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Airports were Peter’s favorite place. Once he got past security he was in paradise, surrounded by strangers, where people watching wasn’t a hobby but a necessity to kill time. He took a deep breath and blended into the crowd, his carry-on a smartly packed duffle. Airports were the most romantic Peter ever allowed himself to be, and he leaned against a column and watched, children run to their parents, lovers whisper into each other’s ear, older folks drifting in and out of sleep only to jerk awake at every announcement.
He was hours early to his flight, so much so that that curbside pickup had laughed at his ticket. His eyes drifted, over a girl in Doc Martens bobbing her head to whatever was playing across her headphones, past an old couple with silver hair and bright smiles to—
Deep brown eyes staring at him.
Peter stilled and the young man, leaning against a pillar opposite of him, blushed. Peter refused to look away and neither did the rapidly reddening young man and Peter grinned.
He waited, his heart thudding in his chest at something new, and the young man rolled his eyes with a smile before he sauntered over, a laptop bag slung across his chest and his sneakers worn to the point where the heel was more hole than rubber.
“Hey.” His pale skin was lovely when it flushed pink and Peter let the boy flounder for a bit, picking at a thread on his bag strap. “Sorry to creep on you. It’s a little redundant, right? Watching a people-watcher?”
“Not at all.” Peter made sure not to move too close, keeping himself in check so he didn’t scare the boy away. “It’s a risk of the practice.” The boy laughed, loud and startled and when he tilted his head back to expose his neck Peter’s mouth went dry. He intended to move on to another location, but instead he kept talking. “I’m Peter.”
After his laughter died down into sporadic chuckles, the young man shook his hand.
“Stiles. Do you have time for a drink before your flight?” Stiles’s heartbeat was charmingly fast and his cheeks regained their red coloring. “I mean, it could be coffee, I didn’t mean—”
“I do.” Peter couldn’t help but sweep his eyes over Stiles’s lean, tall figure. His jeans were weathered, he had dark circles under his eyes, and his wide smile hid the slight tremor in his hands. The laughter had startled him into confidence, and Peter was fascinated. “I have the time.”
Stiles preferred whiskey to gin and while he could hold his liquor it did make his laughter louder. He leaned his back against the bar, his brown eyes watching people come and go, various levels of exhausted and drifting in herds over tile and walkways.
“I love airports.” Stiles met Peter’s gaze, his lips curled in a playful smirk. “I just like watching.” Stiles’s knee bumped Peter’s slack-clad legs and he dug around his bag. “So, where is your flight?”
“San Francisco. The six-thirty departure.”
“No shit?” Stiles shot him an incredulous look. “What seat?”
It wasn’t a long flight, from Seattle to San Francisco, but Peter still felt lucky when the woman in the middle seat happily traded her place with Peter. He liked the extra room that came with the emergency row, but he didn’t mind his cramped legs when Stiles shot him book suggestions just as quickly as Peter returned them, and the topics changed to music, movies, art—and Peter didn’t mind that his voice was hoarse by the time they staggered off the flight.
“The one downside of flying is smelling like week-old ground beef left out on the sidewalk.” Stiles wrinkled his nose. “Sorry if I smell terrible.”
He smelled fine. Quite delightful, actually. Peter bumped his shoulder against Stiles, hard enough to make Stiles squawk.
“Apology accepted.” Stiles laughed and laughed, until Peter could hear the developing rasp in his voice as they rode the escalator to baggage claim. “Do you have a long ways to go before you’re home?”
“Eh. A bit. But I won’t have to drive so I’m going to pass the fuck out.” Peter was reluctant to leave the bubble they’d formed, he enjoyed their jokes traded over cheap cocktails and shared smirks. “How about you? Got a long drive ahead?”
Peter hummed, non-committal.
“I’ve had worse.” Stiles lingered, his eyes darting between the rotating parade of luggage and Peter, his fingers trembling slightly and Peter took pity on him. “Here.” He took out his wallet and extended a business card to Stiles. “My cell phone is on there. Text me if you’d like.”
“Really?” Stiles cleared his throat. “I mean—thank you.”
Peter smirked and Stiles’s ears were red.
“You’re welcome.”
The bubble burst. Stiles’s father waved to him, and just like that, Peter was alone. He watched Stiles hug his father, becoming just another person to watch as his dad slung his arm around Stiles’s shoulder and led him out. Peter got his bag and his phone pinged as he dug his keys out of his pocket.
It’s Stiles. Don’t fall asleep behind the wheel. Thanks for the drinks!
::::
Stiles curled over his phone and the Sheriff watched his boy’s fingers shake as he typed out a message. After the third jerky mistype, Stiles heaved out an angry breath and activated his microphone.
“Thanks for the drinks.” Stiles slumped back against the seat and tossed his phone into the empty cup holder. His head lolled to the side and he flashed the Sheriff a crooked smile. “Thanks for picking me up.”
“Of course.” Stiles reclined the seat all the way down but they both knew he wouldn’t sleep. When he was a boy he’d be out like a light in the car, back when he still had the implicit trust of his dad to keep him safe. Now Stiles needed to be behind a locked door and in the far corner of the room by a window, sometimes only able to sleep on the floor. “So, who was that walking with you to baggage claim?”
“Da-ad.” Stiles whined and covered his face with his hands. “He’s just—a guy I met.” Stiles spoke in bursts of speech and hand gestures about a handsome, people-watching stranger who laughed at Stiles’s jokes and didn’t recoil when Stiles asked if he wanted to get drinks. “I don’t know what came over me, dad, I mean, I’m not James Bond but I just asked and he said yes.” Stiles clicked his tongue against his teeth. “It was funny. He was really funny.”
It didn’t seem funny to the Sheriff, but he didn’t say anything. He fiddled with the radio and Stiles hummed along.
There was a mocking peace that came when they drove past the Welcome to Beacon Hills sign. Small towns had that natural charm, which was pleasant when Stiles had been younger, but now it was suffocating. Even as they drove by as the sun was setting, the Sheriff felt like he was being watched.
There goes the Sheriff and his boy. There goes the Stilinski boy. You’d be lucky to be like him, to be as heroic as that boy. Brush your teeth, go to sleep, and hope to be half the boy that Stiles Stilinski is.
It wasn’t fair that Stiles was asked out to prom by almost every girl in the grade, and some boys too, just for the hope of being pictured on his arm. It wasn’t fair that if a man at the airport flirted with him that Stiles would automatically assume it was a shared joke.
“You know what the best part was?” Stiles got out and shouldered his bags. He never let his dad help anymore. It made the Sheriff feel old… but he’d been living with that feeling since Stiles was fourteen. “He didn’t know me. He’s a complete stranger. It’s why I love airports.”
Stiles smiled, exhausted and the tremors in his hands were more pronounced. Once he had a decent night’s sleep they would lessen, but they’d always be there. Lingering.
The Sheriff walked his son up to his room and listened to four individual locks click into place, and then the sound of his blankets and sheets being pulled off of the bed and onto the floor.
He lumbered to his own bedroom just across the hall and sat at his desk, his shoulders aching and a headache looming. He ran his hands down his face and focused on his breathing.
When Claudia had died he hadn’t known what to do. He’d kept a brave face on for the force, for his son, but when he was home he drank because he was all alone and he had a boy to take care of—what was he going to do?
He loved Stiles. Of course he did. It was just… he looked so much like her, in his eyes and smile, and it was like twisting a knife just looking at him sometimes. It wasn’t fair, he knew, pushing that grief onto a boy who just needed a father. He’d done his best, he hoped, to hide it…
Summers were the worst because Stiles was always home.
During the summer between Stiles’s eighth grade and freshman year of high school, the Sheriff managed to convince Gerard Argent to let Stiles be a councilor for the camp they ran for children. Even though Stiles wasn’t old enough, John insisted that he was just as smart, if not smarter, than the others. That he loved kids, that the three-week camp would be Stiles’s bread and butter. He remembered thinking that he’d been lucky when Gerard gruffly shook his hand and said, “Don’t worry about your boy. We’ll take care of him.”
Stiles had put on a brave face. When he left, bags packed and his sneakers in much better shape than they were now, he hugged his dad goodbye with a whispered, “I love you.”
The Sheriff was sure that Stiles knew why… and he told himself that this would be the only summer. After this he’d be good, he just needed one break and he’d be fine.
That summer, so many years ago, had only provided about two weeks worth of relief until, one afternoon, the smell of smoke flooded over all of Beacon Hills in a violent plume of black smoke. At first everyone had thought something in town was on fire, but soon they realized it came from the mountains, more specifically, miles and miles away—at Gerard’s campsite.
Sometimes the smell of fire still woke the Sheriff up with ragged coughs. He would taste ash and the putrid grief of please no, this was going to be the only year, I promise I’ll be better, I promise, I promise—
It was the last year of many things. The Sheriff sighed and rubbed at his temples and kicked off his shoes. Years later, it still felt like Stiles hadn’t come home.
::::
Stiles liked kids.
They smiled easily and they liked bubbles. They were just as scared and anxious as he was on the first day of camp but they turned to him because he was a councilor. The other councilors weren’t sure what to do with Stiles; he was too old to be treated like another kid, but too young to listen in on their conversations at lunch. It was a benign confusion, nothing aggressive about it. It was the same confusion that his dad had.
“Mr. Stiles,” a little girl with long brown hair wiggled in her seat next to him. He sat at a long table with a group of kids from different parts of England, Wales, and France. Her name was Demora and she spoke with a refined English accent. “Do you like apple or orange juice?”
Stiles smiled because kids didn’t ask questions with hidden agendas, they were unfiltered in their curiosity.
“Apple, duh. Favorite juice ever—hot apple cider on a cold day, up top!”
He high-fived her, and then the whole table because if one of these kids got a high five, they all wanted one. The kids were very touchy-feely, but Stiles didn’t mind. He was always down for hugs, high-fives, and games of tag that left him heaving for breath and somehow the kids could keep running for ages.
All the kids came from all over the world, from different families, and were meant to be making friends with kids from equally diverse backgrounds. At the time, Stiles hadn’t thought it was weird, watching the children dance around each other, clumsily offering friendship alliances and slowly growing closer and more comfortable with each other. As time went on, the tables were less divided by family and country, and Stiles floated around so give everyone equal attention.
Sometimes he got homesick. When he heard the kids talk about their mothers and fathers… Stiles would think about his dad. Was he eating healthy? Did he miss Stiles? Did he want Stiles to come home?
Would… would this help him? Would it make him stop crying at night, would it make it easier for his father to look at him?
“Stiles,” Alejandro, a fiery kid from Spain, poked him, “are you okay? You look sad.”
“I’m… I’m changing.” Stiles snuck a peanut butter sandwich off of his place and hunched over, making over-dramatic noises. He smeared it all over his stomach before he stood and pulled his shirt up and exposed his abdomen, smeared with peanut butter and jelly. “I am the Slobasaurus Rex!”
Those first two weeks were great, so great that Stiles was going to ask his dad if he could do it again next year. The kids shrieked and chased him around the cafeteria as the other councilors laughed and rolled their eyes. That night, the last normal night, had ended with Stiles under a giant puppy-pile of children until they all had to head back to their bunks.
Seven years later Stiles rolled his shopping cart idly past some vegetables at the Ralphs.
He slouched over the handles on the cart and smiled as a new text from Peter came in.
Pineapple is the best fruit. All times are appropriate for pineapple. What’s on your shopping list? Let me guess, something abysmal, like ramen packets.
Stiles rolled his eyes and began to type out a response when he lifted his head up to see a mother shoo her kids away as she stared at him. His fingers trembled. He swallowed and focused on his phone. He tried to type out something witty, something charming—but he accidently dragged his finger too far and he ended up calling Peter.
He almost dropped his phone and before he could mash his thumb on the red END button a voice purred over the line.
“Hello, Stiles.”
Stiles fumbled with his phone and quickly shoved it to his ear.
“Hello-hey-hi.” Stiles slapped his hand against his face. “Hi.”
Peter chuckled and Stiles grinned.
“I’m happy to help you grocery shop. A growing young boy needs the right nutrients.”
“Oh my god, I’m twenty-one.”
“Like I said, young boy. So, where are you? Cereal? Chips and candy?”
Stiles shook his head even though Peter couldn’t see him. He felt calm and he turned back to the vegetables just as the sprayers turned on.
“Lettuce heads. Moving onto bananas.” Stiles moved along, grabbing the fruits that his dad would eat. “I’m not interrupting you? I don’t even know what time it is.”
“It’s almost noon. How long have you been stranded at the Ralphs?”
Stiles snorted.
“Don’t knock the Beacon Hills Ralphs. It has air conditioning and the best early nineties hits on loop. Sometimes the lights on the vegetables flicker and I can pretend I’m eating a haunted salad.” Stiles chuckled and passed the lobsters that always made him sad as they knocked their claws against the tank. Peter was silent. “Peter?”
He heard Peter clear his throat on the other line.
“Did you say Beacon Hills?”
Stiles bit his lip and ventured to get some toothpaste.
“I did. It’s a small town in—”
“I know. I live here.”
Stiles flushed pink and he dropped a bottle of mouthwash onto the floor and let it roll under the shelf. He felt prickles of anticipation crawl up the back of his neck and dig into his scalp.
“You do?” Stiles hiccupped over the words. “I didn’t know that.”
“How could you? I didn’t tell you.” Peter was laughing again, his breaths hitching over the line softly. “I just moved here last week. I know what you mean about the lights by the vegetables.” Stiles’s heart stuttered and he kept feeling the question push against his teeth, the terrifying desire to see Peter up close—but at the same time the distance made it easier. He kept choking on the indecision until Peter spoke again. “I could come to you… and help you make healthy decisions.”
Stiles smiled.
“Sure. If you make it here fast enough I’ll meet you by the wine.”
“I’ll see you there.”
He said it with certainty. Stiles purposely took his time. The stares that followed him anytime his father couldn’t squeeze grocery shopping into his schedule didn’t bother him anymore. He felt the whispers fall off his shoulders like oil and his hands were steady when he turned the corner towards the wine section.
Peter stood in a grey suit and slacks. Stiles wore busted jeans and a hoodie. Peter turned and his smile was sharp and completely warm. Stiles loved it. Peter bumped his shoulder against Stiles’s with a wink.
“Hello, hey, hi.”
The lights were too bright and the music was too bad for any rational person to think that this meeting was cute. Peter was able to leave his job in the middle of a Wednesday. Stiles felt like he should care about that. A Stiles from another time and place would have cared. That Stiles would have better shoes and would be able to sleep in a bed without jerking awake every fifteen minutes.
Present Stiles—the only Stiles—picked up a bottle of wine at random.
“I actually like champagne the most.”
Peter hummed as Stiles put the wine down.
“That’s fitting.” Stiles raised a brow and Peter smiled, slow and strategic. “It’s bubbly.”
Peter walked with Stiles, one hand on the cart and after Stiles paid he laughed when he struggled to balance the groceries and dig out his keys.
“So.” Stiles huffed and leaned against his Jeep. “Do you like it here?”
Peter shrugged.
“It’s a bit quiet but I’m sure there’s hidden beauty in this town.”
Stiles snorted, loud and unattractive. He crossed his arms to hide the tremors in his hands.
“Beauty? I guess.” Stiles swallowed and Peter kept looking at him even though there was nothing to see. Stiles wasn’t a quirky man and Peter wasn’t smooth talking him in a dimly lit bar. The tightness in his chest lessened. “If you ever want a guide to show you around just give me a call.” There was a strange sense of freedom that came with joking around with someone cut from the same weird cloth. “I know this town pretty well. Plus if you’re super bored I’ll tell jokes that may or may not land.”
Along the way Stiles’s arms relaxed until they fell to his sides and his slouch felt like it was more out of relaxation and less about the need to have his back against something.
“What’s your favorite restaurant here?”
“Uh…” The sun was too bright and Stiles squinted at Peter. “Depends. What do you like?”
“What do you like?”
“Well…” Stiles swallowed. He briefly considered lying but then decided against it. Lying took effort and Stiles saved his effort for when it mattered. “I only go to the diners since they’re open late and early.” Kathy’s was Stiles’s preferred diner because it had his favorite table tucked in the back corner where only the cooks could see him. “But I can tell it’s not the kind of place you like.”
Peter smiled like Stiles was a sweet candy that broke his teeth.
“Oh, you know about my tastes?”
“Sure.” Stiles swept his eyes over Peter’s suit, manicured nails, and hair that was so perfect it looked photoshopped. It just made the juxtaposition of the two of them more laughable. Peter must have been comfortable with their contrast. “Krave is for you. It’s on Spring Street, uses local ingredients, and is super organic. They make their own pasta and everything.”
“That is frighteningly accurate. It sounds lovely.”
Stiles smirked.
“I told you.” Stiles held his hand up in front of his eyes for a brief reprieve from the sun. “I got to run, but call me when you’re free. I’ll show you the best places Beacon Hills has to offer, even the places that are open after six.”
Stiles went about his day as he usually did. He made dinner right as his dad pulled in. Stiles set the table and listened to his father take off his boots and hang up his jacket. When Stiles sat down his father did a double take. Stiles’s stomach clenched instinctively.
“What?”
“You’re smiling. Did you have a good day?”
Stiles touched his lips with his fingers to confirm that he was indeed smiling. Naturally and out of the blue… smiling in a way that didn’t make his face ache and temples throb from the effort.
“Oh…” Stiles’s foot bounced. “Remember that guy at the airport?”
::::
Talia wasn’t a bad Alpha.
Peter knew horror stories of Alphas and their fragile egos that splintered Packs apart. That wasn’t the problem with his sister. Complacency was what Peter hated. He knew Talia was powerful, he knew they could expand their influence further than a small town in upstate New York.
He could still feel her claws as they tore open his cheek with the snarled demand to either challenge her or leave the Pack.
He knew he should feel a deep unease at making his Alpha angry. He should have immediately fallen to his knees and begged for forgiveness, but he didn’t. Because he felt nothing, no draw, not tether that he knew most, if not all other wolves felt.
Over the years he floated from place to place with the same excuse on his lips for any Packs that were nosy. I’m taking a brief sabbatical.
As his “sabbatical” lengthened Packs quickly caught wind of its permanence. No one wanted an unstable Omega in their territory even when Peter insisted he was clear-minded. Beacon Hills, however, was unclaimed territory and, of course, there was Stiles.
“You look nice.” Cora peered at him through their Skype connection. Peter had his laptop on the long counter in the bathroom as he scrutinized his reflection. “Got a hot date?”
His youngest niece was the only one in the Hale Pack who’d speak to him outside of the yearly Christmas card. He rolled his eyes and huffed out an exasperated breath.
“God willing.” Cora laughed and Peter was glad someone could find humor in Peter’s efforts in pursuing a handsome, funny, and oblivious young man. He spent weeks exploring the town and no amount of innuendo seemed to get past Stiles’s self-imposed blinders. Or, what was worse, was when Stiles would hear it and he’d laugh and hit Peter’s shoulder like they were sharing a joke. He spared a look at his niece. “How’s the Pack, Cora?”
“We’re good. Same old, same old.”
They both rolled their eyes and Peter always knew there was a reason that Cora was his favorite.
“Wish me luck. Be good, Cora.”
Beacon Hills was like any other small town Peter had lived in. The people were comfortable and in every person he could see why they were content in Beacon Hills. Everyone except Stiles.
Peter drove to the library where, as promised, Stiles waited out front with his bag slung over his shoulder. He smiled as soon as he saw Peter pull in. Peter preened, a dark and possessive creature unfurling in his chest.
Something happened with Stiles and he wasn’t referring to the tremors in his hands.
People were uncomfortable around him yet they would fall over themselves to help him, to give him discounts, yet they had trouble meeting his eyes. And Stiles kept smiling, but it wasn’t the smile he wore as he climbed into Peter’s car and threw his bag in the back.
“I’m starving please tell me you want to get food.”
Peter chuckled and pulled out onto the dark road.
“Lucky for you, I do. I made a reservation at Krave. I want to put your observations to the test.”
Stiles stilled briefly before he snorted.
“All right. Prepare to lose.”
Krave was exactly what Stiles had promised. Romantic lighting, dark wood, and the staff dressed in all back. The menu was seasonal and Peter had to admit… it all sounded delicious. Peter stretched his legs out and caught Stiles’s bouncing foot between his ankles.
Normally Peter would never stoop so low as to play footsie with someone as a method of flirting… but he was running out of ideas. Physical contact was required.
Stiles stopped mid-sentence, his story about summer fireworks raining down ash halted on his tongue as he stared at Peter. Finally, Peter thought. Stiles’s heartbeat quickened and he smiled, shy, sharp, and sweet in a way that made Peter’s stomach twist like he was poisoned. Stiles’s throat bobbed and his cheeks flushed pink. He licked his lips and Peter leaned forward—only for their waitress to arrive.
“H-Hi.” She was young, under thirty with her hair in a messy bun and eyeliner that was beginning to smudge. She stared at Stiles like he was a wild animal. “Um… have you had a chance to look at our menu?”
She wrung her hands and reeked of nervousness. Peter saw Stiles slouch out of the corner of his eye and it was settled.
“The rack of lamb sounds incredible and Stiles, you were looking at the polenta, right? If we can have those right away and pack it to-go that would be perfect.”
“Oh. All right, uh, just a moment.”
Their waitress left and Peter turned back to Stiles’s stunned face. Peter rolled his eyes.
“I’d rather you be comfortable on this date and since no one taught that young lady not to stare then we’ll go elsewhere.”
Stiles’s eyes widened and he flushed scarlet.
“Date?”
“Yes.” Peter sighed with slight mock exasperation. “This is a date, to be clear.”
“Okay.” Stiles smiled, his breathing slightly uneven. “Okay.”
They drove to the park in the town square. Most of the shops were closed and Stiles had his head in his hands, the tips of his ears bright red. The food was finished and Peter relished in being full and content as Stiles groaned.
“I didn’t think you were hitting on me—I just thought—” Stiles peered through his fingers and glowered at Peter’s smirk. “When exactly did you start flirting with me?”
Peter hummed, long and obnoxiously drawn out until Stiles kicked him.
“I’d say about fifteen minutes into our flight.”
“Oh my God.” Stiles went back to hiding his face. He leaned against Peter until they were shoulder-to-shoulder. His heartbeat was charmingly fast and his scent was laced with embarrassment and arousal. Peter wanted to chase the flutter up Stiles’s neck with his teeth and tongue. Stiles interrupted Peter’s mouth-watering thoughts with a withering stare. “You have questionable taste.”
With a smug smirk Peter took Stiles’s hands into his own and exposed his face.
“Just to be clear, I flirted with you because I find you very attractive and humorous. The only thing questionable about you is your observational skills… but now I know I just need to be direct in my intensions.” He felt Stiles’s hands tremble in his grip as he leaned in closer until their noses brushed against each other. “And Stiles?”
The young man’s breath puffed against Peter’s skin.
“Yes?”
Peter’s own heart beat faster and his skin tightened as he spoke against Stiles’s lush lips.
“I have excellent taste.”
Finally—Finally—their lips came together in a kiss. But it wasn’t just a kiss. It was Stiles’s fingers weaving through Peter’s and urging him to lean forward. It was Peter running his tongue along the seam of Stiles’s mouth before sucking his lower lip between his teeth. Stiles whimpered, high and broken. Peter growled low in his throat, enjoying every moan and gasp that buzzed on Peter’s tongue and teeth. Stiles kept pulling him back for more until Peter had to separate with a gasp for breath.
“You’re so full of shit.” Stiles grinned and pressed closer. “You’re just as red as I am.” Stiles’s hands were steady as he pinched Peter’s side, his smile widening when Peter squirmed. “You’re all smooth talking to cover up your nerves. I’m onto you.”
Stiles’s laugh tasted like champagne. Peter kissed the corner of Stiles’s mouth.
“Maybe I was worried I’d have to wait another month just to kiss you.”
“Oh my God.” Stiles flushed pink despite his smile. “Shut up.”
The young man’s lips were bruised, wet, and red. It was a stunning look on him. He wanted Stiles to ache the way he ached, he wanted Stiles to lick his lips the following day and only think of Peter. The feeling was mutual judging by Stiles’s stare.
Peter leaned back in, only for blinding headlights made him freeze in place.
Stiles leapt back and Peter stood, holding his hand up to block the high beams from his eyes. Stiles remained on the bench and Peter was able to make out the word Sheriff on the side of the cruiser. Stiles’s breath hitched and he smelled like salt. Peter stood in front of him as the Sheriff stepped out of his car.
“Peter Hale, please come with me.”
His voice was stern. Stiles’s hands shook and his shoulders curled inward. Peter kept his posture assertive and relaxed.
“No, thank you. Unless you can provide a legal reason I’m comfortable staying with my date, Sheriff.”
Peter saw the word date hit the Sheriff like a cold slap across the face. It made the older man’s heart rate increase and his fists clench.
“Stiles.” The Sheriff shifted his attention away from Peter. “Stiles, come with me—”
“Sheriff.” Peter’s smile was gone. Stiles sniffed and the smell of salt grew stronger. “I suggest you be very careful with what you say next. This is a nice town with nice people. It would be a shame for it to become infamous for a homophobic Sheriff threatening its citizens.” Peter watched the Sheriff turn his head to regard Peter again. Good, Peter thought, keep your eyes on me. “I’ll say it again. Choose your words wisely.”
Peter hoped the Sheriff would back off so he could do his best to salvage his date. He hoped to wipe the tears from Stiles’s cheeks before driving him home with the advice to lock his door. Unfortunately, Peter’s hopes were dashed against the pavement when the Sheriff chuckled and shook his head.
His cruiser’s doors opened and four others stepped out… and they weren’t police officers. The Sheriff switched off his car and even though Peter had to blink the residual light from his eyes he recognized the people behind the Sheriff. His shoulders slackened and his confidence left him.
Deucalion, Kali, Ennis, and Satomi regarded Peter with calm gazes. Behind him Stiles forced a laugh that sounded more like a sob.
“This is so embarrassing.”
Peter was numb when Kali took him by the arm and led him to the cruiser. Peter turned to see that Stiles covered his face while Deucalion and Satomi, two Alphas, dropped to their knees to speak to him. His slender fingers dragged down his wet cheeks to reveal bloodshot, exhausted eyes.
As Deucalion and Satomi whispered, Stiles lifted his eyes away from them to meet Peter’s stare.
Kalis’ grip tightened and she growled. Peter had to turn his back to Stiles as Kali led him into the dark.
::::
People used to ask Stiles what happened that night at the camp. They were disappointed to hear that Stiles didn’t remember any of the gritty details. Right after it happened everyone wanted to know what it felt like to be a hero, and all Stiles could do was shrug.
He remembered what was important.
He remembered the fire, Gerard with guns and torches pointed at kids, and the sound of the children crying for their parents. Stiles remembered the taste of bile in his throat and the feel of metal under his palm as he lined his knuckles up along the baseball bat’s grip.
Stiles did what he had to, which involved saving over seventy children from burning to death.
The medics and his father said that it was the adrenalin that kept Stiles calm. He wasn’t so sure because aside from the tremors in his hands… nothing scared him anymore. He’d faced death, he’d faced the gates of Hell in the form of a snarling old man and fire… and he’d made it out. He was bleeding and parts of him were broken, he knew this, but he had to stay strong for the wide-eyed kids.
Small hands held onto him. Stiles wanted to rest but he had to keep going. He kept going, going, and going until he made it to the police station.
Stiles sat in the same orange chair he’d been in all those years ago when frightened but alive children surrounded him. He’d grown taller since then, but he felt the same hollow ache in his chest as the adrenalin faded and the reality of the situation hit home. He wanted to tell the Alphas to get off their knees but he knew they’d refuse.
Even though his legs were weak he forced himself to stand. The three Alphas stood with him.
“All I’m hearing is that you’re upset I didn’t tell you about a new friend. I didn’t even know it was a date until an hour ago.” Stiles looked over to the interrogation room where Deucalion spoke to Peter. His father stood by the door. Stiles crossed his arms. “I love you guys, you know that, but I didn’t think I had to have friends vetted.”
“No.” Satomi grasped Stiles’s hands gently. “Of course not, but Peter Hale is a special exception.” Stiles had always liked Satomi. She was like the grandmother he never had. She glanced toward the one-way window, at Peter’s expressionless face. “He left his Pack, Stiles. He’s an Omega with no desire to join another Pack… it’s highly unusual and dangerous.”
Deucalion’s back was to the window but Peter faced it. He lifted his eyes and met Stiles’s gaze through the glass. Ennis growled in his chest.
“We’ll have him move on. I’m sure he’s used to it by now.”
“Used to what?”
Stiles turned and he didn’t like the smirk Kali exchanged with Ennis or the guilt-ridden frown on Satomi’s lips. It was Satomi who gently turned Stiles’s face away from Peter with warm, weathered hands.
“Stiles, Peter is unstable. It’s not natural for a wolf to be alone for so long. If he stays within a Pack’s territory they typically only allow it for a year. He’s too big of a risk.”
Rabid outrage coursed through Stiles so quickly and with such violence it took him by surprise. The three Alphas recoiled. There must have been something in Stiles’s eyes because the Sheriff pulled Deucalion out of the room before Stiles strode past him and slammed the door behind him.
Peter looked… just as handsome as he did at the start of the night. When he met Stiles’s gaze it was weighed with knowledge and respect that made Stiles nauseous.
“You don’t have to move.” Peter snorted with a roll of his eyes and Stiles bristled. “They,” Stiles pointed at the mirror where the four Alphas were watching, “don’t live here. It’s not their territory.” This time it wasn’t just Stiles’s hands that shook. His entire body trembled and he tasted copper between his teeth. There was a lot that Stiles respected about werewolves but not the choice to ostracize someone who just wanted to be left alone. A cold blade sliced between his ribs at the thought of Peter never being able to unpack. “You can stay here as long as you want and leave when you want, okay?”
“Okay.” Peter said it airily, smiling as he regarded Stiles with a warm gaze that was more suited for earlier in their date and not in a police interrogation room. “You’re even lovelier when you’re angry. I’m envious.”
The static-prickly anger disappeared and Stiles leaned on the table, his smile crooked and tired.
“You don’t have to flirt with me just to, you know, be in my ‘good books’ or whatever. I meant what I said. You can stay here.”
Peter rolled his eyes.
“I don’t grovel. If I flirt with you it’s because I find you alluring.” He stood and pushed the chair behind him with a loud scrape and suddenly he was between Stiles’s legs. “I’ll keep speaking directly for the unforeseeable future if I have to.”
Stiles heard a commotion outside but he couldn’t look away from Peter’s grin.
“I hate you.”
Peter leaned in close just as someone yanked open the door.
“No you don’t.”
Stiles didn’t like kissing. He had a few tries of it in high school and it always was so nerve-wracking it left a bad taste in his mouth. Some girls squeezed him too tight and some boys would use too much tongue. Stiles wrote kissing off as something he simply didn’t like. People didn’t like things all the time.
Over time Stiles had stopped mentioning this particular dislike. It made people uncomfortable, like Stiles just wasn’t getting it. Even his father would get a look on his face like he wanted to apologize for something out of his control.
Peter didn’t squeeze too tight and he didn’t thrust his tongue into Stiles’s mouth like he was brandishing a weapon. He was soft, playful, and let Stiles take his time in returning the affection. He didn’t mind that Stiles smiled when he kissed or that he broke apart with a laugh.
Stile was exhausted, his eyes stung, and he knew that the night was far from over. Still, he kissed Peter’s cheek even as Kali’s claws dug into Peter’s shoulder while his dad watched scandalized. Peter leaned forward to capture one last kiss, and Stiles knew he’d worry about everything later—that the feeling of champagne bubbling under his skin wouldn’t last—but in that moment he didn’t care.
He kissed Peter back.
::::
During the summer of the fire, the Sheriff’s house went from empty to overwhelmingly full.
Children piled themselves in his living room in order to be close to Stiles on the couch. The Sheriff watched his son nurse two broken ribs, a sprained wrist, and first degree burns on his back and still manage to smile for the kids he’d led all the way down the mountain and back into town.
Beauty and the Beast played softly on their television. Sometimes Stiles would laugh then immediately hiss in pain, his fingers splayed across his chest. The kids would whimper and move around him like living blankets.
The Sheriff made a mental grocery list of things he needed for pancakes for eighty people as four adults in his kitchen calmly explained to him that werewolves were real.
A British man named Deucalion explained that Stiles had prevented the genocide of an entire generation of wolves from different families all over the world. Kali, a fierce woman who had blood red eyes said that his son would live in their history forever as a saint. Ennis, the kind of muscle-head that normally made the Sheriff nervous, promised that Stiles would want for nothing his entire life. Satomi, who had less grey hair back then, asked if perhaps respecting Stiles’s privacy and keeping his name to themselves might be the best route.
He’d need at least six sticks of butter and he doubted that would last him three days of such company. Four dozen eggs, three galloons of milk, and five loaves of bread—would that be enough?
Would that be able to bring the naïve-but-eager light back to Stiles’s eyes? Would it let him sleep for more than four hours at night? Would it wash away the blood from under his fingernails and heal the burns on his back?
The foods weren’t a miraculous cure-all and neither was Peter Hale, but it was a step in the right direction.
Stiles would often travel to visit the kids, “my kids,” as he called them, but all of the kids came to Beacon Hills for the first week of November. The Sheriff gathered a bunch of bags in the morning for the massive grocery store trip when he heard a knock at the door.
The Sheriff paused. Stiles was at the park having a picnic with his kids. All seventy-six of them and he wasn’t due back until dinner. He opened the door and was unable to hide his shock when he saw Peter Hale leaning against his doorframe.
“Need help food shopping?”
Peter Hale was not the kind of man most fathers would want dating their son. He was older, he was more comfortable with a smirk on his face than a smile, and his humor was morbid and stung like salt on a wound. But he made Stiles laugh, and not just a simpering giggles. One night Peter went on a tear about socks and sandals that had Stiles in tears. Stiles wore a grin so wide that he looked years younger.
“Help wouldn’t hurt.”
Over the months Peter went from being the new guy to Stiles Stilinski’s boyfriend. No one cast them a second glance as they both pushed shopping carts down the aisle next to each other.
He watched Peter Hale scrutinize the granola with a judgmental frown.
“Just get four boxes of Cheerios. They’re kids, they don’t care.”
Peter leveled the Sheriff with raised brown and a flat stare.
“Nutrition is important.”
Peter wouldn’t let the Sheriff touch generic brands and he wouldn’t let him pay.
Stiles and his kids arrived with laughter and howls. The Sheriff had finished dinner and Peter was elbow deep in cookie dough. A choir of “Sheriff,” and “Papa Stilinski” made him melt. He dropped to his knees in the foyer to let the kids, now teenagers, rub their faces into his neck one by one.
Demora always waited last. She’d been the youngest survivor and he still marveled at how skinny her arms were. John squeezed her in a tight hug.
“Hey, kiddo.”
“Good evening, Sheriff.”
The Sheriff had to wade through the sea of teenagers that all tried to crowd in the kitchen to gawk at Stiles and Peter. Stiles stoles bites of cookie dough.
“Unbelievable.” Stiles waggled his eyebrows, blind to anything that wasn’t Peter’s sly grin. “Peter Hale is getting his hands dirty. Will the wonders never cease?”
“Keep running that pretty mouth and you won’t get any dessert.”
Stiles flushed scarlet and the kids shrieked with scandalized laughter. The Sheriff groaned.
“Lets keep it PG, okay?”
Peter turned to wink at the Sheriff from over his shoulder.
“Yes, Sheriff.”
Satomi, Deucalion, Ennis, and Kali requested frequent updates on Peter’s sanity and character. Was he cunning, was he unhinged, was he displaying any untoward behavior? The Sheriff submitted reports mostly because he didn’t want the four Alphas flying back to Beacon Hills looking for a fight.
Did the Sheriff like Peter Hale?
Not particularly.
Stiles passed out cookies and told stories until his voice gave out. He cuddled the kids and eventually passed out on the couch, one arm hanging off the side. Their Pack, as the Sheriff had come to think of the kids over the years, breathed softly.
Peter slipped away into the shadows like a whisper. The Sheriff wasn’t sure if he liked Peter, but he did like that the dark circles under Stiles’s eyes were beginning to fade.
::::
The wolf had Stiles pinned up against the door the moment he walked into Peter’s apartment. Stiles tilted his head to the side and his chest fluttered when Peter licked a long stripe up his neck.
“Whoa.” Stiles writhed against he door when Peter pressed his thigh against Stiles’s swelling cock. Peter growled and Stiles turned his head to the other side so Peter could give his skin the same treatment. “I’d have invited the kids over sooner if I knew it would make you this hands-y.”
Sharp teeth stole Stiles’s breath and he thought, after months and months—almost a year—that the novelty of sex would fade. Stiles trembled as he kicked off his pants and pulled his shirt up and off. Peter rid himself of his clothes quickly and soon Stiles’s world was intoxicating slide of skin-on-skin.
“It doesn’t take any special circumstance for me to want my scent on you.” Peter’s voice was slurred with teeth and desire. Stiles was bubbling over and Peter’s eyes darkened when Stiles spread his legs, splayed out on the bed. “Inside… I want my scent inside of you.”
Shivers of surprised delight made Stiles’s skin tighten. He gasped when Peter’s claws dug into his thigh—then Peter pulled back. Stiles glared up at him, chest heaving.
“What is it?”
“You’re still surprised by this.” Stiles narrowed his eyes, retort on his tongue, when Peter wrapped his fingers around Stiles’s erection and squeezed. “I hardly see how my affection can still take you by surprise.”
“F-Fuck you.” Stiles’s thighs trembled as he thrust into Peter’s firm grip. “Come on, Peter, fuck me—”
Peter immediately pulled his hand away. Stiles swore loudly and glared at Peter’s dumb, smug face.
“Oh darling. I’ve been neglecting my promise to be transparent.” Stiles was spinning in a haze of lust and annoyance—a common state when dating Peter—and Peter thankfully clarified. “Just to be clear,” Peter drawled as he let his fingers softly circle Stiles’s nipples, “I adore you.”
The moment the words left Peter’s mouth he pinched Stiles’s nipples and Stiles keened, his face hot and his cock impossibly hard. He felt like a giant pulse, throbbing in time to Peter’s breath.
“You’re enchanting, Stiles.” Peter spoke the words against Stiles’s soft and tender chest; each brush and push of his lips like fiery satin. “I haven’t been able to take my eyes off you since the airport.”
Stiles twisted under Peter’s tongue as he teased him, dipping down his abdomen until Peter sucked twin bruises on the inside of his thighs.
“P-Peter.” Stiles suddenly forgot all words that weren’t Peter’s name. “Peter!”
“I know.” Peter hushed him, his breaths teasing Stiles’s cock maddeningly. “I know, sweetheart,” his lips, those same lips that smirked at Stiles all day, brushed against his erection. “I need you to listen to me.”
Stiles nodded and language returned to him.
“Yes. Okay.”
Peter moved up to steal a kiss from Stiles and grab lube from his bedside drawer. He was soon back between his legs, speaking against the sensitive skin at the base of his cock.
“I always want your eyes on me.” Peter pressed a slick finger inside of Stiles and stared up at him. “I want you, always. So much that it’s indecent.” Stiles watched as Peter’s throat bobbed, his face pink. “Stiles,” Peter’s voice cracked and Stiles pushed back against his fingers, “I am consumed by you everyday.”
Finally Peter pushed inside of him. Stiles’s breaths came in sobs and Peter kissed him, biting his lips in time with his thrusts. Stiles’s fingers scrambled to grip Peter’s shoulders.
“Stiles.” Peter’s voice was strained and Stiles struggled to meet his dark gaze. “Have I made myself perfectly clear?”
“Yes—yes, Peter—”
When Stiles came his spine arched and his ears popped. He babbled and he wasn’t sure what he said. Peter didn’t last much longer, his hips stuttering forward until he stilled.
Stiles floated, his body numb and his he only opened his eyes when Peter wiped his face with a cloth. He curled onto his side and tucked himself against Peter’s chest. He threw his arm over Peter’s side and pulled himself close.
“I like you too, weirdo.” Endorphins and satisfaction slurred his words. He closed his eyes. “I wish you were always touching me.”
He drifted to sleep just as Peter’s grip on him tightened.
Stiles didn’t regret his life or the decisions he made that fateful summer. If he could go back he wouldn’t change a thing.
Over the years Stiles realized that he’d been stuck in a fight-or-flight loop and he was just recently able to get comfortable with living again. His hands still shook but he could sleep five and a half hours straight on a mattress. He didn’t mind going out in public or putting a deposit down on an apartment.
His father and Peter were in the living room and the Sheriff was extra prickly since Stile was leaving the nest. Stiles lugged one of many boxes that belonged to Peter into their master bedroom.
“Peter, I’m not carrying another box of books and cement—stop harassing my dad and move yourself in!”
Stiles dropped the box and sat down on the door of their master bedroom. He took his time to catch his breath and he heard Peter call back from the hall.
“As you wish, darling!”
Stiles shook his head and reached for the box. Sure enough it was filled with books. Stiles loved books, but he hated carrying boxes of them up four flights of stairs. He picked through the titles, his fingers running along hard covers and old pages. Outside it was getting chilly with the fall weather. He heard his father and Peter exchange quick-witted barbs outside just as Stiles’s fingers hit something that wasn’t a book.
He pulled the box closer. Tucked between two books was something smooth and small. Stiles pulled out a black velvet box.
Outside Peter had three boxes stacked in his arms and the Sheriff debated whether or not to add a fourth. In the master bedroom Stiles turned a platinum ring over in his fingers. Engraved on the inside was Just to be clear, I love you.
“Hey, Stiles. I thought you had more stamina. Did one box of books knock you out?”
The velvet box and ring were tucked back in its place and Stiles smiled as he slipped past Peter.
“You know I’ve got stamina.”
His dad groaned in the doorway as Peter laughed. Stiles had to take up one more box while Peter took over an hour to decide on a delivery place.
They ate lo mein cross-legged on their living room floor. Stiles’s hands shook to the point where he would sometimes loose all the noodles on his chopsticks and they had two more days of moving ahead of them.
Peter kissed his temple and his arm was a warm, comforting weight around his shoulder.
It wasn’t perfect, but perfect was boring anyway.