Chapter Text
You feel a bit like a drowned rat. It had started down-pouring the moment you got into your car and hadn’t stopped. And because you didn’t have the code to get through the community gates (because of course Peter Hale would live in one of those places), you had to park down the street and slip through a hole in the metal fence and walk to his apartment. Well… run actually. You ran to the covered stairs and ran up to the third floor to knock on his door.
You stand outside, listening to the rain beating against the roof, falling onto the pavement. It doesn’t even sound like rain. It sounds like a steady sheet of thin rocks just falling from the sky. You shiver and hold your thin jacket tighter against your body. You’re completely soaked. After a minute or so, you knock again.
When he opens the door, he’s surprised to see you there. He pauses for a moment and his eyes widen just slightly. It doesn’t take more than a few seconds for him to fall into his usual demeanor. A cocky smile sweeps onto his lips and he drops his shoulders, leaning slightly on his doorframe. He’s wearing jeans and a grey v-neck and for a moment you wonder if he even owns anything else.
“Well, to what do I owe the pleasure?” There’s snark even in his greeting and you roll your eyes, briefly wondering what the hell you were thinking coming here.
“Mind letting a girl in outta the rain?” you ask. He cocks his head.
“Depends on what said girl wants.” He crosses his arms against his chest as he puts all of his weight on the doorframe and somehow manages to take up the entire space.
“Right now I want to dry off,” you snap at him, already irritated at being wet and cold and not enjoying watching him toy with you. Peter just lifts his chin and looks down condescendingly at you. You sigh and take a moment to gather your words before saying, “And then I have a favor to ask.” That piques his interest. He raises an eyebrow and hums softly.
“Then come on in.” He pushes himself off the frame and takes hold of the door. He barely steps aside, leaving you to squeeze past him when you walk in. You make sure not to brush against him and to move quickly. He still gives you the creeps, especially with the way his eyes linger on your body, with the fabric of your clothes clinging to your skin.
His apartment is surprisingly normal. You don’t know what you were expecting, but a normal apartment wasn’t it. He has furniture and rugs and even tasteful artwork on the walls. You walk into his living room, unsure of what to do with yourself. His couch is nice, black leather that’s probably very expensive. You don’t feel it would be appropriate to sit on it when you’re already dripping onto his carpet.
You hear the door shut behind you and when you look back at him, he’s opening a closet door. When he reaches up to the top shelf, his shirt rises up, showing off the bottom of his toned back. You admit he’s attractive… in a psycho, dangerous, serial killer type of way. Your eyes are drawn to the way his body moves, the way his jeans fit around his hips.
You force yourself to look away before he turns back and sees you. That’s the last thing you need right now. It startles you when he pushes a white, fluffy square in front of you. You hadn’t heard him approach. You look down and realize he’s offering you a folded towel.
“Oh,” you say, reaching you to take it. “Thanks.” As you start to dry yourself off, squeezing the towel against your body and clothes, brushing it over your skin and ruffling it through your matted hair, Peter walks over and takes a seat on his couch.
“Now about that favor,” he says smoothly, leaning back to make himself comfortable.
“I want to learn to fight,” you tell him, brushing the towel over your arms again, your skin still damp and prickled in chilled goosebumps. Peter cocks his head again and narrows his eyes at you.
“Fight?” He says the word slowly, letting it roll on his tongue as though he’s testing it, making sure it’s what you had said.
“Yes. As in hand-to-hand combat.” He leans forward so his elbows rest on his knees and folds his hands under his chin. His eyes look at you, trailing over your body and for once, it didn’t make you feel creeped out or uncomfortable. He isn’t looking at your curves or judging you. He’s looking at your muscle build, at your stance. He’s sizing you up. He’s actually taking you seriously.
“Why?” he asks once he looks up back to your eyes again. All the humor is gone. He asks the question sharply.
“I want to be able to protect myself.” There is no hesitation in your answer. You had thought about it. You had decided. “I want to know if you will teach me.”
“They offer self-defense classes at the high school.” He shrugs and tilts his head, runs his tongue along the bottom edge of his top teeth, contemplating. You roll your eyes.
“They teach you how to scream and hit a man in the crotch when he tries to steal your purse when you walk down a dark alley.” His lips tip up in a slight smirk, bordering on a humored smile. “They don’t teach you how to fight off a werewolf or a kanima or a druid whatever else is out there.” He suddenly scoffs and leans back in his couch again, like he’s bored.
“You’d never be able to fight off a werewolf even with proper training.” He looks off to the side, seemingly fascinated by the painting on his wall. Your jaw clenches as he ignores you, brushes you off.
“But it will help,” you say firmly, stomping up to him, hearing your feet and socks squish in your shoes. You stand in front of him and stare down, willing him to look at you, no longer caring if you’re dripping onto his furniture. He doesn’t look, of course. “Knowing how to dodge a punch, being able to predict their next move…” You pause and your voice turns quiet and heavy. “That could save my life.”
His eyes slowly slide away from the painting back to you. He looks you dead in your eyes, his lips set in an even line, brows creasing together just slightly. You resist the urge to cross your arms over your chest, to fidget in any way.
“And why come to me?” he asks, his voice now quieter. It wasn’t a whisper and it wasn’t soft, but it was genuine. You have his attention again.
“Who else can fight?” you question back, almost scoffing at his asking. “I don’t think Derek has ever won a fight and the entire pack learned to fight from him.” Peter chuckles a little, bowing his head with the smallest hint of a smile. “You know how to fight. You know how to win.” You’re not really looking to feed his ego, but it’s the truth and you want to learn from someone good, someone who can do more than just hold his own.
“What about the Argents?” The way he says it makes it sound like a trick question, like if you answer wrong, he’s going to turn you away.
“They’ll tell me it’s too dangerous. I’m not part of their family, their code. They’d push me out their front door in seconds.” You pause. “And even if I got them to agree, they’d take it easy on me. I don’t want them to throw slow hits. I want someone who’s going to give it their all.” Peter smirks widely at that. Slowly, he stands up and walks to you. He stops inches from you, towering over you and you have to resist the urge to step back.
“You realize you just gave me permission to hit you with full force?” he questions, the smirk turning slightly more into a smile. You almost want to smile with him. You know it sounds ridiculous, laughable.
“If you teach me properly, you shouldn’t be able to land a hit.” You raise your eyebrows, almost challenging and he chuckles at you. You have a feeling he won’t actually hurt you. You’re not sure why, but there’s something about him that says he’s not going to knock you out. He won’t take it easy on you, but he’s also not going pummel you into the ground.
“You were always my favorite human.” You aren’t sure if that’s a good compliment or not, but it sends some kind of chilly crawl down your spine. He moves sideways and walks away from you.
“So is that a yes?” you ask. He turns his head to look at you, but keeps walking away towards an archway you assume leads to the kitchen.
“Be here tomorrow at noon. We’ll get started then.” He pauses at the archway and puts a hand on the trim looking back at you like he’s considering something. “You can let yourself out,” he tells you and then shrugs. “Or you can wait until the rain settles down. Up to you.”
He disappears through the archway, leaving you in his living room still soaking his floor. You can hear the rain still hounding down on the building and consider your options. You’re going to be spending time with Peter anyways, might as well start now.
Trying to ignore the uncomfortable squish of your shoes, you follow his trail into the kitchen. It’s brightly lit and suddenly you realize that’s what’s off about his place to you. It’s so bright. White towels, white cabinets, hard white lightbulbs instead of the old soft yellow ones illuminating the rooms despite the cloudy darkness from outside; all of it is not what you had expected. Derek’s loft is always dim and almost grungy. You just unconsciously assumed it was a werewolf thing.
“You’ve got a nice place,” you comment as you step further inside. Peter is standing in front of the counter, pouring two cups of hot coffee into newly bought mugs. You sit yourself down at the wooden table, creamer, sugar, and a spoon already sitting there waiting.
“Remember that tomorrow when you’re being thrown all over the place,” he chuckles, his voice low and amused. He turns with mugs in hand and places one in front of you. You can already feel the warmth of it just being near your cold bones. You start mixing your coffee together the way you like it. “Try not to break anything expensive.” His face is serious and if you had blinked at the wrong time, you would have missed the playfully wink he gave at the end of the sentence. You wrap your hands around the mug and smile.
“I’ll try not to shove you into anything new and shiny.” You take a sip of the coffee and watch as he smirks at you. The coffee feels good, hot and smooth as you swallow and it spreads through your body, warming you up. Peter takes a seat across from you.
“We can put your jacket, shoes, and socks in the dryer if you want,” He gives a nod to your wet clothes and starts drinking his coffee.
“You put shoes in the dryer?” you question, raising an eyebrow. “That’s not good for the machine.” Peter rolls his eyes at you.
“What part of me says ‘fully domesticated’ to you?” You consider making a remark about how nicety of his apartment does, but hold your tongue instead. The prospect of being able to leave with dry feet was one you don’t want to pass up. You simply shake your head and stand up.
You use your feet to kick off your shoes and then bend over, one hand on the table to steady yourself, and yank off your socks one at a time. They put up a fight and try to meld themselves to your feet, but you get them off with a little effort, leaving your feet chilled and damp, almost spongy even. You can feel Peter’s eyes on you when you straighten up and start to peel your jacket off of you. He sips his coffee casually, but watches every little move your body makes.
It’s strange. The same look yesterday would have made you squirm and feel violated. Right now though, there’s just the smallest difference that put you at ease. He’s still sizing you up. He watches the way your muscles move, the flexibility of your shoulders, how limber you are. It makes you pay attention to your movements, a part of you actually wanting to impress him, to show him you weren’t just a weak little human. A day ago, you would have done anything to keep his eyes off of you. Today, you want them admiring you.
Left in your pants and tank top, you gather all your clothes in your arms and ask, “Where’s your dryer?” Peter puts down his coffee and stands up, extending his hands.
“I’ll take them. It shouldn’t take too long.” You hand over your clothes and he walks out another doorway. The rain is still pounding down outside as you sit back down and drink more of your coffee. Somewhere in the back of the apartment you hear the dryer start up and the heavy thunking of your shoes inside it.
Peter reemerges from the doorway and sits down across from you again. You give him a friendly smile and he watches you carefully as he takes another drink. He narrows his eyes a little and says nothing.
“What?” you ask finally, the silence quickly becoming awkward.
“So what does your little pack think about you coming to me?” He leans back and slouches slightly in his chair, his legs extending under the table, closer to you, invading your personal space in such an odd and small way.
“I didn’t discuss it with them,” you tell him honestly. This was a decision you made on your own.
“So no one knows you’re here?”
“Why do you make that sound like you’re going to enjoy killing me and burying me if I say no?” You put your cup on table and tilt your head at him. His smirk returns.
“Just trying to keep up with everyone’s secrets.” The way he says it, the way he drawls the word “secrets,” makes it seem dirty and taboo. It twists your stomach in a knot and there’s a part of you that’s not so sure you don’t like it.
“It’s not a secret,” you protest. “I just didn’t ask for their permission. If I want to learn to protect myself, I’m going to learn.” His fingers tap against his cup and his eyes slowly roll over you again. You sigh. “And no,” you give in. “They wouldn’t like it if they knew.”
He smirks widely, taking that as an admission of this being a secret. You find yourself smiling, a small chuckle boiling up in your chest. Fine, it’s probably a secret for now, but you aren’t about to openly say it to him. It would give him too much pleasure.
You chat about nothing over coffee for another few minutes. You talk about the weather and the rain, about the mugs he just bought because the others had broken when he moved them, about nothing important. It’s casual and surprisingly not as uncomfortable as you ever thought it would. This is actually the first time you’ve been truly alone with him. He didn’t try to eat you so you take it as a win.
You hear the beeping of the dryer and your shoes thud for a final time. Peter rises and holds his hand out for your now empty coffee cup. He drops both cups into the sink before he leaves to get your clothes. You stand and stretch yourself out, finally feeling a little dry and comfortable.
Peter returns and the moment he walks in the door you see one of your shoes flying at your face. Your hands shoot up and you catch it, but the second you lower it a safe distance from your face, the other one follows suit. You dodge your head to the side and it barely misses grazing your cheek, flying behind you and thudding into a cabinet. Wide eyed and open-mouthed, you stare at Peter, shocked and confused.
“The hell?” you yell at him. He simply shrugs.
“Decent reflexes,” he comments offhandedly. “Should sharpen them up though.” He extends his hand, holding out your jacket and socks. A part of you wonders if he’s got some other hidden trap within them, but you still gingerly reach out and take them.
“I thought training didn’t start until tomorrow.” You hate how insulted you sound.
“Doesn’t mean I can’t assess you now,” he says. You decide not to argue, not to answer and simply put your socks and shoes back on. “There’s a break in the rain,” he’s looking out the kitchen window, still dark and grey, but he’s right. The rain had fallen down to a little drizzle, no longer pounding down on the glass. “You should leave while you can.” He doesn’t give you time to answer, simply walks past you, silently leading you towards the front door.
Jacket still in hand and shoes untied, you follow him back into the living room. He puts his hands on the doorknob, but waits as you get your shoes situated and tied before he goes to pull it open. He stands partially blocking the doorway, and looks you over once more.
“Tomorrow at noon,” he confirms with you. You nod. “Wear something flexible, something tight.” His voice takes on that low drawl and his eyes practically gleam with deviance. A little wave of heat flushes under your skin and just like before, you’re not sure that you don’t like it.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Feeling a little braver than when you walked in, you walk through the sliver of doorway he provides, letting your shoulder brush along his chest and lightly push him out of the way. You try not to notice how it feels, hard and toned, under your arm.
He flashes you one more smirk before closing the door. You stand outside and slip your jacket on. It smells like whatever dryer sheet he had thrown in with it. It smells just a little like him.