couldn’t help but stare at the bullshitness of that statement. Did anyone usually survive an attack like that?
“Sure. So when can I go home,” Stiles said mulishly with grit teeth.
Brady made a sympathetic face and reached out to pat him; Stiles was tempted to see if he’d gotten fangs yet as he eyed the hand up and tilted aside to avoid the touch.
Brady spoke like he didn’t even notice, “As you may know, with post transformation-capable attacks there’s a lot of procedural steps we have to get through. Your father already consented and you’ve been given a dose of anti-bite rejection already. The werewolf who attacked you hasn’t been found yet so no samples were available to make a specific dose but the generic brand is statistically excellent.”
Right, bite-rejection. Stiles felt his head swirl and the blood leave his face. Sure, so he’d survived being shredded but now he had to worry about spontaneously spewing black goop until he.. OH fuck. Until he became a werewolf .
“Stiles, it’ll be okay,” his dad’s voice beside him was soothing and calm. Stiles felt a warm hand resting on his chest, rubbing circles just under his collarbones where he was bony. It helped him take a deep breath.
“So what now,” Stiles prompted, slightly wheezy as he looked to Brady. Unaffected, mockingly sweet, stupid faced Brady.
“Now, we keep you under surveillance. If we can find a WAG volunteer to be your orientation facilitator then we’ll discharge you with them, if not then we’ll have you moved to the outpatient facility until you transform or the next full moon has passed.”
“That’s in a month!” Stiles croaked with a flail of his unencumbered right hand. His IV line swayed and ached.
“Most transformations take place within 1-14 days,” Brady responded, which was not as comforting as his face was trying to make it seem.
“Stiles,” his dad interrupted another thought spiral. “They’ve got a new volunteer in town - I’ve been talking to Derek at the station and he said that his mother was trying to support the program here.”
“Why can’t I just -” Stiles gasped a bit before he closed his eyes. He couldn’t just go home. If he transformed for the first time with his dad there… he didn’t know what would happen. It’s not like Scott could come and babysit him 24/7.
Brady cleared his throat a little; Stiles lolled his neck to glare at him. “I’ll be back with some pain management in ten minutes, just rest, let us handle all of these little details.” He had that tone people used to talk to little kids and omegas who made the mistake of asking a dick for directions.
“I expect my son to be kept up on all these little details,” John said with a little bit of Sheriff and a lot of annoyed father. Brady nodded and packed up his vitals station.
The curtain fluttered as the nurse left them alone. Stiles could feel his pulse in his entire body. The smell of the hospital was grating on his nerves. He turned his head a little to look at his dad, a wet drip streaking down his cheek to absorb into his pillow as he did. “Dad,” he whispered.
“It’s okay. I know. I know Stiles, but it’ll be okay.”
It wasn’t the first time his dad had tried to convince him of that. His mother hadn’t made it. But - Scott had. Stiles tried not to think about his own luck or the odds as he drifted on his pain induced exhaustion.
___
Peter groaned, his phone ringing interrupting his audiobook and bath. He sat up from his deep soaked angle to reach for it on the ledge. It was waterproof, he didn’t bother with more than a cursory shake of his hand before he was swiping his finger across the screen.
“Peter Hale,” he answered, tired and only borderline polite. He recognized the hospital’s number.
“Hello Mr. Hale, I’m Val, a social worker at Beacon Hills memorial. There’s been an attack in the woods and we’ve got an omega young man in need of a placement.”
For a moment Peter is quiet, contemplative, free hand swirling through the foam layer on the top of his bath. “Go on.”
It had been a long time, nearly four years, since a Pack-Alpha had enough gall to stumble power-drunk through Hale territory. News of his retirement must have been having an emboldening effect on the greater supernatural community.
“His name is… Well, he likes to go by Stiles. He’s the Sheriff’s son. He’s come through surgery fine, he’ll be available for discharge in two days. He may require some support with his injuries but we’ll have home care available.” Val’s voice was clinical and precise.
“The Sheriff’s omega son was attacked,” Peter repeated before he hummed, “You know, I’m barely qualified. The state really wants to hand such precious cargo to me?” He drawled, smarmy, a smirk curling up his mouth at the huff on the other end of the line. It wouldn’t be his fault if the agency decided they were making a mistake.
“You’ve passed your record checks,” Val’s voice doesn’t hide her condescension; it was amazing what could be cleaned off a record and further what could be claimed as pack right. “He doesn’t do well in hospitals, he’s already struggling here. Now, I have an injured young man who needs help. Are you accepting the placement or not, Mr. Hale.”
Peter thought about Talia barging into his apartment again to chew him out if he declined. The last time he’d displeased her she’d made him babysit nine of his snotty little cousins for months. Surely one weepy bite-survivor was better than that.
“Fine,” Peter answered with a decisive thunk of his head back against the lip of the tub. “I accept the placement.”
“Excellent,” Val said with cheer that sounded offensively false. “I’ll email you the rest of his information as well as the therapy and medical appointment schedules. To confirm, you have Derek Hale and Cora Hale listed as your approved respite sources. Stiles is not to be left alone at any time, should you be unavailable and unable to arrange supervision call me immediately and I will provide emergency support.”
Peter smirked, mouth opening before there was a tsk over the phone. Val’s voice gets quieter; a little frightening. “And Mr. Hale, a social trip to Beacon Valley isn’t an emergency.”
Chapter Text
When Stiles woke up, he woke up feeling hungover. Everything ached and his stomach was sour. His mouth felt too hot. He couldn’t sit himself up in the bed because the sheets on the plastic mattress were too slippery for his heels to get enough leverage. Not that he didn’t try. One hand gripped the rail to attempt to push while he lost his inch of progress up the bed and swore.
That’s how Peter Hale walked in on him.
Stiles’ gown hanging down one shoulder, his face screwed up as he struggled against the pain and the Goddamn Slip ‘N Slide hospital sheets. It’s a new low - Stiles decided. Freezing, he grimaced and tried to just sit up at the torso instead but that pulled on his stitches and aggravated the bruising so he had to give that up too. Had to lay there feeling vulnerable and pathetic as the Left Hand of the Hale pack leaned in his doorframe and stared at him.
“Come in?” Stiles tried, nose wrinkled as he tilted his gaze to watch the wolf. Mildly weary under the layer of awe. Peter Hale was half a myth in town; or a fairy tale, the Grimm kind.
Peter didn’t sit on the provided chair; he looked at it like it was offensive and stood a foot from the end of his bed. His clothing was the sort of fit that said expensive without having to see brand logos. Everything about him from hair gel to leather shoes juxtaposed the flimsy bent ID dangling from his front pocket by a green lanyard. Stiles tried to squint to read what the shiny laminate said.
“I’m your werewolf overseeing orientation and facilitation,” Peter said, flat as a crepe. A glossy pamphlet flicked through the air and landed on the bed.
Stiles blinked, mouth closing as he looked down and used his good hand to pick up the pamphlet. It read ‘Werewolf Acceptance Group’ in bold across the top. As he flicked through his brows came up. He read the words Peter had just delivered before he touched over the acronyms with a fingertip.
There was still mud under his nails.
“I’m sorry, you’re my… WOOF?” Stiles asked.
A slight shift of blue cardigan and loafers. When Stiles looked up Peter was another half foot from the bed, with his arms crossed, examining his nails.
“So you’re my WOOF, in the WAG program,” Stiles continued anyway. His voice cracked with a snort. That was too much. If only these pamphlets existed when Scott was bitten. They would have, at least, had something to roast while he'd been laid up in bed.“Isn’t this a little on the nose?”
“It’s extremely on the nose,” Peter said with a bit of tightening at the corners of his mouth and a look that was clearly trying to dissuade Stiles from continuing. But, like Hell. He had the infamous Peter Hale in his room signed up to be his WOOF.
“Who comes up with this stuff?” Stiles asked, mollified.
“Can you think of a better way to market assisting with werewolf attack survivors?”
“I just didn’t think dog puns would be popular,” Stiles said, with a slight shrug of his good shoulder. His hair flopped when he raised his head to look at Peter again.
“I believe it’s supposed to seem approachable - like we’re sharing the joke.”
“Oh, and are you? You think this is funny?”
Peter sneered and took his pamphlet away.
“What does this mean, exactly?” Stiles asked and reached to take it back because what the pamphlet proposed seemed crazy. There was no universe in which he lived with Peter Hale. He looked up and confirmed it; the wolf looked like there was a runway he was late for, not like he was signing up to babysit.
Peter’s chest, overly exposed by the deep neckline he wore, rose and fell with a huff. “I believe there were pictures if the words were too big for you.”
“You want me to live with you,” Stiles said slowly. Brows up near his hairline with disbelief.
“Not precisely how I would describe the situation. The hospital, this program and my sister, would like you to live with me.” Peter laid emphasis on the mention of his sister. It crinkled up his entire face like a bad smell.
“Until I either shift or turn into a goopy puddle on your floor,” Stiles felt the words come out of his mouth, his tone flippant and stretching to sarcastic but a chill lodged its way into his throat when the reality landed.
It was silent aside from the general hospital noise as they stared at each other. Peter looked more annoyed by the second, his lip curling over neat white teeth. A flash of a perfectly human-looking canine.
Stiles tried to digest that Peter wasn’t here as the Left Hand but instead as a representative of a stupid volunteer program.
Peter hadn’t come to find the Alpha responsible and wasn't going to track him down like he’d done for Scott years ago. Back then, Peter had seemed like some shadowy hero people whispered about. Or villain. It was dependent on the story. They had never met him but suddenly a blood sample appeared in the lab and a custom dose of anti-bite rejection had been available for Scott.
A lump forms in Stiles’ throat that he can’t quite swallow. If they didn’t find the Alpha he wouldn’t get another dose.
Suddenly there was plenty of noise in the room but it wasn’t louder than the woosh in his ears. His IV line tugged as Stiles grabbed at his throat; he couldn’t breathe. All he could picture was black sludge oozing out of him - would it feel the same way blood had? His mouth was too wet; saliva pooled over his lower lip. He sucked at air.
He was going to die in a puddle of his own goop and his dad would be alone.
Peter Hale would have to clean it up.
Something shook him, jostled his chest, it hurt until it didn't. Until nothing hurt. It took several moments to recognize that Peter had one knee up on his bed and a hand around his jaw. Inky black tendrils crawled up his toned forearm in a fascinating pattern that disappeared under folded-up cashmere.
Stiles gasped when the proximity really registered and it was enough of a breath that his lungs seemed to remember what to do with themselves.
And then Peter was gone.
Stiles watched Peter leave with the pamphlet crushed in his fist.
---
The hospital reeked of illness and antiseptic; Peter couldn’t find the exit fast enough.
His body thrummed with the residual adrenaline of watching that damn omega struggle to breathe. It had been like he was choking on his own tongue, lips parted, skinny fingers clawing at his bruised throat. The hair on the back of Peter’s neck prickled at the recollection. A short sensory loop every inhale. The panic was soaked into his palm where he’d made contact. Layers of it. Sponge baths weren’t effective in taking the scent history off of skin.
This program was absurd, expecting someone who’d been attacked to just settle in with a wolf.
It wasn’t guilt - Peter never felt guilty, but he did stall at the gift shop that got between him and the main entrance of the building. His gaze caught on the display of soft things before he was drawn in. He purchased a wildly overpriced weighted stuffed fox that retailed itself as anxiety soothing and had it sent up.
He left his name off the delivery.
There was nothing else to do about it - he was obviously not suited for this sort of volunteering.
Talia would have to find a different way to torture him for the sake of the family's reputation. He hadn’t even been trying to scare the boy; though part of him knew he could have been gentler. He could have employed any of the numerous tactics the program tried to teach him: soft voice, open palms, no eye contact.
It just wasn’t in his nature to be a non-threatening soft-spined empathetic.
This was a terrible idea and it certainly wasn’t his terrible idea so truly let Talia take the blame for that little scene. Let her shoulder the fact that he’d triggered the boy to wheeze so hard that the pain it caused left him with arthritic fingers from drawing it away.
Talia was the problem.
The drive home allowed him to get the scent of panic out of his nose until he could wash properly; the windows down and the small town air cleansing his senses. He threw his idiotic self-laminated WOOF ID card in the garbage in his kitchen, the lanyard hanging out over the edge and blocking the lid from fully closing.
He sat on his sofa and drank a Bane Brew with a gardening show that didn’t hold his attention past the dominant colors that took up his screen when it panned the foliage.
Where would he put an unwanted house guest anyway? Nevermind one that would leave impossible to ignore scent smeared into his fabrics. The sofa would be ruined if that boy experienced a single hormone on it. The guest bedding would have to be burned. He mentally unprepared for the possibility.
It shocked him that it took nearly three hours for his phone to ring with the hospital number scrolling across the screen. Shocked him more that he hadn't moved in that amount of time. Still, he felt an odd sort of dread. Not guilt. Not worry. Just irritation, he convinced himself, irritation at being forced into one of the few areas he was not gifted in.
Peter adjusted the volume of his TV to low and blew out a breath. He leaned his neck back on the sofa before he raised the phone to his ear while swiping across to accept the call. “Hel-”
“Hale,” Val cut him off. Her voice was the sort of sweet that reminded him of antifreeze. “I was informed there was an incident.”
“I did try to-”
“Stiles wants to stay with you.”
The statement was so incredibly bizarre to him that he didn’t mind being interrupted twice in a row. “He’s clearly unwell,” Peter said, sitting up and leaning his elbows on his knees as he gave his flooring a bewildered glower. “He couldn’t bother to breathe while I was there. You can’t expect this to go well.”
“I don’t,” Val stated, blunt, Peter could hear the tap of a keyboard over the line. “I spoke to him at length about it. He says he needs to get out of the hospital.”
There’s a pause that feels so heavy Peter knew better than to break it. The typing stopped, she cleared her throat, and her chair squeaked like it was being leaned back.
“He says he can’t die there.”
Peter rubbed at his brow, it didn’t help the tension he felt accumulating in his skull. “He needs therapy.”
The typing started up again. Val’s voice was back to the professional saccharine quality he was getting used to. “Scheduled daily - I’ll be emailing you his appointment list tomorrow afternoon before you pick him up.”
“Perfect.”
---
Stiles was tired of strangers touching him. He had his dad help him get dressed before he had to get to work on the day he was being discharged from the hospital. It meant he felt a little more like himself, hair clean from the awkward seated shower he’d taken the night before and his teeth brushed thoroughly now that the IV wasn’t in the way to really scrub.
He felt human again by the time afternoon came and Peter Hale was supposed to be picking him up. Ironic.
There were two bags packed for him sitting on the foot of his bed. He got to trade the hospital slipper socks for his converse. The bandaging on his shoulder kept him held together though they kept trying to assure him that it would heal as soon as he got his shift. Like it didn’t matter that it hurt. That it itched. That it was driving him up the wall he couldn’t move freely.
At least now he had one hand fully unimpeded to flip Brady off when he came back with some nonsense about precautions living in an unmated Alpha’s home.
It was the last thing Stiles needed to worry about. Everyone knew what Peter Hale was into and nothing about his anemic, frizzy, lanky self was that. He thought about making a diagram to explain with the local paper sitting on his nightstand that clearly demonstrated his point with the cover story.
By the time he had a pen to start drawing and Brady was moving to the topic of throat exposure and something about jizz, he wasn’t really listening… Peter was clearing his throat in the doorway.
Stiles looked up and shoved the paper away from himself like he’d been caught actually reading the story about Peter’s bare ass in an alley a town over.
“Are you ready?” Peter asked, his brows were quirked, an absolutely scathing look of judgment skimming up and down Brady. The sunglasses on his face tilted down his nose to complete the look.
Stiles converse squeaked on the flooring as he stood up and reached for one of his bags with his good arm. “Yep, yes. Please.” His gaze did nothing to hide how ready he was to escape.
It’s unnerving that Peter really didn’t make noise when he moved. He crossed the space and collected the bag off the bed before he tsked, a low breathy sound with a look that made Stiles feel like showing his teeth as Peter pulled the other bag from his hand. It was weird how courtesy felt so much like an insult somehow.
“I’m double parked,” Peter said as he stalked right back out of the room, projecting every expectation that he be followed.
“Nice to see you. So excited to be starting this journey together. Can I take your bags?” Stiles mocked under his breath with a roll of his eyes as he did follow. Slower. Still finding his balance with one arm tucked to his center of mass.
Peter looked back over his shoulder, his eyes dipping over him once before he turned away again.
Notes:
Description of a panic attack in this one!
Thanks for everyone who's held out I know it's been a long time for this update!
Chapter Text
Peter rarely had house guests. The family occasionally wandered in to make a nuisance of themselves. Talia with demands. Derek with his quiet concerns. Cora with brash requests for assistance with things her mother would absolutely not approve of. Very rarely did anyone outside of his pack step foot into his condo - not uncommon for wolves. And really, domesticated society had plenty of shared, public, spaces to make use of.
So, the condo smelled of the pack and the dull but tangible sense of his own scent. Less precise and discernable than the way he could smell others but he could be blindfolded and categorize how long any item had been in the apartment based on a deep inhale of it.
The broken omega was a stark, startling, wrong intrusion on his sense of peace and property.
Stiles followed him inside, ducking swiftly and stumbling so he wouldn’t be struck by the closing door. “Nice,” he muttered with a sour look.
Peter sighed, holding the two bags slightly at a length from himself because they stunk too. “Did they bathe you?” He found himself asking, half serious, half to make his grievance very clear as he kicked off his shoes and stalked through the open living space, down the hall, and set the bags on the end of the bed he’d made up for the boy.
A fresh mattress protector, new bedding - nothing he’d find personally insulting to wash later.
“Crack a window, Mr. Sensitive,” Stiles snarked at him, from where he had appeared in the doorway. He looked pale, small in his oversized shirt, particularly with the way he held his own braced elbow. Protecting himself with what very little a human could.
Peter turned to exit the room again, giving Stiles a look over and a roll of his eyes when he was allowed to pass through the doorway. Getting close enough that he could inhale the scent of chemicals in the unfragranced hospital products.
“Make yourself at home,” Peter told him, drawling and sarcastic. “You can use the bathroom down the hall. Your towels are black.”
“My towels.”
“Your towels,” Peter repeated firmly.
“Why black?”
Peter stared at him and then shut the bedroom door on the curious expression he was looking at.
In the hall, he sighed again, a huff through his nose like that could help at all. He can smell the blood curdled around the stitches, the pain Stiles hid from showing in his face, and the honey, verbena, toothpaste scent of the omega himself. It dragged on every thought he had.
Peter didn't hide, but he made a tactical decision to spend the next couple of hours in his office with the door shut, an air purifier in his face and the window open. He had been sent a schedule for Stiles. A slightly convoluted list of appointments that he had to translate into his phone to set alerts. As an afterthought, he attached Stiles’ email to the calendar too.
When that’s done he heard Stiles finally exiting his bedroom. Without warding to silence the space he could follow the footsteps that move around the condo. He tried to discern where Stiles was pausing, and what might be taking his interest as he toured the living room. Peter was proud of his decor. He’d taken years to get the ratio of modern to historic he liked. Old books. New art. Modern glass work. Ancient artifacts. He enjoyed that he enjoyed his space, his den, his curated reflection of his interests and-
Smash.
Peter was on his feet, jerking his office door and stalking down the hall. He found Stiles kneeling on the ground, one hand fluttering over a considerable shattering of colourful glass.
“Fuck, fuck,” Stiles was chanting as he attempted to pick up a larger piece but didn’t seem to know what to do with it anyway.
“Leave it.”
Stiles jumped out of his skin and jarred his sewn-together shoulder so hard that he yelped. A breathy whine through bared teeth made Peter’s weight shift to the balls of his feet. The salvaged chunk of glass fell from his fingers to shatter further.
“I’m sorry,” Stiles breathed in a huff and repeated it, and repeated it as Peter got closer to him. His heartbeat was so fast. His scent was metallic and terrible.
Peter looked at the mess; noticed that Stiles was kneeling in the middle of it. “Enough,” he told him, bending to grab the distressed puddle of smells around the middle and lift him out of the mess. It took just two steps to put his alarmingly rigid frame down on the sofa.
“Accidents happen.”
If any other Hale were there, they would choke on their tongue to hear him say it. He was in the habit of following very natural consequences in life. When Derek had scratched the paint on his Shelby at sixteen, he spent the entire summer mulching gardens to pay for the paint job. When Cora had accidentally disenchanted a set of crystals - she’d had to collect each bizarre ingredient herself to provide to the witch who’d re-enchanted them. And in his career as the Left Hand, he’d applied the same principle just to the… extreme.
But there was just something too… Peter swallowed, looking at the omega on his couch. Pathetic. That was it. Something too pathetic to demand compensation.
“You’ve popped a stitch,” Peter said, conversational as he walked to the closet to get the broom. He tidied the glass up and allowed Stiles the time and space to get his heartbeat back to the range of healthy.
“Can feel that,” Stiles said but it wasn’t as sarcastic as he probably wanted it to be.
They were both quiet until all of the glass was in the bin and Peter was washing his hands in the kitchen. Stiles’ gaze followed him every step.
“I am sorry,” Stiles said, leaning slowly back into the sofa.
Peter shrugged, looked at the shelf the glass moon had been sitting on, then huffed out through his nose again. “Well, if you weren’t sorry you’d be a terrible house guest.”
Stiles snorted, rubbed his hand at his face and then it fluttered over his hurting shoulder.
Now familiar with Stiles’ analgesic routine, which had seemed rather paltry in Peter’s opinion, he knew there wasn’t anything left for breakthrough pain. He’d taken the dose for the car ride.
The sofa made a crispy creaking noise as Peter took a seat next to Stiles. “I’m going to touch you.”
“What?” Stiles squawked, knee lurching up to cross and cover both his groin and belly.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Peter rolled his eyes then reached out to slip his hand up the edge of Stiles’ sleeve to hold his wrist. The pain he drew away was sharp and sticky. It lasted for several minutes until Stiles had relaxed completely. His eyes closed, his long neck exposed with his head back against the top edge of the sofa. His breathing was slow and even.
When Peter drew away he didn’t stop looking at the delicate pattern of beauty marks on Stiles’ jaw and throat - like a constellation he couldn’t remember.
“Is there a plastic furniture protector under this couch cover?” Stiles asked, eyes still closed, only his lips moving.
“Yes.”
Stiles’ chest jolted with his blurted-out chuckling.
—
Stiles didn’t remember falling asleep but he woke up propped into the corner of the sofa with his head arranged on a throw pillow. The room smelled like cooked garlic. He was sniffing, something he’d made an effort not to do, before he could stop himself.
Peter’s pheromones were everywhere. His scent. The smell of his home. And garlic.
“Dinner?” Stiles asked, inarticulate as he woke up his brain beyond his more basic senses. His mouth was sandy and dry from hanging open, he licked his tongue roughly to the roof of his mouth a few times.
The floorplan of the apartment was nice, Stiles didn’t have to move to see the front door or the kitchen though the space was far from small. It was the sort of large that made you forget it wasn’t a house. Stiles sat forward over his knees and looked toward Peter. The wolf was wearing an apron and an expression that was flat and sarcastic. The silent duh was clear in the pinch to his nose.
Labouring to his feet he shuffled toward Peter to find that he didn’t really know what to do in someone else’s space. He came hesitantly close enough to peer into glass-front cabinets until he found drinking glasses. Stiles pretended Peter wasn’t staring at him like he was a toddler as he one-handedly got down a glass and filled it from the spout on the refrigerator. But he did tighten his grip a little.
Breaking the blown glass moon had reminded him of being a little kid visiting his aunt’s house. A combination of too curious and too clumsy and too small to process adult anger.
Stiles rubbed his cheek against the cool glass before he drank it all in a short tip of the cup. Only realizing he was thirsty when he got the first sip down.
“Pot roast, veg and mashed potatoes,” Peter supplied. His words were startling even though Stiles could feel himself staring at his direction.
“Great,” Stiles nodded.
“After dinner, home care will be here to dress your shoulder and get you ready for bed.” Peter stirred at something on the stove. His expression was unreadable, but his posture was loose; his hips resting forward on the handle of the oven.
“Great.” Another stranger in his space. Another stranger prodding his wounds. Another stranger helping him wash and dress like it wasn’t all humiliating.
“Is your father working?” Peter asked, turned back toward the gravy that Stiles could see was bubbling now that he actually took stock of the cooking happening around him.
“Yeah. He’s… everyone’s doing a lot of doubles since,” Stiles gestured at his shoulder. His lower lip felt numb. His fingers were cold.
Peter hummed, and rumbled, his scent a little stronger. The wolfish noise was enough to be jarring; distracting. Stiles stared at Peter’s throat and wondered why it sounded so natural from him. An extension of his voice. The wolf that bit him had growled, it was wet, threatening, terrifying - he’d felt it rattle through him.
“Stiles,” Peter waved a hand in front of his face, then snapped a hand towel so it connected with his belly. “Stiles.”
“Sorry” Stiles blinked, refocusing, gaze shifting between Peter’s eyes before he refilled his water cup with an extension of his arm. “What?”
“Wash up for dinner,” Peter said it like he was repeating himself. “No grubby little humans at the table.”
Stiles balked at that and then set his glass down on the counter with care. “I am not grubby, or little, and the human thing is officially questionable.”
Peter sniffed at him and then raised a brow.
The process of washing for dinner was as difficult as Stiles expected it to be. He had to use his hand, protruding from his sling, to yank the sleeve of his plaid up his forearm and then he attemptted lathering one-handed. Futilely rubbing his fingers together while the kitchen faucet ran. When he had done the best he could he let the water run over his palm much longer than usual. It was warm.
By the time he was done, Peter was pulling the roast from the oven and serving out two plates of food. Stiles was quietly grateful he didn’t have to ask him to.
They sat at a small round table with high-backed dining chairs around it. The plates were centred in the middle of pretty golden placemats. There was an empty vase between them. Peter ate with his gaze on his food, a knife in one hand, fork in the other, slicing bits of roast off to eat. Stiles looked down at his uncut hunk of meat.
“Uh,” Stiles said, using the fork to scoop the mashed potatoes.
“Something not to your liking? Peter asked in a saccharine tone that said it better not be.
Stiles glared at him and took another bite of annoyingly perfect potato. Fluffy. Buttery. Seasoned with roasted garlic. He took his time swallowing because Peter was staring at him, waiting on a response.
“Can you cut this?” Stiles finally asked. He lifted his plate and pushed it across the table.
Peter blinked, his mouth soured, and then he looked at the knife in his hand.
“I don’t have cooties, and I haven’t even touched the roast yet.” Stiles huffed.
“Quite rude, for an invalid,” Peter commented. Still hesitating with his knife over the lump of roast on Stiles’ plate. “Not even a please. Can’t cut your own meat and you-”
Stiles reached over, grabbed his plate back with a yank and then picked up his lump of roast with his bare hand. Biting into it and pulling off a bite with his teeth. He chewed with a grudge. The food was good, so so much better than the bland hospital crap too - but he hated this. Hated the vulnerability. The dependence.
The knife was set down with a precise click against Peter’s plate as he squinted across the table, head shaking so slightly Stiles didn’t think he meant to. His disgust was satisfying.
Neither side of the table said anything else. They ate with uncomfortable silence and the scrape of cutlery, the constant grating sounds of chewing. Stiles’ leg shook under the table, unable to stop it even as it put a painful rattle through his whole sore body.
By the end of the meal, Stiles sort of regretted his actions because there was beef under his nails that he wouldn’t be able to wash away by himself. It was a nasty reminder of his state of existence.
At least, his dad came by just as they were finished eating. Peter told him who was knocking on the door with his head slightly cocked and permitted him to answer it as he went to deal with the dinner dishes.
John showed up with a pillow tucked under his arm and a stern expression on his face. “How are you settling in?” He asked his son as he handed over his pillow and smiled when Stiles immediately took it.
“Fine,” Stiles said as he mushed his face down into the pillow he clutched to his chest. He inhaled and then paused, head coming up with a frown.
John grimaced a little, standing awkwardly in Peter’s front hall. “Sorry, kiddo, I had to wash it with that unscented crap or they said I couldn’t bring it over.”
Stiles shook his head, forcing his mouth into a smile; he shouldn’t have expected anything else. “Doesn’t matter. Thanks, dad. How was your shift? You should be getting some sleep.” He didn’t ask how the investigation was going, knew if there was anything to say about it, his dad would.
“We’re working on a few angles. Got a witness coming in tomorrow, a hiker,” John said. “Hale,” his tone and posture shifted as he looked from his son to where Peter appeared like a shadow in a cardigan.
“You need bells,” Stiles complained, twitching so his back wasn’t to Peter and he stood a little closer to his dad.
“Your spatial awareness is just terrible,” Peter said back, voice soft and easy before he nodded at the Sheriff. “Do you want to come in for coffee?”
“I shouldn’t, have to get back,” John answered, tucking his lips in a regretful frown before he clipped a nod. “You need anything, kiddo?”
Stiles shook his head. Wished he could go home. Wished his pillow smelled like vanilla - the fabric softener his mom had used - the one thing they had both quietly agreed to never change in the Stilinski house.
“Alright,” his dad didn’t look sure of himself but he came to give his son a light hug, kissed his forehead, his hair, and squeezed his bicep. “You call if you need anything.”
After his dad had gone again, Stiles went to his room. Busied himself by putting his pillow on the bed. Sorting out his clothes for the third time. Scrolling through his phone. Everything felt like a hollow effort to bide time, his brain and body set to waiting… for homecare… for the shift… for the black ooze.
—
“Unavailable,” Peter repeated into his phone. His voice was on the edge of criminally liable. “This is the first visit and you’re unavailable.”
“Mr. Hale, our services are very stretched right now. That is why we require all patients to have a backup listed because we cannot guarantee an aide will be available every visit - never mind a nurse. Our nurses' schedules are-”
“Stiles is on the nurses' schedule.”
“We can’t control sick days, Mr. Hale. Your provider will be out in the morning and if you have trouble or are concerned with his medical needs he can return to the Bitten Trauma Ward at the hospital at-”
Peter hung up.
He scrubbed into his hair with frustration and slapped his phone down against the sofa cushion beside him. It made much more noise than he expected - the plastic under the cover was rigid against the screen. “Fuck,” he decided, succinct and wishing very specifically for a large glass of the spiked Whiskey Chris Argent had at his Christmas party last year.
“Everything… okay?” Stiles peered around the edge of the hall. His eyes were wide and his mouth was pinched narrow - he looked fragile and worried.
“Home care cancelled,” Peter informed, sitting forward, elbow on one knee, face in his hand as he looked at the omega.
Stiles stared at him. Stared and stared. Whatever light that was still fighting in his eyes faded out as Peter watched.
“Oh,” he said, accepting.
Peter hated it. He barely knew the boy and he knew that this wasn’t an acceptable look on him. He slapped his thigh and stood up. “Nothing for it,” he said, stepping around the coffee table. “We’re grown men. We can figure this out.”
“You.” Stiles’ head reared back and he squinted. His lip twitched up at the corner. The echo of the way omegas flashed their canines. An almost endearing vestigial trait. “You’re going to help me with… all of that.”
“Nothing I haven’t seen before,” Peter told him. Voice intentionally breezy before he was almost beside him, he looked over, gave him a once over and snorted. “Nothing.”
“Hey,” Stiles blustered, cheeks pink, but his shoulders looked less tight. He deliberated, looked at his hand, and grimaced. “Fine.”
Peter led him back to the guest bedroom. The first thing he noticed was the soft, fluffy fox weighing down the pillows. The fact that Stiles had accepted, kept, and was using his gift made something unfamiliar preen at the back of his mind. But he remained impassive as Stiles picked out his PJs - a baggy shirt and flannels. He let Stiles lead to the bathroom with his toiletries bag clutched close.
They started at the sink. He helped Stiles put toothpaste on the brush, wet it, and then stood examining his own nails while Stiles brushed his teeth. It became repetitive really. Clinical. He handed Stiles a cup of water. Handed him a floss stick. Handed him some mouthwash - which Stiles looked at like he had never used it before.
“So… Uhm,” Stiles’ gaze turned toward the shower stall then it settled back to Peter. Not quite making it all the way to his eyes, loitering around his jaw instead. His face was red. He smelled like humiliation, hot and humid, trapped in the room.
Peter pushed the button to turn on the bathroom fan and then rolled his eyes. “One thing at a time,” he prompted. They carefully got him out of the sling and then out of his shirt. Peter stared at the dressing on his shoulder carefully, inspected it from every angle then grabbed his phone to pull up the instruction sheet that had been sent to home care.
The medical supplies were already in a basket on the counter so it was easy. Sort of. He maneuvered Stiles’ body. Undressed the wounds, cleaned it, and covered them again. All the while refusing to acknowledge that Stiles’ gaze was glossy but blank. His heartbeat was slow and strange. He didn’t respond when Peter asked him if it hurts, if it was too tight, if the tape was itchy. He just stared. There was no way he was going to attempt to bathe the rest of him like this.
“There we go sweetheart,” Peter mumbled once he was slipping the shirt Stiles chose on over his head. He manipulated his arms into it then he cupped under his chin. The scent of him was so thoroughly ingrained into his hands now it didn’t matter if he touched casually. He stroked a thumb against his jaw, along his cheekbone. “Sweetheart.”
Stiles blinked, brow scrunching a little.
“Sweetheart, we’re done,” Peter told him as he let go. He turned, wet a black cloth from the basket with the coldest water the tap could manage and then he rang it out to push against Stiles’ face.
The first touch, the temperature must have startled him because he made a little sucking sound. His head lurched and his eyes finally tracked to Peter.
“Breathe,” Peter told him, smooth and stern. “You’re safe.”
Stiles nodded, but he didn’t look well, he sniffled.
“Use the bathroom, call me when you need me again,” Peter told him, slowly, then he exited and closed the door.
Peter cursed every deity he could think of and then his sister. This was not his role. This was not what his hands were meant for, trained for, or practiced at. He hated feeling so clumsy, so ineffective. And he loathed the dead-eyed look on Stiles’ face, the way his scent went so bitter with something entirely unplaceable.
He was texting his sister some choice insults when Stiles called for him.
Letting himself back in, Stiles had returned to blushing, he was standing at the sink, staring at his hand under the water.
“I can’t wash them, it, properly.”
Peter came over to the sink, shoulder to shoulder, and then lathered his own hands before he grabbed Stiles’. He scrubbed between each finger, around his thumb, up his wrist. Grabbed the nail brush by the soap to clear his rebellious dinner choices away. And so close, massaging a slender hand in his, Peter didn’t really breathe.
“Thanks,” Stiles said when he was rinsed and dried. He was red to the collar and looking at the tiles on the floor.
“I’ll see about finding a more private home care service,” Peter offered to staunch the embarrassment. Stiles’ embarrassment. He felt like there were coals in his belly.
Stiles pursed his lips then huffed through his nose.
Peter followed Stiles out of the bathroom, saw him back to the bedroom, and took his pain silently when he caught him by the hand in the doorway. “Goodnight, Stiles.”
“Good-” There was a wet click in Stiles’ throat. “Goodnight, Peter.”
Notes:
TW: Dissociation.
Also, yes. Yes. Peter did put plastic on his furniture like someone's grandma in the 80s.
Chapter Text
After a little more than a week of living with Peter he had a new routine. Therapy, which wasn’t helping the nightmares but was helping with the spiralling dread. Physiotherapy to keep his shoulder from healing wrong when the wolf took, and speech therapy to practice how to flex his tongue and move his mouth so the fangs wouldn’t cut him.
A whole team was setting him up for a shift that he was less sure of every day it didn’t happen.
“This is looking better,” The nurse Peter had secured told him as he smoothed the last of the medical tape into place.
Stiles smiled, sort of, he felt his face trying to contort out of his grimacing. The nurse was a nice beta named Corbin, he had warm hands, and a great bedside manner, and he’d been there six days in a row. Stiles tried not to think about how much it must cost Peter to secure that kind of consistency. He’d muttered something about WOOF funding and insurance before dismissing any further conversation about it.
“And we’re all done, champ. You want some help getting your shirt on?” Corbin asked as he was sanitizing his hands, the alcohol a sharp burn in the air even to his still human sinuses.
“No, all good, and thanks” Stiles assured as he held his arm close to his body.
It was weird, it only took a week in the sling to feel like he would somehow fall apart without it. His shoulder was burning, the freshly dressed wounds and stitches like fiery ants crawling down his back.
“Okay. Have a good rest of your day, huh? Do something fun. I’ll be back tomorrow, you’re still on my schedule.” Corbin gave him a friendly smile, he had dimples when he did, and it made him look younger than the grey at his temple.
“Thanks,” Stiles smiled better. He nodded with a small wave of his good hand as Corbin took his exit. As much as he liked him, he still took a gusty breath when he heard the front door open and close.
He couldn’t explain why, not fully, but sitting through having his shoulder tended was about all he could stomach as far as strange hands on him now. He’d cried the first time someone had come to help him bathe and get clothes on in the morning. He’d locked himself in his borrowed room and hid in the closet like a totally mature adult that just couldn’t breathe right.
Peter had found him, had taken his pain, and it was somehow not so bad letting him help get his pants on. Then Peter had cancelled homecare entirely and hired Corbin to do the medical necessities. It was weirdly easier to have Peter touching him than any of the professionals he saw in a day. Peter was a giant asshole but bizarrely unthreatening. Stiles guessed it was because his scent was everywhere and he couldn’t take a breath without getting a hit of the Alpha.
He was just desensitized.
“Stiles, we have fifteen minutes until we need to leave,” Peter came in, eyes down on his phone as he approached the side of the bed. “If you want to stop for coffee on the way.”
“If?” Stiles raised a brow while he held out his selected shirt to Peter. The wolf had been in already to help him wash the nightmare sweat off his back with a no-rinse disposable shower wipe (another of Peter’s shockingly thoughtful provisions), tie the drawstring on his joggers, and get his socks on.
Peter set his phone into the back pocket of his very well-fitted jeans. “I have a perfectly good machine here.”
“Every day could be my very last, Peter.” He grunted as he slowly navigated his bad arm into the armhole of his shirt, like threading a needle but he was drunk and the thread was made of pain. “I’m drinking all of the specialty lattes I want.”
Peter sighed through his nose. “Well, I won’t discourage a little hedonism.”
Stiles’ snorted. He was pretty sure that was the last thing the alpha would ever discourage. His entire lifestyle, from his cashmere clothing to his sports car, dripped with an almost masturbatory amount of self-indulgence.
Peter gently stretched the loose tee over and up so Stiles could wriggle his good arm in and then pop his head through as well; his hair a fluffy mess from the built-up static in the cotton. “Fifteen minutes,” Peter repeated. His hand was warm where it travelled up to the crown of his head, patting his hair back into place before he made that wrinkled-up face of disapproval that seemed to get directed at anything he found aesthetically hopeless.
“Gotcha, is Derek picking me up after the session again?” Stiles asked, he smoothed the shirt down and then began the process of wrangling the sling into place too. He was a little sweaty again by the time Peter velcroed the last strap.
“Yes. He’ll keep you for a couple of hours while I do some shopping,” Peter was frowning at him as he fished his phone out and turned his attention back down to it. His palm drifted from the final velcro clasp to the back of Stiles’ neck.
It was part of the routine, Stiles anticipated it, but every time it made his spine tingle before his pain began to fade. The throbbing behind his eyes, the deep ache in his shoulder, the fading bruises on his back. It all just floated away, slithered up with those creepy black lines. Peter wouldn’t tell him if it hurt but he never acted like it bothered him.
“Stiles,” Peter looked at him, both brows up, his phone in hand and waving at his face slightly, “do you want anything from the store?”
“Oh,” Stiles sucked in a breath. Gaze refocusing from where he’d drifted off staring at the clean white paint of the wall. “Yeah, raspberry Poptarts, Doritos, cheese crackers? Peanutbutter- the good normal kind that isn’t just oil. Uh, cranberry juice-”
“Text me,” Peter interrupted, his gaze lingered, left brow slightly angled down. His lips pursed and then settled into a small smile.
“Sure,” Stiles swallowed, he pulled away when the last of his pain was gone. His good hand came up to rub where Peter’s palm fell away from. He squeezed his own nape hard as he moved to grab his phone and get ready to leave.
It felt like being scented, marked, accepted - and it made him nervous that his instincts had progressed from spite and irritation to wanting to rub all over Peter in grateful return. Mark him up. Smear his omega scent all over his big dumb handsome face, and thick handsome neck, and burly handsome biceps and -
“Stiles!” Peter called, exasperated, staring at him in the hallway with his jacket on, “five minutes. If we could focus, Major Tom.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles wrinkled his nose at him and went to put his shoes on. Dr. Kimble, his freshly prescribed therapist, was waiting for him. “We should listen to Bowie on the drive.”
Peter rolled his eyes, an expression that seemed to be getting less genuine and more… fond.
Huh.
—
Peter sat in the Stilinski home’s kitchen yawning into his wrist as the sound of the old rattling dryer lulled him. The perfume of the vanilla-scented dryer sheets was hot and venting in the air - sinus-polluting and sneeze-inducing. He had debated buying the sheets and using them in his own machine but after taking a sniff of them in the grocery store he’d abruptly decided that wasn’t an option. Even having the box in the laundry closet would be a constant irritation to his senses.
So he’d called the Sheriff, located their spare key, and dragged over all of Stiles’ laundry, bedding, clothing, and towels, while Derek cub-sat.
He had a few loads to wait through but it would be worth it if he never had to watch Stiles instinctually turn his nose toward his sweater or his pillow or his blanket only to frown like something wasn’t right. A constant reminder of how disappointed he’d been when his father had shown up with his unscented pillow.
Peter was tired of the mopey sadness, it was annoying, and it irked him.
He swayed his cold mug of coffee between his hands. The ceramic slid a few inches back and forth over the scratched-up wooden table. Doing other people’s laundry wasn’t exactly new to him; he’d been put to pack chores just like everyone else growing up, but this felt different.
Doing someone else’s laundry and none of his own was pure service, served himself very little, and Stiles likely could have attempted it himself. Likely could have tossed things in the top loading washer before he attempted to fish them back out wet and heavy. One-handed, off balance, and struggling.
Peter knew the irritating omega would just feel worse needing to ask for help - it was better to just take care of things. Only because the mopey space cadet behaviour was… annoying.
At least, The Stilinski kitchen was interesting. It was homey, very lived in. There were old photos of camping trips, Stiles’ school pictures, a grocery list, and some important receipts pinned to an old white refrigerator by kitschy tourist trap magnets. The magnets were all sun faded from where the burnt curtains were opened to let in the sun from a North facing window. It seemed as if nothing new had been added to the collection in years.
Peter guessed that Stiles’ mother had been the one to spearhead the adventure in the Stilinski family. And her passing must have meant an end to the addition of magnets to the collection.
Stiles had mentioned her twice since he’d moved in. Once when he’d brought him a cup of chamomile tea after a particularly nasty night terror that had woken them both. Because apparently, he bought the same brand Stiles’ mother had - steeped it the same way, added honey just like she did. Stiles had cradled the tea in his spindly fingers, using his chest to support the bottom of the mug with his upturned nose resting at the rim of the ceramic.
She came up again when they passed by the cemetery on the way home from after-physio ice cream. Stiles had watched the cold iron fence with his nose nearly on the window glass. His breath had fogged up the pane so much, Peter wasn’t sure he was even really seeing anything. Claudia had a corner plot on the little hill on the West side, under a willow tree, because she really liked willow trees.
Peter stood up abruptly. Rubbing his palm across his face as he turned away from memories that weren’t even his own to grieve. He busied himself with folding Stiles’ clothing back into the hamper he’d brought with him. The vanilla chemical scent wasn’t as terrible when it was diluted through the dryer.
His phone rang and he paused his debate about just throwing out an ugly pair of holey batman underwear to answer it.
“Peter,” Talia started, her voice was muffled and buzzy - speakerphone then. There was the hum of tires on cement in the background. “I’m on my way to the office. How is the volunteering going?”
“Well, no one’s dead,” Peter rolled his eyes. He shifted his phone to pinch between his shoulder and ear and picked up the shorts again so he could fold them. “Was that all? I’m very busy.”
“I want to meet them, this bite survivor. No signs of a change yet? It would be unfortunate if they expired,” Talia’s voice was detached. It grated Peter’s nerves in a way it shouldn’t. He knew it shouldn’t. Two weeks ago he also couldn’t have given less of a shit about some unfortunate human.
“His odds would be better if we found the Pack Alpha that bit him. He’s only gotten one dose of anti-rejection.” Peter said, trying not to let her hear how his teeth ground.
Talia sighed, a car honked, “Peter, tracking illegal Werewolf activity isn’t our business anymore.”
“It happened on our territory,” Peter took his phone in hand again, a curdling shock in his gut. “It is exclusively your business, Alpha. If you don’t deal with this we’ll have every bit of riff-raff slithering into Hale land.”
“Dramatic.” Talia’s car came to a stop, the noise changed, her voice clear. “It was an unfortunate incident, of course, but it doesn’t seem like this Alpha stayed on our territory. The police haven’t found any sign of them yet.”
“The Sheriff’s department isn’t equipp-”
“Peter, this isn’t what we do anymore, it isn’t what we have to do anymore. Our territory is more secure with my political backing than it ever has been.” Talia was using her politician tone - she’d been practicing it with him for years before her career had launched. “You’re not hunting.”
“It’s our right. It used to be my entire purpose,” Peter argued, his eyes were bright and his claws ached in his fingertips. He looked down and made a face at the fresh holes he’d put through Batman’s utility belt.
Talia sighed again. A car door opened. Her heels clicked as she walked. “I’m saying no, Peter. You’re retired, it’s time to find a new purpose. And this volunteering is going well, isn't it?”
Peter felt his very existence roiling with frustration because he wouldn’t have to be volunteering if he hadn’t retired in the first place. No one would have dared cross into his land, their land, and do something so heinous. Not after the last time - with that McCrawl kid.
“What about Stiles?” Peter asked.
Talia made a noise, a distracted hum, “What about style? Honestly, Peter, I can’t keep up with you. You can find a new one - the threatening Left-hand persona is outdated any-”
“Stiles, Talia. Stiles the bitten-” Peter interrupted.
“Oh,” she cut him off too. “Well, we’re all hoping for the best.”
“Hoping for the best.”
“Yes, exactly. I have to go. I’ll stop by later and meet them anyway. Just in case, it would be good to know who may be coming into the pack,” Talia’s voice shuffled, going muted and returning, “I’ll see you later then.”
The call dropped.
Peter growled. Then he realized he was standing alone in a house that wasn’t even his growling at a pile of laundry and the rumbling stopped. He folded the rest of the load and then sent a few inquiring emails to the Lefts of the nearest packs to them - Talia hadn’t forbidden that much.
—
Stiles woke up smushed to the window of Derek’s Camaro. His appointment had been exhausting, and the car rumbled so nicely that it was inevitable. Just, also embarrassing. “Whe’re we’ Der?”
“What?” Derek’s brows pinched down as he looked over at him. His gaze was less grumpy than his first impression aimed for. Not that Derek actually was grumpy, he just had that kind of face. Stiles suspected it was because he hated talking to strangers and it was a great way to convince them not to approach.
“Uh,” Stiles yawned, rubbing his temple, it was sore from leaning on the glass. “Are we almost back to Peter’s?”
There was silence in response so Stiles sat up a little better and looked out the windows. They were on the highway, trees were whipping by. He looked at Derek and caught the clock on the console. His appointment had ended hours ago. “Dude, did you drive me around like… like a baby?”
“Seemed like you needed the sleep,” Derek answered. His mouth started to twitch at the corners.
Stiles huffed at him but it turned into a yawn, which didn’t actually make the dispute he wanted to.
“I’ll head back, Peter’s done doing whatever he was doing,” Derek told him, he slowed the car to the shoulder of the empty highway and began a loose four-point turn back toward town.
“Grocery shopping?” Stiles remembered with a squint before he yawned again. “Dude you didn’t have to-”
“Don’t mention it,” Derek cut him off, gruff but soft.
“Why does that sound like a threat, big guy?” Stiles grinned at him, shifting his weight in his seat. His ass felt half asleep. He picked up the water bottle from the cupholder, using his teeth to pull the squeeze top into squirt mode. “Thanks.”
“Are you comfortable at Peter’s?” Derek asked after a few more blurry trees went by.
Stiles looked over, cheeks hollow as he sucked water up and made the plastic crinkle. He swallowed, the bottle refilled with air with another noisy crackling. “The guest bed is pretty sweet, even if it is plastic wrapped.”
“Plastic…?” Derek’s brows did another emotive arch.
“On everything. And, based on your reaction, I’m going to confirm that it is special just for me. Are you all that sensitive about scents?” Stiles chewed the bottle top.
“Sort of, but Peter’s,” Derek shrugged a little, side-eyed him, “Peter.”
“Yeah. I’m starting to get that, I think. I mean it’s a little offensive, what did he think would happen? I’d take one look at him and just drip all over his-”
“Alright,” Derek made a face, reaching forward to turn the radio on. HIs cheeks were pink underneath his beard.
Stiles laughed. It felt good; loosened his chest enough that he felt like he was really breathing and not just getting air. He leaned into the leather hugging his spine. “I mean you didn’t put a puppy pad down on this seat, and I know this is your baby.”
“I didn’t?” Derek asked, an inflection of concern in his tone, he looked over and down before his gaze came up. The expression melted into amusement before his eyes were even back on the road.
“Shut up,” Stiles snorted. Shaking his head a little and smiling.
Derek smirked, it lifted the side of his face that Stiles could examine from the passenger seat. He’d only met three Hales since his bite. Peter, Derek and Cora for a brief few minutes when Peter had been running late to pick him up from physio on Wednesday. They all had striking looks. Stiles guessed the whole family could model if they wanted to. Even Talia, when she was on the local news, had those dark distinct beautiful features.
“Do you think the bite will take?” Stiles asked after he watched the ‘Welcome to Beacon Hills’ sign pass by.
“Rejection isn’t that common,” Derek supplied after a long drawn out moment that seemed like enough of an answer. “You’re friends with Scott McCall, aren’t you? He got the shift.”
“Yeah,” Stiles looked down at his lap, at his hands, and tried to imagine claws. “My mom rejected.”
“Oh,” Derek exhaled.
“Yeah,” Stiles squeezed his fingers into a tight fist. He felt each fingernail dig in until it sort of burned and then his fingers released, and stretched out the other way. He turned his gaze back up so he could watch out the window.
“We’re still looking for the wolf that bit you,” Derek said. “We’re going to keep looking. Your dad’s got all of us on it. I’m taking the dogs out again tonight.”
Stiles’ mouth turned up a bit. It was weird imagining Derek in a tucked-in deputy’s uniform now that he’d seen him in an ACDC t-shirt and jeans - and that was weird - because before all of this, he’d only known him as the quiet angry looking guy Dad had hired last year. The one with suspicious charges wiped off his record. And the reason no one brought in tuna salad sandwiches anymore.
And now he was Derek Hale - potential future packmate.
“It’ll be okay,” Derek said while knuckles reached over the console and bumped his leg. “My mom’s gonna fix this. It’ll be okay.”
Stiles nodded, for Derek, and drank more water to keep from asking why he’d never even met his potential future pack alpha then.
The trip back into town was quiet, Derek’s Camaro was a nice ride, smooth, with just enough grumble to sound sporty. And a steady suspension that made his Jeep seem like a pair of Moonboots on wheels. He almost dozed off again by the time they’d pulled into a visitor spot in Peter’s apartment complex. Residents got underground parking, protection from the tree sap in the spring, heat in the summer, leaves in the fall, and the occasional snow day in the deep of January. It would be hard to picture Peter’s Shelby parked anywhere else, actually.
“Hey, thanks again,” Stiles said as he wrestled himself out of the low-riding vehicle. Struggling with untangling the seatbelt from his sling and getting both feet onto the sidewalk without hitting his head on the roof.
Derek came around, grabbed his hand and pulled him up to his feet properly. “Sure,” he grunted, which was as good as a hug when it was paired with a light squeeze around his fingers. “I’m supposed to walk you up.”
“Yeah, yeah, can’t explode on the sidewalk,” Stiles got his hand back and smirked at the flat look he got back. Those eyebrows could write full reviews on yelp. He snorted and led the way back up to Peter’s unit. He had a key, Peter gave it to him, it was a generic spare with a tag that had the number three engraved into it - which implied some other person currently had a key to the apartment. Copy two. Which seemed… weird.
He twisted the key in the lock and opened the door.
“See ya,” Derek said from behind him.
Stiles huffed as the back of his head was gently shoved forward until he stumbled officially over the threshold. He turned around to glare at Derek but all he got was a view of leather-clad shoulders headed for the staircase. Derek took the whole transfer of supervision thing seriously… or sarcastically at least.
“You took your time,” Peter said by way of greeting. He was sitting across the sofa with his feet up on the cushion and his low back supported on the armrest. He had a tablet in his hands. “Your laundry is done. I remade the bed, but your clothing is still in a hamper. I put it in your room.”
“You did my laundry?” Stiles stilled, the door swinging shut with a click behind him. Peter did his laundry. “I could have done my own laundry.”
“I took it to your father’s,” Peter said, his hand flapping dismissively and then returning to the side of his tablet. He had a wrinkle between his brows as he looked at it.
Stiles took his shoes off, stepping out of the heels with his hand braced on the wall of the front entry. “Uh, don’t you have in-suite laundry? I could swear I’ve seen you do laundry.”
“I do,” Peter agreed. He didn’t look up.
“Alright,” Stiles drawled. “So why did you cart it across town to my dad’s?”
“I didn’t want the scen-”
“You didn’t want my scent in your machines,” Stiles cut him off. His face went hot, his cheeks flushing with irritation and embarrassment. A muscle in his jaw ticked as he clenched his teeth. “Seriously? I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.” He turned at the end of the entry closet to head toward his room, shaking his head faintly, his bad arm tucked closer than his sling suspended it.
Of course, of course, Peter couldn’t even handle a little omega stink in his washing machine. Just when Stiles had thought they were getting to some kind of… something.
Stiles shoved into his room, the door rebounding off of the wall stopper with a rattle before he kicked it shut with slightly less enthusiasm and a wince. He trudged to sit on the bed, slowly curling his belly and bracing back to lay down with his feet still on the floor so he could stare at the spackle on the textured ceiling. With the lights off, the room was a bluish grey from the indirect sun the window got.
Laying there, he could feel the bruises on his back, fading but present and sensitive from the hours sitting around. His shoulder slowly relaxed into the mattress, a weird tightness forming under his collarbone that made him want to take the sling off and stretch. He groaned instead, a low complaining noise followed by a huff through the nose that emptied the rest of his breath so he could take a deep one like his therapist made him practice.
Except it smelled like vanilla.
Stiles twisted his head and sniffed the folded-down edge of his sheet. Then he twisted further, to grab his pillow from where it was neatly stacked on top of the one Peter had for the guestroom. He shoved it over his face and there it was. Vanilla. Standing up he grabbed his sweater from where it was folded neatly on the top of the hamper. He raised it, the sleeve untucking and dangling down as he took a deep inhale of the fabric. It all smelled like vanilla.
Damn.
He walked to the door, pulled it open and leaned his forehead on the door frame. “You washed it at my place because of the dryer sheets.”
There was enough pause for an inhale. “Yes,” Peter responded from the sofa.
“Yeah,” Stiles flexed his jaw to the side and winced, his voice trailing a little. “So…”
“Dinner is in an hour.”
Stiles sighed gratefully. The squirm of embarrassment settled a little bit. He stood there, nose still wrinkled as he closed his eyes and rolled his forehead against the hard edge of the door frame. “Thank you, it’s… I mean it was really nice of you to-”
“Save me the omega sentimentality.” Peter’s voice was dragging and patronizing.
“Oh fuck off,” Stiles closed the door with a slightly louder than necessary thunk. He stared at it, and then his expression softened until he was smiling.
Notes:
Bless all y'all who didn't question that the tense completely shifted last chapter OOPS Y'all. In future I am open to that kind of feed back. I've done some edits, fixed that now. Hope you like this one. I know there's not a lot of Peter and Stiles interaction but trust me that is on its way.
Chapter Text
Waiting for Talia to drop in was almost worse than being caught by one of her surprise visits.
Peter disliked waiting in general, but waiting for his sister specifically made him feel like he was slowly coming to a boil. His irritation was hotter and less sure, less focused, with every passing hour.
When he was young, he was certain she did it just to punish him.
Talia would leave him in her office after some new whisper of a problem in the territory and let him come to terms with his unquestioned loyalty again and again. Peter could remember the tension of nerves fraying under his skin while he sat there watching a clock. He didn’t allow that to last beyond twenty-one when he settled into a disconnected comfort in violence and legal alcohol.
He drank his first tap beer in the town’s dingy pub after disembowelling an unsanctioned hunter with a taste for wolves. He’d felt so grown up.
Looking across his dining table, with a meal he’d prepared, and a damaged guest across from him, he wondered if Stiles felt the same way. There was something aging about experiencing unavoidable violence; something that made time as meaningless as the expiration date on milk left out in the summer.
By the halfway point of dinner, Peter had glanced at the door so often Stiles was giving him strange looks with a speculative line on his increasingly furrowed brows.
“Why do you look like that? Sort of constipated? And nervous?” Stiles dunked half a dinner roll into the butter smeared on a small plate for him.
Peter glared across the table, then pursed his lips with an eye roll. “I’m neither, thank you. Eat your dinner.”
Stiles lifted his bread and took a demonstrative bite with raised brows. He, at least, had the decency to swallow before he continued to prod. “So, what’s up? Waiting for a package? Have you developed a tick?” He picked up his spoon and poked around his bowl for a chunk of potato out of the stew.
“No,” Peter turned his gaze down to his own food. “And impossible.”
“Really?” Stiles mulled on that for a blessed minute. “Okay, so- is there a ghost in your front closet? Did someone steal your third car and now you’re waiting for a ransom demand? Oh, is the neighbour out there and-“
“My sister said she would drop in,” Peter finally admitted as he pressed a thumb into the corner of his eye and huffed.
There was rustling across the table. Stiles fidgeted, his mouth opening and closing a few times before he looked down into his bowl and began to stir. “Your sister. That would be Talia Hale? Mayor Hale and Alpha of the Hale Pack - Beacon Hills Territorial.”
“Yes,” Peter agreed, gaze narrowing a little because suddenly Stiles seemed as agitated as he felt. His cheek was bitten in enough that it gave Stiles the appearance of a dimple on the left side. His fingers twisted the spoon so that it rotated in the thick broth. Even the scent of him flared with a fresh though mild sweat.
“When did she say she would… drop by?” Stiles asked. He spooned the stew broth over a piece of beef, slowly drowning the meat until it disappeared.
“She didn’t,” Peter said, leaning his forearm on the table.
“Oh,” Stiles’ mouth pursed tight before it relaxed and he began waterboarding a floating piece of carrot. “That’s…”
“Rude? Inconvenient? A blatant demonstration of her valuation of others' time in relation to her own?” Peter smirked across the table, watching Stiles twitch in his seat as his knee began bouncing. This was sort of fun. He rarely got to be quite so honest in his opinion of his Pack-Alpha.
“That’s not what I was going to say,” Stiles’ gaze finally came up with a look. “But, also, it would have been nice to know? Generally. When you’re expecting, like, a really important person so you can meet them for the first time so they can decide if you’re, literally, even worth the air they breathe or if you, by chance, don’t die a horrible death, should be shipped off to a different pack-“
“Stiles,” Peter interrupted while he reached across the table to pat Stiles’ wrist where it was limp beside his bowl. He squeezed cool skin and a thudding pulse twice before he got Stiles’ attention to shift toward him. “You’re not going to be traded to another pack.”
“Traded? I thought it was more of a placement situation.” Stiles’ sharp curiosity took over his panicked scent.
Peter inhaled, refusing to think twice about how investigative he’d become of Stiles’ chemosignals, and then he tipped his head to the side to cut a look at Stiles. “Yes, technically, it is a placement. That’s how it’s discussed.”
“But…?” Stiles sat back in his chair. His curiosity seemed to have officially surpassed any personal dread - his lips were parted and his honey-brown gaze focused.
“But there is rarely a wolf that changes packs without some sort of,” Peter paused, looking for delicate yet honest phrasing - it wouldn’t do to scare him further, “exchange of benefit between Pack Alphas. Sounds a bit unsavoury though, in human politics, leveraging a wolf for a territory crossing agreement or the ability to do business. Or, in the case of particular wolves, the introduction of fresh genetics.” Peter studied Stiles when he’d finished.
“Huh,” Stiles stared at him. “So, if your sister doesn’t like me, she could put me on the werewolf black market as a breeding prospect.”
“Arranged marriage isn’t so uncommon,” Peter raised a brow. He had it on good authority that it worked out most of the time. Not that he’d ever been anything but morbidly curious about the affair - it remained the single aspect of pack politics he refused to draw his sister’s attention to. Better for him if she never considered the market value of a spare bit of Hale blood since she had more than enough of a brood to keep the pack name going on her own. “Similar concepts. However, you’re not going to leave town. I can assure you of that.”
“Why?” Stiles gave him a skeptical squint.
“Your father,” Peter knew Stiles wasn’t dim, but he clearly needed a bit of prompting in the unfamiliar landscape of Lycan politics.
“Oh.” Stiles nodded, then nodded again with a look that sparked with a dawning thought.
Peter wondered if his face was always so expressive.
“Right. Better to keep me here. My dad wouldn’t like it otherwise. And he really wouldn’t like finding out that I was traded for some pack perks.”
Peter took his hand back after realizing he’d left it curled around Stiles’ wrist. “Precisely. And, should the need ever arise, leverage with the local authority isn’t the worst to have.”
“This is shady as hell, right? Like you hear that?”
“Considering what I’ve retired from, that shouldn’t be a surprise?” Peter returned to his dinner.
“Yeah…” Stiles’ scent soured, and his heartbeat lurched.
Peter watched him for a moment. It wasn’t surprising to him that the mention of his past wasn’t exactly conversational fuel for an average person. Even an interesting one like Stiles. Particularly, the mention of it after being introduced to the true underbelly of it all, the balancing act of politics.
If Stiles had any knowledge of the things a Left Hand could do under current law - under special exemptions with Lycan-specific codes. He was probably trying to fit it in with his new understanding of this world.
Peter wondered if Stiles forgot what sort of wolf he was when he was allowed close enough to help him bathe - or if Stiles chose not to think on it unless prompted.
They both remained muted for the rest of the evening. The silence felt telling as he assisted Stiles with his bedtime routine.
Once he closed the bedroom door, leaving Stiles in the dark of the guest room, Peter’s gnawing concern grew that Talia would let herself in after Stiles fell asleep. She kept odd hours in the office and lacked any sense of boundaries about his own sleep schedule; a residual of years of being in the thick of every concern she had.
Peter had spent plenty of nights bent over territory maps, over threatening emails, over untied loose ends - with Talia leaning back in her home office chair, talking him through her desired outcomes for the Pack. Privacy was a concept he’d redefined into a parallel of misdirection and secrets, something he, unfortunately, could not extend to his apartment outside of the Pack property.
It shouldn’t bother him more than usual, really. Stiles would sleep through any uninvited visitation, but the possibility of him waking as he did the other night, panting and sweaty, with Talia around, made his jaw ache with tension. It was the most vulnerable he had seen the omega, with his blurry unseeing gaze and the way he had to be crooned at until he was awake enough to see the room around him.
Peter huffed through his nose, sitting in his armchair with the television set low and his gaze watching his front door instead of the screen.
The night went by, crept by, until his head felt heavy; far past midnight before he suspected it was late enough that Talia would have gone home. The partial moon cut through the living room, glanced off the sweater Stiles had left on the back of the sofa, and the open book he’d been flipping through on the table.
Peter stood from his chair, groaning through a stretch of his spine, and a jarring crack of his neck, then padded his way toward the hall. His steps were light. He eased his bedroom door open, silent on the hinges, and got himself ready to sleep, then with his jeans in the laundry and his bare feet on the floor, he froze.
Something creaked.
Peter stifled an involuntary yawn that came from exhaustion and the wolf’s desire to toss off stress as he strode to the door frame of his bedroom to squint into the dark hall. The creak came again, but it didn’t sound like the front door. Still, Peter wanted to be sure before he got into bed. A few silent steps down the hall told him the next sound came from Stiles’ bedroom.
Peter paused to listen to an increase in ruffling that he could identify as fabric, a blanket and sheets against cotton pyjamas, then the bed frame gave a soft warble of shifting wooden joints. A little throaty groan followed, trapped and odd. Ear cocked to listen, Peter approached Stiles’ door.
“No!” Stiles yelped, cut off and strange, as if his tongue wasn’t moving correctly or his mouth wasn’t open enough to enunciate.
Peter twisted the doorknob since they’d agreed not to fix the lock and cracked the door open to peek inside. He blinked into the dark, vision adjusting as his eyes glowed blue to compensate.
Stiles was standing beside the bed. His injured arm was limp and low at his side, while his other clutched against the belly of his shirt. He was shaking his head as he took a wandering step forward. Then another.
“Help,” Stiles’ voice was small, head turning in the dark, his gaze glossed and empty - entirely unseeing.
“Stiles?” Peter called softly. Not surprisingly, he didn't get a reaction. He was fairly sure Stiles wasn’t even awake.
Not awake, but he was worried if his brow creasing up was an indication. His heartbeat was getting faster and uneven. Stiles moved again, walking toward the closet, good hand climbing to the handle. Feeling over the panel, his bad arm came up too, though he whined low at the movement.
Peter hadn’t been briefed on the possibility of sleepwalking, but he was certain that allowing Stiles to hurt himself was unlikely to be the recommended course of action. He pushed the door open enough to let himself in and then turned the bedside lamp on before he approached.
“Stiles,” he firmed his tone, “Stiles, wake up.” Peter reached out to grip his injured arm by the bicep out of instinct as Stiles tried to bring it up again. He should have anticipated the consequences.
Stiles whirled around on him with a broken half scream before raising a hand that punched out. Clipped Peter right in the nose. One hit wasn’t enough, though, apparently, as Stiles kept fighting. His feet tripped almost out from under him as he slapped, punched and kicked his way toward the closed closet door.
“Stiles!” Peter raised his voice when the stun wore off, barely shielding his face from the onslaught with a forearm as he looked at a bewilderingly still asleep little omega trying to knock out his teeth. “Stiles,” he pushed forward, settled his forearm across Stiles’ chest and leaned into his space a bit. “Wake up,” he prompted, hand coming up to Stiles’ cheek to steady his shaking head.
Stiles’ head didn’t steady, but at the first drag of a hand near his jaw, he turned toward the touch and bit down. Hard. The pressure in his mouth, or maybe the barrier to his panicked mouth breathing, was finally enough that he woke up with a gasp. His heartbeat spiked higher, breath coming in fast enough that it rasped too shallow in his lungs.
“What the fuck?” Stiles choked at him. His face was so pale that the blood mixed with the spit dribbling out of his lips was like watching the last drip down a corpse.
—
Stiles whirled around with a choked warble that hurt his throat and ears about the same amount. The thud of his heart was just a little less painful than the way his lungs seemed to be trying to inflate right into his ribs.
Before his body had been jolted, Stiles had been running, trying to hide from the dark snarling figure closing in on him; the dirt smelled like ichor and each step was more difficult than the last as his feet sunk in link quicksand.
He raised a hand and punched out against the overwhelming sense of threat, and restraint, and trapped, trapped, trapped. The sleep-drunk swing connected to something hard that crunched. The woods blurred, though the panic didn’t as he registered a light touch and the proximity of another person. A desperate need for air and the taste of copper brought him out of the woods and back to his dim bedroom.
“You were,” Peter stepped away when he was lightly pushed, “sleepwalking?”
“Shit,” Stiles’ mouth closed, his lips smacked like the scrape of sandpaper before his face crunched up and he wiped over his mouth with his palm. He gagged at the sight of smeared blood. That explained why it tasted like he’d been sucking on pennies.
“Shit! What the hell? Peter, what-”
“Take a breath,” Peter encouraged, his voice and face much calmer than the situation probably called for. He reached up to feel his face - a slight press to the left side of his nose and there was an alarming snap. Peter’s thumb and index ran down the bridge of his nose slowly, then back up to push on the bone between his brows.
“What happened to your nose? What was I doing? What-” Stiles leaned his shoulders back on the closet door, breathing hard, gaze skittering around in an attempt to take in any context clues he could. So far, all he got was that he was sweaty and bloody, and Peter had him pinned to the closet. Very gently, for a bleeding werewolf, he noticed.
“Breathe,” Peter said as he wiped the blood away from under his nose with the edge of his already ruined shirt. When he raised his hand, and the shirt which revealed way too much skin and muscle and soft little cults to process, he began wiping off his hand.
There was a full set of dental records in the curve between thumb and index.
“No damage done,” Peter smirked at him. Smirked.
“I broke your nose and bit you!” Stiles shouted, he could feel the way his veins pulsed so he must have looked like a spooked animal, all wild eyes and too much spit in his mouth—the urge to flee returning though his legs still felt oddly stuck in place.
“Well, yes. You did that,” Peter agreed as he scraped the last of the blood away from his healing hand, the imprint of teeth sealed over into a deep black bruising. “Who taught you to fight? You’re a dirty little scrapper, aren’t you?”
Stiles blinked at that, his next exhale rattling out slower, his brows pinched in and then relaxed a hair. “My dad taught the punching part.”
“Unsurprising, I would be shocked if the Sheriff didn’t teach his son how to defend himself. Can you shoot, as well?” Peter asked.
“Yeah,” Stiles shuddered, nodded like a bobblehead, “Yeah, he did. Gun safety was always a thing in our house. I was at the range as soon as I was old enough.”
Peter hummed. “And the biting? I would hope that’s not in the police department’s training manuals.”
Startled, Stiles laughed; it sounded terrible, but it felt nice. He shook his head and looked at Peter. Really looked at him. “No, that one came from playground justice,” he admitted and slumped his head back.
“I suspected you were a little terror,” Peter told him.
“Jackson totally deserved it,” Stiles' lips quirked up before he grimaced again. “You didn’t. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Peter sighed. The bruise was purple, still clinging to him. Stiles had never seen anything heal so slowly on a wolf. “Getting marked up by a pretty omega? Some would say it’s exactly what I deserve. Frankly, it’s been too long.”
“Is some… you?” Stiles cracked a small smile and rolled his eyes.
Peter smirked at him again, or still, it seemed like a pretty persistent expression, then gestured that he be followed.
With a hesitant pause, Stiles took slow steps after Peter when the wolf reached the door frame. Turns out they were headed to Peter’s ensuite bathroom, where he was handed a capful of mouthwash.
“Thanks,” Stiles mumbled, cheeks pinking as he replaced the blood with mint.
While he was swishing, Peter reached for a cloth from the stack of them, wetting the black terry material in warm water to clean his face and hand properly. He did the same for Stiles once he’d spit - it felt weirdly tender.
“Huh,” Stiles looked at the cloth that was being pulled away from his face, “can’t even see the blood.”
Peter tossed the rag to the laundry before his hand came back over to land on Stiles’ nape. “So,” he yawned, it showed a lot of teeth, “sleepwalking?”
“I haven’t done it in years,” Stiles admitted after a yawn of his own. His head hung slightly forward, while the pain in his arm faded quickly into Peter’s grip on him. “After my mom.”
“Ah.”
Stiles stared at his hand and flexed his fingers a bit since they didn’t hurt. Looking back up, his feet slipped on the flooring as Peter’s grip tightened just enough to feel the outline of each finger and pushed him toward the door.
Herding him down the hall with the determination of a livestock dog, Peter’s voice was as soft as the grip he was using. “You couldn’t be one of those sleepwalkers that just watches television, hm? Had to be a back-alley MMA fighter.”
Stiles laughed low and finished with a groan of embarrassment, “I’m sorry.”
“I’m tired.” Peter guided him a few more steps closer to the bedroom doors before he stopped them both. “Until we sort out what to do with you, I think it would be safer for us both if you…” Peter gestured at his open door and the bed that could be seen through it.
“Wait, what? You want me to spend the night with you?” Stiles startled and twisted to look at him.
“Next to me,” Peter corrected before his expression slid into a deep smirk, “if this was a seduction, sweetheart, you’d be seduced.”
Stiles sputtered and felt the spit flecking his lower lip.
“I would like to get some sleep tonight if you wouldn’t mind,” Peter raised a brow at him, smirk turned into a dickish impatience.
“Fine,” Stiles’ mouth twisted, his hand curled into his shirt, he shifted on his feet with a little resistance before he followed Peter into the bedroom and wished Peter was still pushing him so he didn’t have to reconcile with the humiliation of scooting into the bed of his own free will.
The bed was large enough that touching wasn’t required.
Peter settled on the left, by the door, and Stiles gingerly took up the right, laying stiff as a board.
He was nervous. It smelled a lot more like Peter in here, that musky-comforting Alpha pheromone bullshit. Stiles curled his fingers in his shirt over his belly while he stared at the ceiling; pulse picking up beats as he recounted the night. His knuckles were going to bruise and there was a phantom taste of copper in his mouth.
“What now?” Peter growled. It was startling even though he hadn’t moved from where he lay twisted toward the door, half on his stomach, half on his side, one leg hitched and his face pushed into his pillow.
“Are you going to send me back?” Stiles asked, voice small. He swallowed with a flex of his tongue against his teeth. “Pretty sure getting punched and bitten isn’t… in your contract.”
“I’m too tired to listen to stupid,” Peter grunted at him.
The blanket shifted and Stiles twitched as a hot heel banged into his leg where Peter had given him a wimpy kick.
“Go the fuck to sleep, sweetheart.”
Stiles adjusted the blanket around himself, then curled on his good side toward Peter’s back. It gave him something to look at; the slowing rise and fall of Peter’s ribs.
—
Peter woke up to the scrape of a key in his front door lock.
Beside him, Stiles snored, mouth open, damp from drool - and pressed into his shoulder. Saliva smeared down Peter’s bicep in a wet, dripping path that followed the line of muscle to the sheet underneath. Stiles’ bad arm was curled close between them, protected in the curve of his belly and Peter’s ribs.
Peter found his hand traitorously wrapped over Stiles’ nape.
Kitten-heeled footsteps entered the front hall and crossed through the living room, following the path to the bedrooms. Peter debated between rolling Stiles off the side of the bed to let him land on the floor or simply accepting his fate.
Stiles snuffled closer beside him.
“Wake up,” Peter grunted, squeezing Stiles’ nape to scruff him. It worked, bleary eyes cracked open to glare at him, and the drool stopped with a little wet sucking sound.
“What?” Stiles snipped. As if he had any right to be anything but a morning person, given the situation.
“My sister is about to-”
“Peter Hale!” Talia’s sharp snap came right after the bedroom door banged open like she was imitating a SWAT team. And she called him dramatic.
Stiles startled so hard it made himself yelp. Sitting up in a lurch and then doubling forward over his injured shoulder with hissing breaths through his teeth.
“Look what you did,” Peter said, flippant as he gestured between his furious Pack Alpha and the human trying not to whine. He flopped his hand back over and up to grab Stiles’ by the wrist and draw his pain.
“What I did? What did you do to him? I know you’re adventurous - you advertise that enough for the tabloids, but-” Talia stopped herself with a snarling deep breath in and a pinch of her fingers against her nose. Her index and thumb spread out across her sinuses. “Peter, this is not what we agreed to. What is going on? You’re meant to be supervising that bitten - where is he?”
The silence that followed made Peter grin and Stiles flush a dark red that had him smelling a little like the blood colouring his face.
“Peter.” Talia’s voice was dangerously slow and collected. “Where is he?”
The anxious embarrassment was growing strong enough to become irritating, so Peter sat up fully and swung himself out of bed to stand. Arms loosely crossed as he gestured behind him where Stiles was still half wrapped in the blanket. “I was instructed to keep a very close eye on him.”
“That’s an omega,” Talia accused with a manicured point.
“Very good. I’m glad the stench of politics hasn’t dimmed your senses.”
“The bitten is the Sheriff’s son, his beta son.” Talia continued to sound absurdly sure of herself.
Stiles shifted in the blankets, pushing them down so he could climb off the far side of the bed. Leaving the expanse of the mattress between himself and Peter, and Peter between that and Talia. “Uh, no. Omega son.”
“Oh,” Talia’s chin raised. The diplomatic answer visibly processed in her eyes. “He’s never mentioned his son was an omega.”
“Did he say I was… a beta?” Stiles asked, hesitant but with affront swelling his chest in his baggy shirt.
“He never mentioned,” Talia dismissed with a wave of her hand, “I wouldn’t have assumed.”
“Wouldn’t have assumed,” Peter parroted with a growing smirk because he loved it when her ego tripped her. He wondered if she regretted taking so little interest in the situation now.
“Never mind.” Talia gave him a pointed look, pinned him with it. “Why would I assume anyone would bite an omega?”
“Uh, excuse the fuck out of me?” Stiles snapped.
“Yes, Talia, excuse the fuck out of Stiles.” Peter felt giddy.
“That’s not-” Talia glared at him, her gaze skipping over Stiles awkwardly. “It’s just a poor bet as far as-”
“Uh huh,” Stiles interrupted.
“The strength discrepancy for an alpha’s first beta- choosing a second-”
“You came for a reason?” Peter interrupted. Not out of pity, but because Stiles looked like he was going to forget his fear and come frothing around the bed. Which would be endlessly entertaining and ultimately bad for them both.
“I came to check on you,” Talia said, regaining her collected piety in less than a breath. She tucked a fallen strand of hair behind her ear. Her red-tinted gaze was immobilizing. “I told you to volunteer to fix your image, not so you could shack up with an unmated omega.”
“Shack up is a little-” Stiles shut himself up when Talia’s red eyes set on him instead. Sweat that smelled of acrid fear rapidly dampened his skin.
Peter took advantage of his Pack Alpha’s shifted attention to turn around and cross the bed. Crawling the first two feet and knee-walking the rest with a little hum that dragged Stiles’ attention to meet him. He offered his shivering human guest a deep smirk and a wink before he reached out again to cup his cheek. Scent marking along his jaw, then up to rest on the top of his head as he twisted back toward his sister.
“Really, Talia, you wanted me to enjoy volunteering, didn’t you? Giving back to the community?” He met her annoyed gaze as he slid his hand down the back of Stiles’ head to rest intimately over his nape again. “I apologize for being so against the idea initially. It’s been a pleasure.”
Stiles was staring at him when Peter glanced back. His shoulders weren’t trembling and the fine shaking in his hands was hidden when he reached forward to press them both into Peter’s chest. Firm. Fingertips digging in just enough to dent.
“It’s been fun,” Stiles agreed with a purr in his tone that Peter had never heard from an omega standing up before. “Peter’s been more than hospitable.”
Talia’s lip cringed away from her teeth. “Peter, a word-”
“My dad’s grateful,” Stiles chimed in as he leaned himself forward slowly and allowed Peter to cup his elbow to offer it support. Chest pressed into him enough that Peter could feel how his heart was pounding.
“Yes, the Sheriff was relieved to get him out of that hospital,” Peter said. He curled his fingers tighter on Stiles’ nape, gentle, intentional. Watching with absolute petty delight as he was rewarded with a little gasp and fluttering eyelashes.
A gorgeous little sham.
Talia looked like she was considering fratricide.
“He’s coming over for dinner tomorrow, right?” Stiles checked before his cheek grazed Peter’s stubble on his way down to hook his bony chin over Peter’s shoulder. “I’ll make sure to tell him how glad I am you set this up.”
Peter didn’t doubt he’d get it for this in some form later. Talia wasn’t one to be embarrassed, cowed, or manipulated. But, for now, she sighed through her nose and thinned her lips before plastering on a smile.
“I’m sure he’s…” She looked pointedly between them before her mouth curved up in a slight smirk and one eyebrow raised. An expression most Hales inherited. “Thrilled with how this is working out.”
Fair.
Peter had doubts the Sheriff envisioned his son simpering like a limpet in an ex-Left-Hand alpha’s bed. Still, he gave her an easy smile and fluffed Stiles’ short hair. Stiles’ blush was reaching his ears now.
“I’ll check in again next week,” Talia decided as she stepped backwards toward the door frame. “Try to be dressed, boys.”
Stiles made a sassy noncommittal noise that surpassed even Peter’s nerve to test the situation. He was impressed.
They stayed, a frozen cuddled press until the front door shut and locked.
Peter sat back on his ass with a bounce of the mattress and a deep, tear-inducing laugh. He was echoed shortly by a snortier, wheezier one. It lasted until they were both gasping.
Wiping at his eyes, Peter got to his feet with a hand braced on the nightstand for stability. “Oh, she’s definitely selling you now.”
“Peter!”
“Kidding, I’m kidding… It’s not definite-” Peter grunted as a pillow slammed into the back of his head.
Stiles glared at him from the other side of the bed. “You know if I was a retired old man with basically no purpose, I wouldn’t be so sure it wasn’t my ass on the market.”
“It would fetch a much higher price,” Peter remarked, giving Stiles an unbothered grin as he twisted to turn the bedding down to air out. “It’s a nice ass.”
“Hey, I have a nice ass too,” Stiles said, though he twisted a bit to catch his reflection in the full-length mirror. Frowning when the baggy pants he wore did little to highlight his case. “That’s not the point.”
“What is the point?”
“I-” Stiles shuffled, puffed, then threw another pillow at him. “You’re old. There. That’s the point. Seriously, did your sister call us both boys? You?”
“It’s my boyish charm,” Peter rebuffed easily his ego nor his claim to youth so easily swayed. “And the thirteen-year age gap between us.”
“Doesn’t it bother you?” Stiles adjusted his pants with one hand, the other arm pressed across his chest. “That your Pack-Alpha treats you like a kid? Doesn’t make a lot of sense considering what you used to do. I mean, I used to read the regional Pack activity reports about you.”
Peter paused, a hand on his hip as he raised his eyebrows at Stiles. It forced him to rethink what he assumed Stiles knew about the blood on the hands that had been uncharacteristically gentle with him. “Did you?”
“Yeah, you saved my friend a few years ago.”
“That doesn’t sound like me,” Peter smirked.
“He was bitten. You got the blood sample for the anti-rejection,” Stiles huffed at him as he came around the bed. The anxiety in his scent was renewing a sweaty, nervous, disappointed sort of mix. Peter thought on that for a moment as he guided Stiles out of the bedroom and back to the guest room.
“I remember,” Peter offered after a contemplative hum. For some reason, he found that he couldn’t actually look at Stiles as he watched him enter the guest room and go to sit on the edge of the bed instead of his usual routine of picking out clothing from the closet. “Do you want to go out for breakfast?”
“Not really,” Stiles said, plucking at the tangled mess of blanket they’d abandoned last night. “Why did you retire?”
“You’re quite nosy, you know?” Peter leaned on the door frame with a shoulder, arms crossing over his chest.
“Did someone younger take it up in secret? Did you get injured? What-”
“It’s not a career you choose, Stiles. To start or end,” Peter felt his lips compress in an irritated line, though the feeling was lodged behind the hollow of his throat and directed at his sister.
“Oh,” Stiles hummed. His fingers smoothed out the creases he’d raised in the sheet until his hand reached the edge of the bed, where he curled to grip around the seam of the mattress. “Can I ask something personal?”
Peter snorted, one hand coming up to rub at his face - it didn’t budge the tension tightening his brows. He exhaled hard into his palm and glared at the belligerent, inquisitive human, giving him some sort of concerned cow-eyed look. “Well, I’m not allowed to gag you so…”
“You don’t live with the rest of your pack. You’re not even in the Hale-owned district of town. You don’t seem to… like how your sister… I mean she treats you sort of- I, well-”
“Sweet Jesus,” Peter exhaled, growing impatient, he reached for the doorknob to begin shutting the door.
“Wait! I just mean, what keeps a pack together? What makes you follow her as your Pack-Alpha?” Stiles gripped the edge of the bed so tightly that his knuckles were all bone white.
Peter stalled. He stared.
He shut the door.
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