#steter secret santa 2k17

[thisdiscontentedwinter]

e-Missary

It’s the 27th here, so I’m posting my Steter Secret Santa fic. 

Happy holidays to my giftee @hotpinklizard and I hope you enjoy! 

And thank you to @stetersecretsanta for putting this whole thing together! 

Peter Hale has a tension headache building behind his eyes, a nephew who has picked the wrong time to have a crisis of conscience, and a bound and gagged college freshman in the trunk of his car as he speeds north along Highway 101. This is not how he intended his weekend to go, but Peter is nothing if not adaptable.

“I’m calling Mom,” Derek says, stony-faced.

“Come now, nephew.” Peter flashes him a smile. “No need to be hasty.”

There’s a barrage of dull thumps from the trunk of the car.

“I’m calling Mom,” Derek repeats.

Peter sighs as Derek digs around in his pockets.

“Where’s my phone?” Derek growls, his eyes flashing.

“Did you leave it on the top of the car when we stopped for gas?” Peter asks. “People do that all the time.”

“Why would I…” Derek trails off, words replaced with a more menacing growl this time as he realizes exactly what happened to his phone, and exactly who is to blame.   

In Peter’s defense, Derek should be more careful with his personal belongings and not leave them where they can be so easily pick-pocketed. Like in his pockets. That’s just asking for trouble. Perhaps Peter setting his phone on the roof of the car at the last gas station will teach him to be more responsible in the future.

“I’ll buy you a new one,” Peter promises.

He will, too. Peter is always as good as his word—although, crucially, never any better—and none of this is Derek’s fault. Peter blames Alan Deaton for this entire mess, actually. Peter has never trusted Deaton. Never. Deaton is too difficult to read, and Peter has never believed that the emissary’s goals align exactly with those of the Hale Pack.

Former emissary’s.

Peter leans down to turn the volume up on the radio, hoping to drown out both Derek’s growling and the incessant thumping from the trunk. They’ll both tire themselves out sooner or later, right?

The rousing strains of Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries fill the car. It seems like appropriate musical accompaniment for the shitstorm Peter is currently well and truly headed into.

No, this is definitely not how he intended on spending his weekend.

None of this is his fault, for the record. Peter would like that very clearly stated. It’s all Alan Deaton’s fault. And it started three weeks ago back in Beacon Hills.

***

 “Excuse me?” Peter asks in the sudden silence. “You’re fucking joking, aren’t you?”

His sister Talia leans back in her chair and gives him a look. The look. The one she’s been giving him since the day he was born. The Peter-I-can’t-believe-you-please-act-like-a-civilized-creature-for-once-in-your-life-for-the-love-of-all-that-is-holy look. It’s what Talia does. And Peter ignores it, because that’s what he does.

“I assure you I’m not joking,” Alan Deaton says in that insufferably calm manner of his that makes Peter want to tear his throat out. “I’m going to move to Minnesota and start up an organic dairy farm.”

“Okay, that’s bullshit,” Peter says, narrowing his eyes. “For starters, nobody would choose to move to Minnesota. And secondly, you don’t get to retire, Alan, you’re our emissary!”

Peter doesn’t like Deaton, but that doesn’t mean the smarmy asshole just gets to walk away. Deaton is their emissary. It’s a sacred trust. There were blood oaths involved. Retirement is not a fucking option.

“Peter’s right, Alan,” Talia says, sounding way too calm for the situation.

Of course Peter’s right. Peter is always right. Really, the sooner people realize this fact as one of the immutable truths of the universe, the better off everyone will be and the more smoothly everything will run.

Deaton looks as serenely unruffled as always. He inclines his head a fraction. “I assure you, Talia, that the welfare of the Hale Pack remains my highest priority.”

Peter folds his arms over his chest. He can barely suppress the urge to roll his eyes.

Outside, he hears the patter of little paws in the corridor. Peter prowls closer to the closed library door and growls lowly, just to remind any small eavesdroppers that now might be a good idea to be elsewhere, and is rewarded by the sound of the pups skedaddling away again. Sometimes being the alpha’s left hand means drowning her enemies in their own blood, and sometimes it means stopping small excitable children from barging into meetings. It’s a mixed bag.

When he turns back to Talia and Deaton, it’s just in time to see Deaton slide what looks to be a business card across Talia’s desk.

Talia picks it up and inspects it. “What’s this?”

“That,” Alan Deaton says, “is the name of a spark who can act as your emissary until you find a permanent replacement.”

“Alan,” Talia says. “He has a website.”

“Stiles offers an online service,” Deaton says calmly.

“Online,” Talia repeats, arching an unimpressed eyebrow.

Peter stalks forward and holds his hand out for the card.

Stiles the Spark, it reads in unnecessary cursive, e-Missary online services.

What. The. Fuck?

Peter has always been interested in magic. Unnaturally so, actually, since most werewolves have an aversion to it. That aversion is more cultural than biological. For creatures that surround themselves with magic, werewolves shy away from practicing it. It’s why human emissaries are so necessary for packs: to place wards, to enhance the strength of the pack bonds and the alpha, to use their magic to protect, to defend and—if necessary—to attack. Magic is elemental. It’s tied intrinsically to the pack, to the land, and to the heartbeat of the magic user.

There’s no fucking app for it, basically.

Peter wants nothing more than to tear the business card up into shreds, and shove the pieces up Alan Deaton’s ass.

Deaton just smiles slightly. “Stiles is more than capable of maintaining the wards and monitoring the telluric currents online, I promise you.”

“We’re talking about magic, Alan,” Talia says. “Not tech support.”

“What’s the difference, really?” Deaton asks, a slight smile tugging up the corners of his mouth.

Talia blinks at him, like she’s actually thinking about it.

Shit.

She’s actually going to fall for his enigmatic bullshit. 

“Talia,” Peter says, voice low in warning.

Talia takes back the business card, and looks at it thoughtfully.

“Talia,” Peter repeats.

His sister meets his gaze and shrugs. “It can’t do any harm to look into it, Peter.”

Fuck Alan Deaton, fuck Minnesota, and fuck Peter’s life. Because of course it won’t be Talia looking into it, will it? No, it will not. This is absolutely going to be a job for her left hand. And, like wrangling the toddlers away from secret meetings with the emissary, it’s going to be one of the shitty jobs.

Peter can just tell.

 ***

 Talia, against Peter’s advice, makes contact with the emissary. Or, rather, the e-Missary. Jesus. Peter detests him for that butchering of the English language alone.   

“His name really is Stiles,” Talia tells Peter the next morning over breakfast. “He’s a freshman at Stanford. He’s been practicing magic since he was fourteen.”

“That’s hardly a ringing endorsement if he’s still practically in diapers,” Peter points out.

“He comes with a recommendation from Satomi.”

Okay, so that’s a surprise. Satomi Ito is the alpha of a pack in a neighboring territory, and she’s no pushover.

“I don’t like it,” Peter says. “I don’t care if Deaton says he can work his magic remotely. That’s not the point. The point is, an emissary is supposed to have a bond with a pack. How the hell are we supposed to know if we can even trust this Stiles if we can’t scent him, or hear his heartbeat?”

And that’s the crux of the matter. Werewolves rely on scent, and on body language, and on a thousand different tells in the way a person presents themselves. And none of those things work via email. This spark could be laughing at them while he plans to dismantle every one of the magic protections Alan Deaton has set up around the Hale territory, and they wouldn’t even know it.

It’s dangerous.

Peter lowers his voice. “How do we know he isn’t working for some other pack at the same time he’s worming his way past our defenses?”

Werewolf packs aren’t what they once were, but that’s not to say there are no longer any fangs hidden behind polite smiles, or claws in a handshake. And the Hale territory is very attractive. A faithless emissary could easily sell them out to the highest bidder. And while that may not be a likely scenario, it’s still Peter’s job to consider it. He wouldn’t be his alpha’s left hand if he trusted too easily. The requirements for the job of left hand are a keen intelligence wrapped around a suspicious nature, an aptitude for intrigue that would make Machiavelli proud, and a strong stomach when it comes to bloodshed.

Peter is over qualified.

He was born over qualified.

Talia reaches out and puts her hand on his shoulder. “The contact specifies that he’s to work with only one pack at a time.”

Peter waits.  

Talia digs her fingers in to the muscle of his shoulder. “Look into it for me, won’t you, Peter?”  

Peter nods, his eyes flashing.

Stiles the Spark had better be exactly as trustworthy as he promises, or he’s going to be in for a world of regret.

 ***

 For all of her initial caution, Talia spends an hour on the phone with Satomi Ito, and then signs the contract with Stiles the Spark on a Monday afternoon.

“Satomi vouches for him,” she says, as though that settles the matter. “And I’ve spoken to him. I think we can trust him.”

“Are you serious?” Peter is aghast.

“It’s fine, Peter,” Talia says. “I’ve made my decision. Let it go.”

It doesn’t settle the matter at all. Not for Peter.

“Besides,” Talia says, “the website thing is very modern.”

She says it as though Peter should be amused, or at least grudgingly impressed.

Peter is neither.

On Tuesday morning, the air shimmers in the Preserve as the wards pulse and surge. There’s a burst of ozone in the air, the smell of a sky before the storm, and then it passes.

On Tuesday evening Alan Deaton inspects the new wards, declares them good, and packs his car and heads for Minnesota.

Peter hopes that the first time he tries to milk an organic dairy cow, it steps on his head and crushes his skull.

 ***

 Derek is never going to be a left hand. The boy is… well, Peter loves him dearly, but he’s a marshmallow. Even the leather jacket and the brooding eyebrows can’t hide that for long. Peter has always been amused at how differently they present. Derek tries to look like a bad boy even though that mask is as flimsy as rice paper. Peter, on the other hand, comes across as charming and friendly. By the time people see Peter’s fangs, it’s way too late.

Derek is not Peter’s first choice for a sidekick, or a minion, or whatever the term is whenever the left hand needs a little backup. Hopefully the term is not co-defendant. Peter’s first choice for business like this would be Cora, but she’s away at college so it’s Derek who accompanies him on his trip to the Bay Area to find out what they can about Stiles the Spark.

They don’t even have his full name, but they do know where he lives. Not that it was easy information to find. Peter had to call in a huge favor to get the address. But all the VPNs and proxies and whatever the hell else the spark used to hide his location—Peter is not especially tech savvy—were no match at all for Peter’s contact in the NSA. Really, it’s a travesty how the government spies on its own citizens, but it’s so useful.

Stiles the Spark lives in a small studio apartment in Charleston Meadow. The building is old but reasonably well maintained. It’s nothing special at all, although Peter has no doubt the rent is exorbitant. Welcome to the Bay Area.

Peter and Derek park a little way up the street, and then they wait.

Peter flicks through the contract the spark signed with Talia. The one where he agrees to work exclusively with the Hale Pack for the duration of the contract. It’s a six week contract, with an option for an extension if both parties agree. In those six weeks, Stiles the Spark will take care of defensive warding, do whatever general protective spell-work is required of him by Talia, and respond to any formal communications made by other packs. All the very basic duties of an emissary, but Peter deeply distrusts handing those duties over to a stranger, however highly recommended he comes.

He glares at Stiles the Spark’s illegible crawl of a signature on the contract, and feels his upper lip curl up in a snarl.

“You’re sure this guy is plotting to backstab us somehow, aren’t you?” Derek asks.

“I’m not sure of anything,” Peter says. “That’s why we’re here.”

“Not everyone has ulterior motives.”

“Not everyone,” Peter agrees. “But it only takes one.”

Derek presses his mouth together a little tightly, and if he’s not thinking of Kate Argent right now then he damn well should be. If it hadn’t been for Peter following Derek to one of his assignations with his secret girlfriend, Kate Argent might have killed them all. So no, Peter will never apologize for being suspicious-minded.

“Does Mom know we’re here?” Derek asks after a moment.

“She asked me to look into things,” Peter says, neglecting to mention that she later rescinded that order.  

Derek’s brows pull together. “But does she know we’re here?”

Peter does him a favor and doesn’t answer that directly. Derek is a mama’s boy. He hates disappointing Talia. Given that she’s the alpha, it’s no character flaw at all but Derek doesn’t even give himself any wriggle room. It would be unthinkable to him to act without his alpha’s explicit permission. He wasn’t always like this, but with Derek it’s once bitten, twice shy. Just another legacy of Kate Argent.

“It’s fine, Derek,” Peter says, his mouth curling up in what he intends to be a reassuring smile. “It’s fine, I promise.”

Derek doesn’t look convinced.

Once Peter has got this spark thing sorted out, he’s going get Derek very, very drunk on wolfsbane-infused whiskey, take him to a club, and encourage him to make some reckless decisions with some pretty people. The boy really needs to loosen up. Most importantly, he needs to learn that it’s entirely possible to get laid without having to fear for his life, and that the act of putting his dick inside someone has no correlation at all with whether or not they’re plotting to kill him and his entire pack. Really, the chances of that happening more than once are infinitesimal, right?

It’s past noon when a young man appears from the front of the apartment complex in an explosion of plaid and flailing limbs. He looks like a typical college kid: bags under his eyes, a backpack flung over his shoulder, mussed up hair, and clothes that have never seen an iron. Peter watches his progress from the front steps to the sidewalk with an amused sort of disinterest—the kid is clearly not a spark. He is too young, too clumsy, and he gives off the same commanding aura of power and control as a kitten chasing a ping pong ball across a newly waxed floor—but Peter watches him because there’s nothing else to watch. Which is why he’s paying attention when the kid trips over his own feet, and the contents of his backpack go flying.

Paper and pens and other detritus scatter all over the sidewalk.

A gleaming silver laptop… does not.

It just hangs in the air, a foot or so above the ground, with the kid’s hand outstretched toward it. For a moment nothing moves, and then the kid hurries forward and plucks the laptop out of the air. He shoves it into his backpack with a guilty expression on his face, and then gets down on his hands and knees to collect everything else. Moments later he’s back on his feet, jogging toward the battered old blue Jeep parked further down the street.

“Did that…” Derek murmurs, and shakes his head. “Did that just happen?”

Peter feels a thrill run through him. It’s not very often that he’s surprised.

“Well,” he says, craning his neck to watch as the Jeep roars off down the street. “I think we’ve found our spark.”

 ***

 Stiles the Spark lives in apartment 4F. It’s the work of minutes for Peter to pick the lock. He feels a buzz of something like static in the air as the door swings open, and then all the air is abruptly sucked out of the room, the edges of Peter’s vision darken, and Peter gets a whiff of a scent that makes his fangs drop and his claws extend just as the door slams shut in his face again.

Well then.

It looks like they just tripped the spark’s alarm system.

Good.

Because if what Peter just smelled inside the spark’s apartment is indeed the case, then this information gathering mission just turned into something very different indeed.

And Peter will take the spark apart very, very slowly with his claws until he tells them who he’s really working for.

  ***

 Derek isn’t Peter’s first choice for a sidekick, but he does make excellent bait. He’s fiddling with the lock on the door of apartment 4F when the Stiles the Spark returns, while Peter, thanks to the judicious application of a teensy bit of magic and the handy placement of an incredibly ugly ficus in the hallway of the apartment building, doesn’t even register as a blip on the spark’s radar. Of course, the spark is way more fixated on the guy trying to break into his apartment.

Peter was counting on that.

The boy is magnificent, really.

He strides down the hallway toward Derek, and he’s no flailing, clumsy student now. He’s a whirlwind, a dervish, a force of nature.

“Who sent you?” he demands, voice as low as a predator’s as he stalks closer to Derek. “What do you want?”

He could call up storms with that voice, Peter thinks. Call up storms and rain down fire. All the electricity in the air seems to gather around him as he moves. It crackles, and the air shifts and shimmers around him.

He’s incredible.

A part of Peter almost wants to see how this will play out—he imagines something with thunderbolts—but Derek is looking increasingly terrified, like a fluffy little bunny cornered by something with fangs, and Talia will never forgive Peter if her baby doesn’t come home in one unblemished piece.

“What are you doing here?” the boy demands, closing the distance between him and Derek. “Who the hell are you?”

Peter almost reluctantly steps out from the shelter provided by the ficus. “He would be the distraction, sweetheart.”

The boy spins back to face him, and his mouth drops open just as Peter blows a handful of iron filings right in his face.

The boy is magnificent, but he has fuck all situational awareness.

His eyes roll back in his head and he goes down like a sack of rocks.

“And you must be Stiles,” Peter says with a smirk.

 ***

 Thump thump thump from the trunk.

Well, apparently someone is still very unhappy about his travel arrangements. 

They’re still about two hours from Beacon Hills, which means they’re an hour and a half from Peter’s cabin. He calls it his cabin in the hope that it sounds quaint and charming, but Laura insists it makes him sound like the Unabomber, and Cora calls it “Uncle Peter’s little den of torture.” Peter prefers to think of it as his little den of intensive practical applied information gathering, but that just doesn’t roll off the tongue quite as easily. It’s less of a cabin and more of a bunker, to be honest, and it is filled with everything Peter needs to get Stiles the Spark to talk.

He grips the steering wheel tightly, fighting the urge to let his claws descend and ruin his new hand-sewn nappa leather steering wheel cover. He’s a werewolf, not a Philistine.

Thump thump thump.

Derek gives him the side eye. He’s still pissed about his phone, probably, and also probably about the fact that he’s become an accomplice in an abduction. And probably that whole using-him-as-bait thing back at the apartment building. Still, the boy could stand to lighten up a little. Nobody died.

Yet.

Peter turns the stereo up.

Thump thump thump.

Stiles is cuffed in iron shackles—wrists and ankles—in the trunk of the car. He is blindfolded and gagged. He is wrapped up like a burrito in a blanket made out of steel wool, which can’t be very comfortable, but contains enough iron to keep a moderate dampner on that magic of his.

And preventing him from using his magic is one thing, but maybe Peter should have slipped him a roofie too. Still, every mile brings them closer and closer to the cabin, and it’s not like the spark is going anywhere in the meantime. And how much damage can he really do, locked securely in the trunk?

Thump thump thump CRACK.

Fuck.

“What the hell?” Derek asks, twisting in his seat as though he’ll actually be able to see what’s going on in the trunk.

Peter resists the urge to roll his eyes.

He can only deal with one annoying fucking irritant at a time, and right now that irritant is Stiles.

It takes longer than Peter would like to reach the nearest exit on the highway, and longer than that to get the car to somewhere secluded enough to actually pull over and sort this little bastard out. When he parks behind the shelter of a copse of trees, he and Derek get out and inspect the damage. The tail light is hanging by the wires from the back of the car.

Peter really, really hopes that nobody saw the kid kick it out and then called the police with his license plate number.

He opens the trunk.

Stiles is a mess. He’s still half-wrapped up in the blanket, but he’s struggled enough that he’s opened up patches of abrasions all over his arms and his face. His skin is covered in sweat and smears of blood. His gag is still in, but his blindfold is askew. One eye, golden-bright and piercing as an owl’s in the late afternoon sun, stares up at Peter narrowly.

Peter smiles at him, and extends a clawed hand toward his face.

Stiles doesn’t even flinch.

“Damage my car again,” Peter says, keeping his voice low as a prayer, “and you’ll regret it. What’s that saying?” He drags a claw gently over the boy’s sharp cheekbone, not quite hard enough to draw blood. “An eye for an eye?”

Stiles holds his gaze, and there’s murder in it.

Peter slams the trunk shut again.

There’s no noise at all from the trunk for the rest of the drive.

 ***

 It’s getting late by the time they reach the cabin. It’s almost winter, and the evenings are beginning to draw in earlier. There’s a chill in the air, but nothing a werewolf can’t handle. Peter and Derek haul Stiles out of the trunk of the car, and both get the benefit of that baleful one-eyed stare as they manhandle him toward the cabin. Stiles smells like electricity, and touching him, even bundled up as he is in his abrasive steel wool blanket, makes Peter’s skin prickle. Stiles is breathing heavily, and sweat has slicked his hair to his temples. His heart is thumping as fast as a rabbit’s.

Peter disarms the alarm system and unlocks the cabin door. He steps inside and turns on the lights. They’re halogen. Bright and unforgiving.

Stiles sucks in a breath as he sees what’s waiting for him.

The cabin is… well, it’s a clearly been build for one purpose, and not a nice one. It looks like the sort of place specifically designed to torture and dismember people with the minimum of fuss, and then possibly use their skin to make gloves out of. Not that Peter has ever done that. But if he wanted to, here would be the place. It’s more Hannibal Lector than Buffalo Bill. It’s clean, but that doesn’t mean it’s not ominous.

The main room is windowless. It has two very large stainless steel counters that run lengthways down the room. Underneath the counters are drawers and cabinets. There is a large gleaming sink on the far wall between them. The resemblance to a morgue isn’t entirely accidental. The room also has a polished cement floor that slopes gently toward a drain in the corner. So much easier for cleanup.

There’s a sturdy chair in the middle of the floor.

Peter and Derek manhandle Stiles onto the chair, and then Peter opens one of the many cabinets and pulls out a length of iron chain. Heavy as hell. Peter uncuffs Stiles’s ankles, and then wraps the chain around Stiles’s left ankle, winding it up his leg as far as his knee and pushing the blanket out of the way as he goes, and then winds the remainder around his right leg in a similar fashion. He secures it with a padlock.

Iron, of course.

Only then does he pull the blanket away from Stiles. Only then does he pull off the skewed blindfold, and tug the gag out of Stiles’s mouth.

“Nice place you’ve got here,” Stiles says, voice rasping. “Cosy.”

Peter smirks, and glances at Derek, who is lurking uneasily by the door. Then he fixes his attention on Stiles again. “Isn’t it?”

“Who the fuck are you?” Stiles asks, narrowing his eyes like he really thinks he’s in any position to be demanding answers. He’s certainly got balls. If Peter couldn’t hear the rapid thump of his heart or smell the way that adrenaline sours the edges of his scent, he’d almost think Stiles was unafraid.

But Stiles is way too clever to be truly unafraid.

His sharp gaze is taking everything in: Peter, Derek, the cabin. Peter can also see him trying to flex his legs to test the give in the chains. There is none. His cuffed hands are resting in his lap, and his long fingers are mapping the lock, as though he’ll find a weakness there. He won’t.

Peter only smirks, and flashes his eyes at Stiles.

“Werewolf,” Stiles murmurs. “Werewolves don’t use magic.”

“Well, I’m no spark but I know a trick or two.”

“As you clearly demonstrated at my apartment,” Stiles says. His voice is level, but Peter can tell he’s plotting sixteen different methods of murder behind those lovely eyes of his. “Iron filings and a binding curse, right?”

“Simple but effective,” Peter says.  

“Huh.” Stiles seems strangely unimpressed for someone who hit the floor like a brick. “So, where’s your alpha?”

“I’m afraid it’s me that you’ll be dealing with, and not my alpha.”

Stiles leans forward in his chair. “No can do, V-neck. I’m an emissary. I only deal with your alpha.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Peter lies, keeping his tone honey-sweet. “Were you under the impression we’d be following protocol here today? The abduction didn’t clue you in at all?”

“Fair point.” He voice rasps and he clears his throat. For a moment he regards Peter narrowly, and then he turns to look at Derek. He widens his eyes. His bottom lip trembles slightly. And no. No, that will not do. Because Derek is exactly the sort of person who will fall for that vulnerable Bambi bullshit, and it’s taken Stiles the work of moment to pick him out as the weak link. Smart boy.

Peter moves a few paces to the right and blocks Stiles’s view of Derek. “Well then, let’s get down to business. Who are you working for, Stiles?”

Stiles holds his gaze. “That’s something I’m happy to discuss with your alpha.”

“Stubborn,” Peter says approvingly. “Funny thing about stubbornness. I’ve discovered it’s inversely proportionate to the number of fingernails a person still has.”

A corner of Stiles’s mouth twitches. “That is funny.” He wrinkles his nose. “I should probably tell you that I don’t do well with threats.”

“Is that so?”

“Mmm.” Stiles rolls his shoulders and blinks up at Peter. “I have ADD. All this back-and-forth posturing bullshit that you werewolves enjoy so much? I mean, I appreciate that you’re trying to create like a sense of impending doom here and stuff, but I have the attention span of a hummingbird on speed, so, honestly, while you’re building up to your big scary moment, I’m sorting through the six thousand tabs I’ve got open in my brain instead. You should probably just save yourself the effort and cut to the chase.”

“Are you sure that’s what you want, Stiles?”

The cuffs on Stiles’s wrists clink together as he shrugs. “I already told you, V-neck. I only talk to your alpha.”

Peter steps back for a moment, and regards the spark curiously. He’s an interesting one. A strange little puzzle indeed. He smells a little of fear, but there’s something else there as well. There’s a brightness in his eyes that Peter distrusts. What a shame that Stiles is so keen to skip the friendly little chat and get right to the torture: Peter is sure he’d make a bright conversationalist. If they’d met in different circumstances, Peter might not be able to resist the challenge in those eyes. Or resist the temptation to end the evening with Stiles’s long legs thrown over his shoulders as Peter fucked him hard enough that the boy saw several previously undreamt of dimensions when he came. And Peter could absolutely do that with his dick. It’s phenomenal.

What a shame that it’s never going to happen and that Stiles has already dug his own grave. Figuratively, at least. Peter will get Derek onto the actual digging later. But the moment Peter opened Stiles’s apartment door and smelled the unmistakable scent of another werewolf permeating the place he’d known that Stiles had lied to Talia, and that he had to die.

Stiles’s eyes widen when Peter opens one of the cabinets and begins to lay out a series of shiny implements: knives, pliers, thumbscrews. Clink clink clink against the countertop.

Stiles’s throat clicks as he swallows.

Derek growls, low and worried.

Peter selects the pliers first. He steps toward Stiles, and speaks softly. “We don’t have to do this, Stiles.”

Stiles bites his lower lip. “We don’t?”

“You could just tell me who you’re working for, and we can stop before we even start.”

“Right.” The word comes out on a breath, and for a moment Peter thinks that he’s going to fold. Then he meets Peter’s gaze again, and holds it. Fragile and courageous at the same time. Peter almost regrets what has to be done when Stiles shivers. “I… I can’t.”

His heartbeat is steady. He’s not lying.

What a shame.

Peter takes Stiles’s hands in his, and wrenches his arms out straight. The cuffs clink and rattle as he positions the pliers. “Last chance, sweetheart.”

“I…” Stiles’s expression shifts suddenly. Sharpens. Hardens. “I’m not going to let that happen, asshole.”

There’s a sudden burst of blinding white light, and Peter is thrown clear across the room and into the wall. The wall cracks, and so does his skull.

His last thought before he blacks out is that that spell with the iron filings wasn’t worth the money he paid for it. 

 ***

 Peter comes to in slow degrees, and finds that it’s his turn to be tied to the chair. With rope woven with wolfsbane, no less. Really, that might be his own fault for keeping it in the cabin. He blinks around the room and sees Derek standing in the corner, his arms folded over his chest and a frown on his face. There’s a circle of ash fencing him in. There’s one around Peter’s chair as well.

And Stiles the Spark is going through the cabinets, making interested humming noises whenever he finds something that catches his attention. “Is this Nordic blue monkshood?” A low whistle of approval. “Nice.” He rattles around for a moment longer. “Holy shit. You have the Petit Albert. I only have a PDF of this.”

Peter growls.

Stiles straightens up, cradling the grimoire gently. His eyes are bright and his smile is wide. “Wow. After my alpha rips your throats out, I’m definitely stealing this.”

No, today is not going to plan at all.

“Who’s your alpha?” he asks. Might as well know, right? Might as well know exactly which pack is planning to attack his, even if he no longer has the power to stop them. “Who are you working for?”

Stiles sets the grimoire down on the counter and picked up a knife. He turns it over and over in his hand, the blade glinting in the light.

“Oh, V-neck,” he says. “You and Eyebrows here are in a world of trouble now.” His smile grows, teeth gleaming. “I’m the emissary for one of the most powerful packs in the country.”

Peter regards him steadily, while he runs through a list of potential suspects in his mind. Deucalion? Satomi? Which one of them has betrayed Talia? He’s going to figure out a way to come back and haunt whoever the fuck it is.

Stiles leans towards him. “You just picked a fight with the Hale Pack, asshole.”

What?

Peter’s brain short circuits.

What?

From over in the corner, Derek says, “What the fuck?”

Peter couldn’t have said it better himself.

 ***

 “Oh, my god.” When she sweeps into the cabin, Talia is not happy. “What the hell have you done, Peter? I told you to leave it alone!”

Peter tugs at the rope, ignoring the burn. “Don’t listen to a word he says, Talia! He’s lying! He stinks of another pack!”

“What?” Stiles flails, a flurry of limbs and plaid and indignation. “Fuck you! But also, okay, yes, my best bro in the entire world is a werewolf, but my emissary work is totally separate from that, and I fully disclosed it to Alpha Hale!”

 Talia looks at Peter like she really, really wishes she’d been born an only child, and then takes a moment to fuss over the abrasions on Stiles’s face and arms courtesy of the steel wool blanket. “Oh, my god. You’re bleeding.”

And meanwhile Peter is still tied up in wolfbane-infused ropes, but apparently that’s no big thing.  

Stiles wrinkles his nose and flushes under Talia’s attention, and looks for the world like a little kid. Peter half expects Talia to whip out a handkerchief, spit on it, and clean his face like a total mom. When fuck knows if anyone should be applying saliva to that face then it should be--

No.

It is not healthy to be sexually attracted to smartass little fuck weasels who manage to get the upper hand on Peter. But it’s so rare that anyone does. And Stiles has beautiful eyes. And lips that would looks amazing wrapped around Peter’s dick.

Peter totally wants to have hate sex with him.

Stiles smirks under Talia’s ministrations, and glances over at Peter like he knows exactly what he’s thinking.

Peter hates him.

Peter wants to hate him all night long, and in various positions.

“I’m fine, Alpha Hale,” Stiles says, like butter wouldn’t melt. “Totally okay. I was never in any real danger.”

And there’s the rub, right? The little asshole could have broken free at any moment. It was nothing but a game to him.

Except…

No, that’s not fair. He’d been doing exactly the same thing as Peter, hadn’t he? Trying to figure out who was attacking the Hale pack. Which, Peter hates to admit, is a level of loyalty he hadn’t expected from someone getting paid by the week. Suddenly that recommendation from Satomi doesn’t seem so strange.

 “I mean, this is like an extreme level of exfoliation,” Stiles says, touching his abraded cheek carefully, “but it’ll be fine. I’ll tell people I face-planted on the beach or something. They’ll swallow it.” He flashes a disarming grin. “I have a history of being gravity’s bitch.”

Talia looks completely charmed.

“Excuse me,” Peter says, “but this rope actually burns.”

Talia gives him a look that says he totally deserves it, but then looks questioningly to Stiles instead. Stiles grins, and shrugs, and waves his hand, and Peter watches as the rings of mountain ash surrounding him and Derek curl away and tidy themselves into little piles, and the rope around him loosens and falls off.

Stiles winks at him, and wiggles his fingers.

Peter isn’t sure if Stiles is laughing at him, or threatening him.

It might actually be both.

  ***

 Stiles spends the night at the Hales’ house, eating pizza and laughing loudly, and making Talia promise that she won’t tell his dad he’s in town because he’ll never forgive Stiles for not dropping by.

“Holy fuck,” Derek whispers, his head in his hands. “We kidnapped the sheriff’s son.”

 “Let it go, Derek,” Peter says, tossing back a few fingers of whiskey. “That was hours ago.”

Stiles laughs, and grabs for the bottle. “You two are my favorite kidnappers ever.”

Peter hates him a little less than he did back at the cabin.

But only a little.

In the morning, Stiles checks the wards he installed remotely in the Preserve. Peter accompanies him.

“So, you’re the left hand,” Stiles says, stopping to pick up a twig and snap it.

“That’s right.”

Stiles cocks an eyebrow. “I presume you’re usually a lot better at it.”

“I am, actually.”

“Good.” Stiles’s smile fades and something dark flares in his eyes. “Because I really like your pack, Peter, and I really like your sister and I’m going to be the best emissary money can buy you guys, but fuck diplomacy. It only gets you so far. Sometimes the only way to protect your pack is to strike first, and strike hard.”

Peter feels a rush of warmth, and pleasure. “That’s always been my philosophy.”

“Then I think we’ll work very well together,” Stiles says.

“Until your contact expires.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows. “Guess you’d better use that left hand Machiavellian brain of yours to give your sister some reason to extend my contract.” His eyes dance. “Or give me some reason to stay.”

Peter steps forward and closes the space between them. “Oh, yes. And what might you suggest?”

Stiles’s breath smells like the maple syrup he drowned his pancakes in at breakfast. He turns his head so that his mouth almost brushes against Peter’s jaw line, and Peter feels a flare of heat rush through him. “Well, how about you take me home and fuck me so hard I can’t leave the bed, for starters, and we’ll see how it goes from there?”

 ***

 After six weeks, Talia extends Stiles’s contract.

After six months, Stiles joins the Hale pack officially and closes down his e-Missary service.

Peter takes great pleasure in tearing up one of those obnoxious little business cards.

“Peter!” Stiles complains, yawning and stretching awake. The sunlight filtering through the curtains paints his pale mole-dotted skin golden, and the hickey on his throat a vivid shade of eggplant purple. “Stop going through my stuff.”

Peter climbs onto the bed and straddles him. He showers him in the confetti of the destroyed business card. “These are a crime against the English language, Stiles.”

“You’re such an asshole.”

“It’s why you love me,” Peter says.

“Yeah. Fuck you, but it totally is.” Stiles rolls his eyes. “Now didn’t you promise me that grimoire if I blew you this morning?”

Peter growls, and lets his fangs drop. “Ready whenever you are, sweetheart.”

When it comes to blowjobs, to making out, and to rapid exchanges of snark that inevitably lead to fucking in odd places—they’ve been banned from Whole Foods—it’s not a lie at all. But generally? Peter has never been ready for Stiles, not even a little bit.

There aren’t many people who can keep Peter Hale on his toes, and of course it took a smartass little spark with a dirty mind and a capacity for plotting revenge that easily matches Peter’s own to do it.

And of course Peter loves every minute of it.

He might be a borderline sociopath with an ego larger than the GDP of China, but hey, doesn’t he deserve nice things too?

Conventional morality says absolutely not, but fuck it.

Peter leans down and kisses his Stiles.

He’ll take them anyway.

You can also read this on AO3. 

#steter #steter secret santa 2k17

[bloody-bee-tea]

See No Evil, Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil (Doesn’t Mean There Is No Evil)

Since it’s officially the 27th now, I can finally post my Steter Secret Santa gift for @domeafavourandmakemefeel.

I just went wild with this one and I really hope you like it! Happy late holidays! If you let me know your ao3 name if you have one, I’ll happily gift it to you there too!

It ended up being almost 10k so if you’d prefer to read it on ao3, you can do so here. Thank you @stetersecretsanta for organizing this!

Stiles knew that something was wrong. He had a very perceptive eye for evil and things that were going wrong and something in his life was going very wrong.

He could feel eyes on him at almost all times, felt like someone was following him wherever he went, was certain that he was being watched and assessed, but he couldn’t see anyone.

The first time he brought it up with the pack, everyone had been appropriately worried, as they should be. Right until they couldn’t find anyone lurking around, couldn’t even catch a foreign scent or a heartbeat. Scott put someone with Stiles at all times, to keep an eye out, but even when Stiles was sure that he was being watched right this moment, the others couldn’t find a thing and so after the fourth or fifth time Stiles mentioned his concerns, he was mostly met with eyerolls.

Scott attributed it to Stiles’ paranoia, saying that running for his life had contorted Stiles perception of everyday life, especially since it had been quiet and peaceful for months now. Like Stiles was missing the danger.

Stiles wasn’t so sure about that; always catching glimpses of something from the corner of his eyes. He had never looked over his shoulder as often before.

The day Deaton sat with him to talk about PTSD and remnants of the Nogitsune possession Stiles stopped mentioning it. Instead he started to question himself, his sanity, which was even worse, in his opinion. He’d prefer it if someone really was following him instead of his mind playing tricks on him and the prickling feeling of eyes on him never went away.

So Stiles did what he could, still being a spark in training. He performed cleansing rituals, casted protection spells, even dug up a spell that traced leftover possession, but they didn’t reveal anything wrong with him and they didn’t help. The eyes never left him.

“How are you doing, Stiles?” Scott asked at one pack meeting, eyes earnest and obviously worried about Stiles.

Stiles thought he was worried about the wrong thing here, by now he was certain that something was out there, but he had learned not to mention it. Still, it didn’t stop him from being angry at the blasé attitude of his friends.

“It’s fine, I’m fine,” he told him, brushing Scott’s concern off.

“Are you sure? Do you still see…?” he started but Stiles cut him off.

“I don’t see anything,” he pressed out. It wasn’t even a lie, since he never really saw something. “And that’s the problem, isn’t it?” he bitterly asked and turned around, ready to leave.

He had tried to put himself in Scott’s shoes, imagining how he would react if Scott came to him with something that made no sense but in the end Stiles had laughed so hard he couldn’t breathe. He didn’t have to imagine that one. After all, he had been the one to put the whole werewolf thing together.

When he got his bag, he noticed Peter watching him intently and suddenly Stiles was tired.

“What? You got something to say to this, too?” he asked, with a bit of bite to his voice, but Peter seemed unfazed.

“I always found your perception to be amazing,” Peter drawled as an answer and didn’t rise to Stiles anger.

“Pity that it’s failing me then, isn’t it?” Stiles gave back, but instead of a real answer Peter only hummed thoughtfully and Stiles rolled his eyes.

“So it would seem,” Peter said when Stiles was already out of the loft but when he looked back at the other man, he was already gone.

~*~

“What is this?” Stiles asked and lifted his arm, which was now adorned with a new bracelet.

“Protection,” was Peter’s only answer and Stiles took a closer look at the bracelet.

“Are there herbs woven in here?” he asked while poking it.

“Yes.”

“Really forthcoming with the details there,” Stiles snarked and Peter smirked at him. “Why are you giving me this?”

“My nephew and his pups seem to think you might still suffer from the Nogitsune possession.”

“And?” Stiles asked, distrust colouring his voice.

“And,” Peter answered, making it sound like explaining this to Stiles was the most boring thing he had done all week, “if that were the case, someone should probably do something about it. Hence the bracelet.”

“If,” Stiles mumbled and then louder said “You don’t believe that it’s from the Nogitsune.”

“It seems unlikely,” was all Peter said before he left without further explanation.

“Creeper,” Stiles called after him but he also didn’t take the bracelet off.

Not that it seemed to help at all.

~*~

“Scott, I need you to come over,” Stiles said, looking down at his laptop.

“What happened?” he asked, but Stiles could already hear him moving.

“Someone’s been in my room. I need you here now,” he stressed and then hung up before he carefully grabbed his baseball bat.

Someone had been in his room, and Stiles hadn’t checked the rest of the house yet. He didn’t even make it downstairs before he heard Scott from his room.

“Stiles?” he called out and Stiles rushed back.

“Is someone in the house?” he asked, only slightly thrown by Derek and Peter at Scott’s side.

“Not that I can hear,” Peter said, head slightly tilted to one side and Stiles had at least three dog jokes ready, but he refrained from saying anything.

He was slightly touched that all three had shown up.

“What happened?” Derek asked and stalked around the room, obviously sniffing everything and Stiles would be affronted at that, but it was why he had called Scott after all.

“My laptop is open and on,” Stiles said and pointed at his desk.

“And?” Derek questioned and didn’t even manage to hide his annoyance.

“And I never leave it like that,” Stiles told him and turned to Scott. “You know that. I always power it down and I have one password to open it and several password protected files on here. Everything is open, and I just got home. I didn’t touch it.”

“Are you sure?” Scott asked and Stiles wanted to tear his hair out.

“Of course I am sure!” he almost yelled and Scott shrugged apologetically.

“I just mean, it can happen, right? Leaving it like that? Maybe you rushed out this morning and simply forgot about it.”

“Scott, my laptop is supposed to power down after a certain amount of inactivity. I haven’t been home since school this morning which is certainly longer than it should take.”

“There’s no foreign scent in here,” Derek finally spoke up and it was exactly what Stiles didn’t want to hear. “Nothing to indicate that someone tampered with your stuff.”

“Great,” Stiles mumbled and Scott grasped his shoulder.

“Are you sure you’re feeling okay?” he asked and Stiles was so very tired of this question.

“Sure, yeah, I’m fine,” he told him, mostly to make him stop looking at him like that but Scott’s concern was almost overwhelming him.

“I probably just forgot about it like you said. I’m sorry for worrying you, I didn’t sleep well,” he tried to placate him and while Scott seemed to readily eat it up, Peter’s frown only deepened.

“Alright, man. You know you can always call, right?” Scott asked him but he was already on his way to the window again, Derek already outside.

“Yeah, totally,” Stiles said, forcing a smile on his face and watched Scott leave.

Peter didn’t make a move to do the same.

“What?” Stiles asked, ready to be left alone, so that he could freak out in peace. There was no way he forgot his laptop this morning. No way this happened because it slipped his mind. Someone had been in here and Stiles knew it.

“Are you wearing the bracelet?” Peter asked and Stiles held up his arm, bracelet securely wrapped around his wrist.

“Interesting. If you were still experiencing this because of the Nogitsune it should have stopped by now.”

“You don’t say,” Stiles bit out and Peter raised an eyebrow at him.

“Not sleeping well?” he asked and Stiles scoffed.

“You tell me how you sleep when you can feel eyes on you almost all the time,” Stiles told him and turned his back to him. “There really wasn’t anyone in here?” he asked, just to be sure.

After all Peter had more experience than Derek.

“Not that I can tell,” Peter gave back and Stiles turned back around.

“You do that a lot,” he said. “Acting like you believe me. Wording it so that it doesn’t sound like I lost my mind.”

“There are more things out there than even my dear nephew knows. Not all of them can be tracked by conventional methods.”

“So you believe me,” Stiles said, something like relief washing through him.

“I told you before. Your perception is amazing. And you are the clever one. If someone is to be believed when he says something is going on it should be you.”

Stiles rolled his eyes at Peter, but he didn’t mean it. Stiles hadn’t noticed how much the disbelief and doubt of his friends had hurt, but having someone tell him now that he believed him took a huge weight of his chest.

Instead of voicing any of that Stiles turned back to his laptop, intent on checking everything to see if something had been tampered with and when he turned around after a few minutes Peter was gone.

“Obviously believing me doesn’t mean he developed any manners,” Stiles mumbled, kind of miffed that Peter had just left without so much of a word, but in the end he shrugged it off.

Stiles was immersed in meticulously checking his notes when something heavy was slammed next to him on the table.

He startled badly, almost falling of his chair with the motion and Peter chuckled.

“What the hell is this?” Stiles demanded to know and pointed at the heavy tome Peter had brought over.

“You are self-studying magic, aren’t you?” he inquired instead of answering Stiles.

“Deaton isn’t willed to teach me. Says it would give me too much power, with what is going on. He doesn’t trust me,” Stiles muttered. “So yeah, I’ve been learning some stuff on my own.”

“Good,” Peter said and he almost sounded proud.

“So what is this?” Stiles asked again, now eyeing the tome more carefully since Peter had brought up magic.

“We’re going to ward your place,” Peter declared and knocked a knuckle on the book. “There are several different wards in here, and we’re going to put up as many as we can. For all different kinds of supernatural creatures.”

Stiles grabbed the book, carefully skimming the pages, and he felt his spirits fall almost as quickly as he could read the words.

“I don’t have any of these ingredients,” he told Peter, reading over the obscure things he would need to put up these wards.

“You have the magic, I have the connections and resources to get whatever else you need. Read through this, make a list of the wards you want and what you need, and I’ll get it for you.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Stiles carefully told him.

“No, I don’t,” Peter shrugged in response and suddenly Stiles had to hold back tears.

He was tired, and this was the first time in what felt like forever that someone took him seriously.

Peter looked at him for a second longer before he turned around, obviously ready to leave until Stiles knew what he would need.

Stiles caught his hand before he could go to far.

“Thank you,” he sincerely said, holding Peter’s gaze.

“You’re welcome,” Peter replied and squeezed his hand before he left Stiles room again.

Stiles didn’t waste any time, starting with the book almost immediately. If it kept him save from whatever was happening he would ward his house to hell and back.

~*~

Stiles woke slowly, unwilling to leave sleep behind, but his alarm was blaring, and he really needed to pee.

He was still blinking sleep away when his gaze fell on the wall opposite of his bed and suddenly he was wide awake.

He didn’t dare to turn his eyes away from the sentence, grabbing blindly for his phone and speed dialing Scott.

“Someone was here, while I slept, Scott, you need to come here right now,” he rushed out, already feeling the panic settle into him.

His hands where shaking as he hung up, not listening to Scott’s concerned questions, but he couldn’t bring himself to tear his eyes away from the wall.

I’m going to take it all from you.

Stiles was still staring at the words when suddenly his magic acted up. There was a warm, burning feeling in his chest indicating that his wards against supernatural creatures were drawing power from him, and a ringing in his ears from the proximity wards telling him that someone was trying to get into the house but Stiles only reacted to it when someone knocked on his window.

Scott was sitting on his windowsill, apparently trying to get in, but the wards prevented him from doing so.

“Are you gonna let us in?” he asked, confused as to why he couldn’t just enter, and Stiles quickly dropped the werewolf wards and deactivated the proximity ones. He didn’t need the constant ringing to distract him. Scott immediately climbed into his room when Stiles gave him the go ahead.

“What happened?” Scott asked him.

Instead of answering Stiles pointed at the wall. When Scott turned around Stiles noticed for the first time that Derek and Peter were with Scott again and while Derek looked slightly annoyed, Peter was frowning.

“Tell us what happened?” Scott gently prodded and Stiles swallowed a few times before he managed to say something.

“I don’t know. I woke up and it was there. I don’t know what happened.” He took a shuddering breath. “But someone was in here, Scott, someone was in my bedroom while I was asleep!”

“What about the wards?” Peter asked and Stiles’ gaze snapped to him.

“I didn’t feel them going off. Nothing happened until you showed up, they didn’t warn me and they clearly didn’t keep whoever it is away,” he harshly said before he took a deep breath to calm himself down.

“What wards?” Scott asked him, while Derek only seemed to frown harder.

“Peter brought me a book about wards, and we put them up all over the house, so that no one could get in without me knowing,” Stiles explained and suddenly Scott and Derek were both looking at Peter.

A blink later Derek had Peter pinned to the wall, forearm braced against his throat and lowly growling but Peter didn’t lash out.

“What are you doing?” Stiles asked, rushing forward to pull Derek away from Peter but of course it wasn’t working.

“What are you up to?” Scott asked Peter who didn’t look away from his nephew.

“Protecting the only valuable member of your little pack,” he gritted out, while Derek only put more pressure on his throat.

“What are you planning?” Derek demanded to know and Peter rolled his eyes.

“Good to know my scheming ways got under your skin, but there really is no nefarious goal to this,” he patiently explained and then pushed Derek away from him, blatantly showing that he had only tolerated his nephews attack.

“Can we get back on track here,” Stiles implored, voice just a bit desperate, because there were more pressing matters at hand.

“None of the wards went off?” Peter asked, outright ignoring Derek’s glare while Scott turned around to the wall again.

“They did when you came by now,” Stiles explained and Peter hummed thoughtfully.

“So at least we know they are working,” he mused and Stiles could feel the panic rise again.

He took some deep breaths, latching on the knowledge that he was safe right now.

“So it’s a human?” Stiles asked when he calmed down, because he had warded his place against everything else.

“The proximity ward?” Peter asked and Stiles could feel his hard-won calm slip away from him again.

“That one’s working, too, the ringing was there when you guys approached,” Stiles rushed out, panic clawing at him again.

He must be losing his mind, it was the only logical explanation. Peter didn’t say anything but he had a considering look on his face while Derek shook his head in annoyance.

“There’s no foreign scent in here, just like last time.”

“So what are you saying?” Stiles challenged him.

“I’m saying that you sleepwalked before,” Derek told him and Stiles suddenly felt cold all over.

“You think it’s the Nogitsune again. You think I’m possessed.”

“It would fit,” Derek explained and pointed at the sentence on the wall. “It could be trying to take over your life.”

“Scott?” Stiles asked, voice wavering because his best friend hadn’t said anything in quite some time.

“I don’t know, Stiles,” Scott finally admitted. “You said you warded this place, and I don’t know how reliable that is if Peter helped you, but obviously nothing came from the outside. There’s no smell, no heartbeat, nothing. I think Derek might not be wrong.”

“We did the spells! Even Deaton had to admit that there is nothing possessing me! I have this stupid bracelet” Stiles yelled while showing off his arm and Scott frowned at him.

“What bracelet?” he asked and reached out to inspect the item in question.

Stiles snatched his arm away, not letting Scott make contact.

“It’s for protection and purification,” he defensively explained and Derek turned back around to Peter.

“Did you give this to him?” he asked, challenge clear in his voice.

“Yes,” was Peter’s only response and Scott groaned.

“Stiles, you cannot trust him! He’s trying to gain your trust to use you, to get to me.”

“He has been nothing but helpful,” Stiles snapped. “Not that I can say the same of you or even Deaton.”

“Has he been teaching you magic?” Derek asked and Stiles rolled his eyes.

“There’s nothing he can teach me, he doesn’t have magic.”

“But he gave you, what? Books, knowledge?”

“Someone had to,” Peter chimed in and Derek took a threatening step towards him, but Peter was clearly unfazed.

“Stiles, he’s just using you,” Scott tried again and Peter rolled his eyes.

“Right, because teaching him magic, teaching him how to ward his place, how to defend himself is going to aid me in any way.”

“He’s powerful,” Scott tried again.

“And not thanks to you,” Peter gave back and walked over to stand at Stiles side. “Or Deaton, I might add. And even though your druid seems hellbent on the idea, I don’t think possession is what’s going on here.”

“And we’re all about trusting you,” Derek muttered under his breath while Scott asked “What other explanation could there be?”

“You could believe me when I tell you that something is going on!” Stiles yelled at him.

“I do think there’s something going on, I just don’t think it’s what you think,” Scott carefully told him.

“So none of you believe me,” Stiles summed up and Scott and Derek avoided his eyes when he looked at them, but Peter held his gaze. It wasn’t like Stiles was doubting him anyway.

“Fine. I want you to leave,” Stiles pressed out, rage suddenly building in him. “Get out!” he yelled, when they didn’t move.

Scott looked like he wanted to say something but in the end he let Derek drag him out of the room. Only Peter didn’t move.

“What now?” Stiles asked him, suddenly more tired than he should be.

“I think you’re all overlooking the most obvious possibility,” he eventually said and Stiles felt the abrupt urge to smack him in the head.

“Do you really think right now is the time to be a cryptic asshole?” he asked him and wanted to wipe the smug look off Peter’s face.

“What’s the one thing you didn’t ward your place against? The one thing you can’t ward your place against?” Peter asked him and leaned slightly forward. “Think, Stiles.”

Stiles shook his head, ready to tell Peter to just fuck off, but Peter was looking steadily at him and Stiles frowned. He had used every ward in the book he could find, for werewolves and vampires, wendigos and gnomes, and everything else the book offered.

Peter didn’t help him, he just kept watching Stiles, waiting for him to say something and when it finally dawned on Stiles he wanted to smack himself, he felt so stupid.

“Magic users,” he whispered and Peter nodded.

“Exactly.”

“You think it’s a witch or mage or whatever?”

“It could be. It would explain how they got through your wards. They are clearly good, they worked when Scott tried to enter. But if it was a mage they could have disabled them and then returned them to their previous state before they left.”

“Why can’t you smell them?” Stiles asked.

“I’ve heard of scentmasking spells. Heartbeats too. I suppose it wouldn’t be too difficult for someone more experienced.”

“If my wards can’t keep me safe, what do we do?” Stiles asked, automatically assuming Peter would help him.

Going by the lack of protest from the other man, he was right.

“If supernatural precautions don’t work, we’ll have to go old school. Set up some traps,” he said and Stiles chuckled.

“You mean like bottles on the windowsill?” he asked and Peter nodded.

“I mean exactly like that. I would guess you know a trick or two.”

“I am the sheriff’s son. What do you take me for?” Stiles asked, while he was mentally running through things he could set up.

“I thought so,” Peter said and motioned for Stiles to get up. “Whatever you’re planning, you are going to barricade your door, too.”

“Aww, you are worried,” Stiles said, trying for a mocking tone, but it fell flat. He was simply too glad that at least someone was worried about him, that someone cared, even though Scott and Derek had installed some doubt in him.

“Of course I am,” Peter honestly gave back and before Stiles could comprehend what Peter was saying he was hit with a pen. “Now get up and let’s get started.”

Peter was already turning on Stiles laptop when Stiles joined him at his desk.

“Why are you really helping me?” Stiles implored.

“My nephew and the true alpha got to you?” Peter asked, apparently trying to lighten the mood, but Stiles wasn’t having it.

“Answer the question,” he demanded and Peter sighed.

“I said it once and it still holds true. I like you, Stiles.”

“So, what? No higher goal here? You’re just helping me out of the goodness of your heart?” Stiles asked and couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice.

“The higher goal is to protect you,” Peter simply gave back, eyes steady on Stiles, and it took the wind right out of Stiles’ argument.

Stiles leaned closer to him, pressing their shoulders together and was surprised when Peter didn’t move away.

“Thank you,” Stiles mumbled, briefly pressing his forehead to his shoulder, and still keeping close to Peter even as he faced towards his laptop again to enter his password.

Peter just hummed and when Stiles glanced at him he saw that Peter was staring at the window, giving Stiles privacy to enter his password. Stiles had never pegged Peter capable of being so considerate and he didn’t quite know what to do with this new knowledge.

They browsed the web for ideas for a few hours before Peter drove them to a hardware store to buy the things they would need, including some paint to get rid of the words on his wall.

It was already getting dark when they finished with the last window, and Stiles was eternally grateful for his dad’s nightshifts. If Stiles took the traps down before he came back, he wouldn’t even notice that something was going on.

When Stiles door was properly barricaded, Peter walked over to the window.

“Don’t forget to put up the wards again, too. They could still be useful,” he told Stiles and he waited until Stiles gave him a firm nod before he dropped out of the window.

Stiles quickly set up the traps there too, before he put up the wards again. He wasn’t sure what good they would to him, but Peter was right. It couldn’t hurt after all.

~*~

The next week was hell, even though nothing happened. Especially because nothing happened.

Stiles dutifully put up the traps and wards every evening but nothing set them off. Stiles dreaded falling asleep because who knew what would happen during the night and he dreaded waking up because who knew what he would find.

But for seven days, nothing. No one tried to break in, no one left any more cryptic messages on his wall, no one even tempered with his stuff anymore.

Stiles could still swear that someone was following him, watching his every step, but they didn’t do anything and it was driving Stiles insane.

Scott had asked about the wards and Peter exactly once and then never brought it up again and Stiles wasn’t willing to discuss it with him anyway. Not if Scott couldn’t understand that Peter was helping Stiles.

Peter was regularly asking Stiles about his suspicions, and he seemed genuinely concerned, though it also somewhat tampered off during those seven days. Stiles couldn’t even blame him. The longer nothing happened, the more he began to question his own sanity again.

That was, right until he woke up from a crash downstairs and a little jingling bell over his bed.

Someone was breaking into his house. Someone the wards didn’t warn him about.

Stiles sat frozen in bed until another crash spurred him into action. He grabbed for his phone with shaking hands and dialed Scott’s number without looking.

“Huh?” came Scott’s sleepy voice over the phone.

“Someone’s breaking in,” Stiles whispered and got up to move closer to the window. Who knew if he had to make a hasty retreat.

“Not this again, Stiles,” Scott groaned. “I have a date with Kira tomorrow, I really don’t have time for this now,” he said and then hung up without even listening to Stiles.

“What the hell,” Stiles said and stared at his phone, not believing what just happened.

A different bell went off, letting Stiles know that whoever was braking in had now entered the kitchen and it got him moving again.

He pulled up Peter’s number, but hesitated over the call button. If Peter brushed him off like Scott did, Stiles didn’t know if he could take it.

In the end the fear of dying by whatever was steadily making its way to him won out and Stiles dialed.

“What,” came Peter’s biting voice over the phone. He obviously wasn’t a big fan of being woken up in the middle of the night.

“Someone’s here,” Stiles told him, and his voice was shaking more than he wanted to admit.

“Are they inside?” Peter asked, suddenly a lot more alert and sounding concerned.

“Yes,” Stiles gave back, and he could hear Peter getting dressed.

“I’m coming over,” Peter told him and Stiles almost sobbed in relief.

“Thank you,” he whispered, right as something bumped against his door. “They are here, at my door,” Stiles told Peter who cursed.

“I’m on my way. Stiles, I need you to lower the wards. I won’t be able to come in if you don’t and they are clearly not working anyway.”

“Yeah, you’re right, I’ll do it now,” Stiles said and then promptly jumped when someone knocked at his door.

“You cannot hide from me,” a male voice said and now Stiles was shaking all over.

“It’s a man,” he told Peter, holding onto the phone and that connection like his life depended on it. Maybe it did.

“The wards, Stiles. Now,” Peter ordered and this time Stiles took the time to actually deactivate them all.

“Your dog won’t be able to protect you,” the man at the door said and Stiles pressed closer to the window.

“He knows you’re coming,” he said into the phone and Peter huffed.

“It won’t matter once I got my claws in him,” he replied.

“Please hurry,” Stiles urged him on when the man started to work on the lock of his door.

“I’m already in your street,” came Peter’s reply, right before he hung up on Stiles.

Rationally Stiles knew that it only meant Peter was close, that he would be here any second, but Stiles couldn’t help but panic at the thought that he was well and truly alone now, that no one was coming and that no one even cared enough to believe him.

That thought lasted until his door was flung open and for the first time Stiles could see the person who had been driving him insane for the past two months.

He was just an average guy, nothing remarkable about him, but going by the way he stalked into the room he was more than dangerous.

“Finally,” the guy said and then did something that sparked such an intense pain in Stiles’ head that he doubled over.

“I thought I’d give you more time, let you cultivate your spark before I take it, but all it did was let you get creative, it seems,” the man told him, while Stiles was panting with the pain.

“But now I’m tired of these games.”

The man came forward, and Stiles had no where else to go. He was already backed against the window, not that he could even contemplate jumping out of it with the pain still raging in his head.

“Stiles!” Peter suddenly yelled from downstairs, and Stiles wanted to scold him for announcing his presence like that but all he could feel was relief. Someone had come for him.

The man turned towards the door where Stiles could hear Peter running up and then he was there.

“Your dog won’t do shit,” the man gleefully told him and Stiles watched in confusion as Peter scanned the room before he frowned.

“What’s going on?” Peter asked and Stiles wanted to cry.

Peter couldn’t see him, didn’t even notice him and he wouldn’t be able to protect Stiles.

“I want you to tell him that he came here for nothing,” the man said.

Instead of relaying the message though Stiles panted out a “To your right,” before the pain intensified.

To Peter’s credit he didn’t hesitate and swung his clawed hand out, only for the man to step out of range.

“Tell him,” the man seethed, right before he mumbled something that brought Peter to his knees, clawing at his throat. “Tell him or I’ll kill him too.”

Stiles’ heartrate doubled at that and Peter looked at him, eyes wide.

“He says you came here for nothing,” Stiles panted out, trying to push the pain back but it wasn’t working. Whatever the guy did, Stiles wasn’t strong enough to counteract it.

“He’s going to watch you die and he won’t be able to touch a single hair on my head,” the guy cheerfully went on and then motioned for Stiles to repeat the message.

Stiles dutifully did, hoping that the pain would lessen if he just did what the guy wanted but it wasn’t working.

Peter let out an enraged roar when Stiles dropped to his knees and struggled to his feet.

“I might not be able to touch him,” Peter panted before he lashed out to his right again, “but I can get you out of here,” he finished right before he crashed into Stiles and gathered him up to jump through the window.

Stiles yelled in fear when they fell through the window, but Peter held him securely against his chest and as soon as they were on the ground he started to run.

Stiles clung to him, headache lessening the further he got away from his house and when he looked over Peter’s shoulder he could see the man in his window, face red with rage.

“He didn’t like that very much,” Stiles told Peter who growled.

“I should hope so.”

Peter slowed down when they were several streets away from Stiles’ house and eventually put Stiles on his own two feet.

“How are you?” Peter asked, cradling Stiles’ head in his hand. “What did he do to you?”

“Magical headache, I’d guess. It wasn’t fun. But I’m good now, it’s gone.” Stiles carefully rested his hand on Peter’s throat. “What did he do to you?”

“Magical choking, I’d guess,” Peter gave back and Stiles huffed out a laugh but with all the adrenalin receding Stiles started to shake again and Peter pulled him into a hug.

“You’re okay,” he whispered into Stiles’ hair and Stiles clutched at his shirt.

“You came for me,” he choked out and Peter’s hold on him tightened.

“Of course I did. Why wouldn’t I?”

“I called Scott first,” Stiles lowly admitted. “He hung up on me.”

Stiles could hear Peter grinding his teeth but he didn’t tightened his grip again.

“I’ve said it before but Scott is not a good alpha and he clearly isn’t a good friend,” Peter said after a long minute of silence and Stiles sighed.

“Can we not right now?” he asked, knowing Peter’s stance on this and to be honest he was too tired to argue with him now.

“Where do you want to go?” Peter asked him and Stiles pulled back a bit.

“Your place?” he questioned, fully aware that Peter had guarded his apartment viciously, but Stiles needed to be somewhere he could feel safe and to his never-ending surprise Peter just nodded.

“Of course. You’ll have to call your dad, too, tell him not to go home. Who knows where that guy went to,” Peter said and Stiles could feel the panic creeping back in at the thought of his dad going home.

“Shh, it’s okay. He’s still at work. We’ll call him long before his shift ends,” Peter reassured him, stroking a hand up and down Stiles’ arm, and it actually managed to calm him down again.

“I know we need to figure out who that guy is and what he’s doing to hide from you, but can we maybe sleep after we called my dad?” Stiles asked, almost swaying on his feet and it was only Peter’s grounding touch that kept him awake at all.

“I think sleep would do you some good,” Peter replied and gently started to steer Stiles along the street.

His hand didn’t leave Stiles’ arm and when Stiles leaned a bit into him, he brought it around his shoulders and kept him close.

It wasn’t long before Stiles started to stumble over his own feet, and Peter picked him up again. Stiles was too tired to care about the fact that Peter had him in a bridal carry so he just rested his head against Peter’s shoulder and held on. He was asleep before they reached the apartment.

~*~

Stiles woke up slowly, which was a first in the last few weeks. He needed a few seconds before he remembered what happened during the night, but before he could freak out, he also remembered that Peter said he would bring him to his apartment and since Stiles was unfamiliar with the sheets he was lying in he figured that was what happened.

So he was safe right now.

Stiles curled tighter into himself, but now that he was awake he couldn’t help but notice the constant clacking of a keyboard, which had no doubt woken him up in the first place.

“What are you doing?” Stiles whined and opened his eyes just wide enough to be able to tab his forehead against Peter’s leg.

Peter was sitting up against the headboard, laptop open in his lap and typing away.

“Good morning to you too,” Peter said without taking his eyes away from whatever it was he was typing.

“You’re too loud,” Stiles complained and Peter raised an eyebrow at him. “What could you even be doing this early in the morning?”

“It’s well past eleven,” Peter informed him and that made Stiles sit up.

“What? Why didn’t you wake me earlier, I have school, my dad….”

“Knows what happens and is in favour of you staying somewhere where you are safe,” Peter interrupted him and finally looked at him.

“I called him last night and he agreed that you should stay out of sight for now. Besides, you needed to sleep. When was the last time you slept more than four hours at once?”

Stiles wrecked his head, but he couldn’t come up with a satisfactory answer.

“That’s what I thought,” Peter smugly said and started to type again.

“What are you doing?” Stiles asked again and Peter moved the laptop a bit, so that Stiles could see the screen as well.

“Why are you ordering all of this, express delivery nonetheless?” Stiles inquired and felt a bit unsteady at the sum that was displayed.

“I talked to Deaton,” Peter said. “We found the spell the mage is most likely using to hide from us. It’s a warding against supernatural creatures; it hides his scent, heartbeat, voice. Makes him unnoticeable, invisible until it comes to direct contact.”

“So what, we’re doing a counterspell?”

“No,” Peter shook his head. “He would just redo it. Deaton agreed that it wasn’t the best solution but I found something else,” Peter said and twisted to the side to get a book from the nightstand. “Here,” he opened a marked page and presented Stiles with it.

“It’s a talisman. It will negate every cloaking spell aimed at the wearer. The ingredients are coming in later, and you’ll just make three of them so Scott, Derek and I can wear them. It should allow us to see whoever is targeting you. Now we only need to find out what it is exactly he wants.”

“My spark,” Stiles whispered. “He wants my spark.”

“Mh, I know about magic transference spells, but I didn’t know you could steal it. I’ll have to look into that. We should call Deaton again, see if he has heard of this before,” Peter mused and promptly grabbed for his phone.

It was only then that Stiles noticed that Peter was wearing the same clothes as before, whereas Stiles was clad in soft pajama bottoms and a loose-fitting shirt. Peter looked tired and his hair was more disheveled than Stiles had ever seen it.

“You care,” Stiles blurted out and Peter lowered the phone again.

“Of course I care. Someone I couldn’t see attacked. I am not particularly fond of people having the upper hand over me,” Peter explained but Stiles shook his head.

“No, that’s not it. You care, about me. You could have slept first, your apartment is safe, but you didn’t. You don’t like Deaton and yet here you already consulted him. And you could be doing this in the living-room but you are here, in the bedroom, where you can keep an eye on me. You care,” Stiles summed up and then promptly blushed under Peter’s intense stare.

“I don’t know how more obvious I have to get, but yes, Stiles, I care. In case the bracelet, wards and traps weren’t hint enough. I like you, Stiles, and I can’t get more blatant like that.”

Stiles fiddled with the hem of his shirt, unsure what to say to that. Peter was more than attractive; he was clever, and cunning, loyal to those he deemed worthy of it and he could perfectly match Stiles’ sarcasm but Stiles had never really allowed himself to think of Peter as someone approachable.

“You like me in a romantic way,” Stiles stated and he could tell that Peter wanted to roll his eyes, but he refrained.

“Yes, Stiles.”

“And if I say that I don’t see you that way….” Stiles unsurely started.

“Then I would still do anything in my power to keep you safe because I care about you as a person. It’s not tied to your reciprocation of my feelings,” Peter explained.

Stiles had been pretty sure that Peter caring for him the way he had wasn’t a means to an end, but it was good to hear it nevertheless.

Stiles could see how he had gravitated towards Peter these past couple of weeks, how he sought out contact with Peter whenever he could and it only now dawned on him how accepting Peter had been.

“And if I say that I do feel the same way?” Stiles asked.

“Then I would kiss you before I call Deaton,” Peter simply said and it left Stiles speechless for a few seconds.

Peter was patiently waiting for his answer, not trying to sway him one way or the other, and in the end it was that which made Stiles decide. It has been a long time since someone had been so accepting of his decisions.

Stiles leaned forward, and while Peter wasn’t taking control of the situation, he did meet him halfway.

It was barely more than a firm press of their lips against each other, but Stiles pulled back before either of them could deepen the kiss.

He did grab for Peter’s arm though, so that he couldn’t pull all the way back and they stayed close like that for a few seconds. In the end it was Peter who pulled away.

“I’ll call Deaton now,” he said, nodding to his phone and Stiles let go of his arm.

He could feel the low-level panic setting in again, same as it had the last weeks, but he didn’t allow it to take over. They had a plan now, it would be fine. Peter wouldn’t let him get hurt.

“We’re going to work it out,” Peter promised him. “I’m going to take care of it.”

Stiles knew what that meant, knew that Peter would kill the guy for Stiles if it came to that and Stiles was strangely fine with it.

“Okay,” he agreed.

Peter leaned in again to press a kiss to his forehead before he rested against the headboard to call Deaton. While he was waiting for the druid to pick up he pulled Stiles close, maneuvering him around so that Stiles could cuddle him while Peter talked to Deaton and Stiles snuggled shamelessly into his side.

Stiles tuned most of the conversation out, almost dozing off with Peter’s warmth seeping into him, but he fought sleep and instead pulled the book with the talisman closer. He needed to learn how to make it anyway, he could start right now.

Stiles was going over the instructions for the third time, vividly picturing how he would have to do it, when Peter nudged him.

“We’re going to Deaton’s. Scott and Derek are meeting us there.”

“I thought Scott had a date,” Stiles bitterly said and Peter raised his eyebrow.

“Is that why he brushed you off last night?” he inquired and Stiles was pretty sure there was the hint of a growl to his voice.

“Yeah,” Stiles shrugged as he got up to get dressed. “Said he was meeting Kira.”

Stiles saw Peter flex his hands out of the corner of his eyes and he felt strangely warm, knowing that Peter was upset on his behalf.

“Come on, let’s get going. I want this over with sooner rather than later,” Stiles said and waited in the doorway for Peter to get up as well.

~*~

When they arrived at Deaton’s Derek and Scott were already there.

“Why are we here?” was the first thing Derek asked and Stiles rolled his eyes.

“Someone broke into my house,” he said, with a pointed look at Scott.

“Again?” Derek wanted to know and he didn’t sound at all like he believed him.

“Yes, Derek, again. Only this time I also saw him, and he wants my spark.”

“Why’s Peter here?” Scott chimed in now and Stiles had the sudden urge to strangle him.

“Because he actually came when I called. He saved me.”

“So you saw whoever broke into Stiles’ house?” Scott asked Peter directly and Peter sighed.

“No, I didn’t. But something was choking me, and since Deaton confirmed the existence of a cloaking spell, I’d guess someone was there.”

“You didn’t see the intruder and someone was magically choking you,” Derek summed up and Stiles could feel his hackles rise.

“What are you implying?”

“You’re practicing magic aren’t you?”

“Derek, maybe you should back off now,” Peter almost growled and Derek raised an eyebrow.

“He wants my spark. This is not made up, Derek, could you please finally start to at least give me the benefit of the doubt?”

“Taking ones’ spark is no easy feat,” Deaton cut in and everyone turned to him. “Magic can be transferred willingly, it’s a  common practice in covens to strengthen the leader, but forcefully taking something as strong as a spark…” Deaton hesitated before he finished. “Would no doubt kill whoever got the spark taken from them.”

“Great, so I’m going to die because of a power hungry asshole.”

“It’s not going to happen,” Peter declared and Scott nodded.

“We won’t let him.”

“Ah, now you believe me,” Stiles mumbled, aware that Scott could still hear him.

“What are our options?” Scott asked with a long look at Stiles.

“You can try to bind his magic, so that he won’t be able to take the spark, but if he is powerful enough he can derail the spell before you are even half done,” Deaton explained. “You can also try to take his magic.”

“But didn’t you just stay forcefully taking magic results in death?” Scott asked and Deaton nodded.

“Yes. But it’s either that or the binding, which will most likely not work.”

“We are not killing anyone,” Scott declared and Stiles threw his hands up.

“Scott, he is trying to kill me, I think the least he deserves it the same treatment.”

Scott turned to him, betrayal clear on his face. “You can’t mean that. We don’t kill people.”

“What do you intent to do then?” Peter asked him, arms crossed in front of his chest. “Please, do tell us your glorious plan.”

“We’ll scare him off,” Derek said and Peter scoffed.

“And how will you do that?”

“We’ll come up with a plan,” Scott assured him. “We can’t even see him yet anyway. Deaton said something about some talismans?” Scott asked and turned to Stiles.

“Yeah, I’ll have to make them. The ingredients should be here…” he looked at Peter for the time.

“This afternoon.”

“I’ll have them ready by tomorrow,” Stiles declared.

“Then we’ll meet again tomorrow,” Scott decided, much to the dismay of Stiles.

“And what am I supposed to do? He already came into my house twice.”

“You were with Peter this night, right? Can’t you stay there again? His place should be safe.”

“It’s always refreshing to see how much you care about the ones you call friends,” Peter drawled and turned away, clearly dismissing Scott.

“What is your problem?” Derek asked and Stiles had enough.

He turned away from Scott and Derek, stepping close to Peter, brushing their shoulders together.

“I want to go home,” Stiles said and Peter sighed. “I need some things.”

“You can’t go home, not as long as I am not able to see him. I won’t be able to keep you safe. Call your dad, tell him to pack a bag. We’ll meet him and give him an update too,” Peter decided and Stiles nodded.

Neither of them looked back when they left the clinic and Stiles tangled their hands together when the door closed behind them.

“Scott won’t allow me to take his magic, even though it would make me stronger and protect me,” Stiles whispered and Peter briefly squeezed his hand.

“Good thing that we don’t need his permission then.”

~*~

Stiles was browsing through the book Peter had showed him earlier while Peter sorted through the herbs he had ordered.

“What are you reading?” Peter eventually asked when Stiles had stopped at one page.

“Can we get sage somewhere?” he asked instead of answering and Peter thoughtfully nodded his head.

“Shouldn’t be too hard to get a hold of. Why?”

“I think I have a plan,” Stiles told him and turned the book around so that Peter could read the page. “Taking his power or binding it won’t work. I’ve seen the spells, they are in the other books you have, and it’s too complicated, especially with how powerful he is.”

“So he took sparks before.”

“I think so. The headache he gave me and choking you? I wouldn’t be able to do both at the same time, especially not with the ease he did it with,” Stiles explained. “It requires a lot of concentration and power especially because you are supernatural and I am magic myself. It’s not easy.”

“What is this going to do then?” Peter asked and pointed at the necklace on the page.

“I’ll infuse it with my magic. Think of it as a storage room. I’ll put my magic in there, and when he attacks you with magic, my magic will interfere, rendering the spell useless. It should work three, maybe four times.”

“And what do you want me to do with this then?” Peter inquired with an amused tilt to his mouth. “I doubt it’s supposed to simply be defensive protection.”

“You know what I want you to do,” Stiles lowly said. “We both know whatever plan Scott will come up with won’t be a permanent solution.”

“So flexible with your morals,” Peter said, but he sounded fond, almost proud and Stiles blushed.

“Don’t pretend you wouldn’t have tried to kill him anyway.”

“He came after you. Of course he has to die,” Peter stated, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

“I’m not sure I’m supposed to feel flattered by that,” Stiles admitted and Peter chuckled.

“If you wouldn’t I wouldn’t like you as much,” Peter simply gave back before he got up and came around the table to Stiles.

“How am I going to recognize him?” Peter asked and came even closer, nudging his way between Stiles legs, forcing Stiles to look up at him.

“That’s where the shopping trip for the sage comes in,” Stiles smiled and held up one of the finished talismans. “We’re going to walk, maybe even shortly drop something off at home and you’re going to pretend like you still can’t see him. He’ll believe he still has the upper hand.”

“How very devious of you,” Peter told him. “I approve.”

And with that he leaned down, catching Stiles’ mouth in a soft kiss. Stiles leaned into it, stretching upwards to get even closer to Peter who slightly chuckled and rested one hand on Stiles’ neck.

“We’ll have time to do this thoroughly later.”

“What, imminent danger turns you off?” Stiles teased, but he also darted up again, to press a fleeting kiss to Peter’s lips.

“Threats on your life do,” Peter gave back and Stiles was still amazed how he had missed Peter’s clear devotion to him.

“You are a total sap,” Stiles happily told him and Peter flicked his cheek.

“I am absolutely not,” he decisively said and Stiles grinned.

“For me, you are,” Stiles said as he got up. “But don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.”

Peter rolled his eyes, but he was smiling as well and in this moment Stiles didn’t even care that his life was still in danger. He was happy right where he was.

~*~

His happiness lasted right until they stepped into his street. Stiles knew that the whole purpose of coming out here was so that Peter could see the man who was after him, but it didn’t mean Stiles was any less afraid once that happened.

“He’s here,” Stiles said, grabbing for Peter’s arm, and pointing at the man.

Peter played along well, letting his eyes roam, and saying “What, where? I can’t see him,” before he tugged Stiles closer to himself and slightly behind him.

The man started to walk towards them, and Stiles could feel how his heart started to beat faster.

“He’s coming closer,” he whispered, and he could already see the cruel smile playing around the man’s mouth.

“He won’t get you,” Peter promised and scooped him up, running in the opposite direction.

Peter only set Stiles down when they were halfway to his apartment.

“Did you get his scent?” Stiles asked and Peter nodded.

“He smells similarly to you after you practiced magic. I’ll be able to find him again,” Peter promised.

“Good. Then let’s make the necklace and then we can get this over with,” Stiles said, impatient to get this done so he could get back to his normal life.

Adding the sage to the necklace was a matter of minutes, but transferring his magic into it, and having it stay there was another matter. It took Stiles the better half of the evening before he was certain that he transferred enough power into it to keep Peter safe.

“I’m done,” he declared once he was sure about it.

“It’s rather ugly, wouldn’t you say?” Peter said as he took the necklace from Stiles.

“Sorry I couldn’t take your taste into account,” Stiles snarked back and fastened the necklace around Peter’s neck.

“What a grave oversight from you,” Peter gave back, resting his hands on Stiles’ hips and baring his neck to give Stiles better access.

Stiles was aware of the implications of that, the meaning this gesture held for wolves, and for a second Stiles was overwhelmed with the trust Peter showed him in this moment.

He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to Peter’s neck, right above where the necklace rested and Peter made a sound that sounded almost like purring.

Before Peter could do something though, Stiles stepped back, putting a bit of space between them.

“So what now?” he asked, suddenly self-conscious of his actions.

“Now you sleep. You smell exhausted,” Peter said and smoothed his hand up Stiles’ back.

“I’m not going to sleep alone, in your bed,” Stiles told him.

“Well, then I suppose I better join you,” Peter gave back and started to steer Stiles towards the bedroom.

It barely took them ten minutes before they were under the sheets, turned to each other, but keeping a little bit of distance between them.

“You can sleep, Stiles, nothing won’t happen here,” Peter promised him and even though Stiles knew that the threat was still out there he believed him.

Still, he wanted to stay awake longer but given how much magic he stored into the necklace it was a wonder Stiles stayed awake long enough to even grab for Peter’s hand.

~*~

Stiles woke up when a wave of cold hit his side. He grumbled, turned around, and when he couldn’t find Peter, he even opened his eyes.

Peter was up, and getting dressed, carefully choosing black clothes before he made sure he had the talisman and the necklace.

“Now?” Stiles sleepily asked and Peter turned around to him.

“Go back to sleep, Stiles,” Peter said and finished getting dressed.

“You shouldn’t go alone,” Stiles said, worry clear in his voice and Peter came over to the bed, sitting down on the edge and carding a hand through Stiles’ hair.

“I’d rather go alone than take Derek or Scott with me,” he explained.

“I should come,” Stiles mumbled, leaning into the touch.

“Absolutely not,” Peter decidedly said. “I’m not going to put you in danger. And besides, you’re too exhausted anyway. Sleep,” Peter ordered and pulled the sheet up around Stiles.

“Did you just tuck me into bed?” Stiles mumbled and Peter chuckled.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” he promised and got up.

Stiles grabbed his hand before he could get out of reach.

“Be safe and come back to me,” he said and Peter bowed down to kiss his knuckles.

“Of course,” he gave back and then he was out of the door.

Stiles had thought he would stay up until Peter would come back, but he was so exhausted that he could barely keep his eyes open and he certainly didn’t remember falling asleep.

The next time Stiles woke it was because of a ringing phone.

Stiles buried his face in the pillow, unwilling to let the ringing get to him, but when Peter behind him made a disgruntled noise he turned around.

“You’re back! Why didn’t you wake me?” he asked, frantically checking Peter over for injuries, even though he knew that any injury would have long healed.

“I did,” Peter explained, without opening his eyes. "I woke you up, you checked me over, we went back to sleep.” He opened one eye to look at Stiles. “I wasn’t injured.”

“How did it…” Stiles started but was interrupted by the phone again.

This time Peter stretched over him, answering the phone before he was even lying down again.

“What?” he growled into the phone and Stiles scooted closer to listen to the conversation. It was Scott on the other end.

“I think Derek and I came up with a plan,” Scott told Peter, who rolled his eyes.

“Don’t bother, there’s no need for a plan anymore.”

“What? But the guy is still out there…” Scott started but Peter didn’t let him finish.

“He’s not.”

“What do you mean?”

“Would you look at that, I killed him. Upps,” Peter said into the phone right before he hung up on Scott.

“Did you just say ‘Upps’?” Stiles asked, already shaking with laughter.

“What can I say. I’m tired,” Peter gave back, and snuggled back under the covers, pulling Stiles close.

“Did you really kill him?” Stiles asked him and Peter hummed.

“Your necklace was a work of beauty,” he eventually told him and pulled Stiles right into his chest. “And now I want to sleep.”

“Thank you,” Stiles honestly said, and kissed Peter’s jaw, his cheek, his lips, before he rested his forehead against Peter’s. “Thank you for believing me, and thank you for keeping me safe.”

Peter made a sleepy sound and lazily pressed his lips against Stiles’.

“For you, always,” he gave back and Stiles believed him.

There was nothing he had to fear when Peter was at his side.

#bt writes #steter #steter secret santa #domeafavourandmakemefeel #steter secret santa 2k17

[kirah69]

[Fanfic EN] Pumpkin Pie

Here is my present for @valiantbarnes. I hope you like it.

Thank you @stetersecretsanta for this event!

Rating: General Audiences Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Category: M/M Fandom: Teen Wolf (TV) Relationship: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski Additional Tags: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Time Skips, Christmas With Family, Christmas Dinner, Pack Christmas, Fluff and Angst, Crying, Happy Ending, Full Shift Werewolves, post-darach, Pre-Nogitsune

Language: English 

Collections: Steter Secret Santa 2017

Words: 4742

Summary: A child lost in the forest and a wolf that is free for the first time. A Christmas dinner years later and a pumpkin pie.

Peter was running through the Preserve and he couldn't be happier. The wolf couldn't be happier. He had achieved the full shift for the first time and the wolf could finally run with the freedom he wanted. It was a huge animal, dark brown on the back and head, a little orange on the edges and white on the belly and neck. It was a magnificent creature even if he wasn't as intimidating as his sister.

He felt the earth, the grass and the fallen leaves under his paws and accelerated, pushing his limits. His snout cut through the cold air that shook his dense fur. The moonlight could barely make it through the trees, but his eyes could see as in daytime. He could hear and smell the creatures that inhabited the forest with sharper senses than he had in his human form. They fled from him, from the predator, but the wolf didn't pay any attention to them. He had another objective. He didn't know where he was going, he had given the wolf full control and it was a nice feeling. It didn't wander aimlessly. It seemed to have a goal.

Peter stopped short when he heard a rapid heartbeat. For a moment, he mistook it for the heartbeat of an animal, but then he heard a sob and knew it was human. He approached slowly, hiding in the bushes until he saw the little boy walking in the dark. Peter followed him in silence, listening occasionally to a sob. But the child didn't stop, although he seemed to have no fixed path in mind, he kept turning to one side or the other every few trees. When he saw the kid fall the first time, Peter left his hiding place without thinking. The boy screamed when he saw the wolf and fell on his ass when he was just getting up. Peter stopped in front of him, barely a couple of steps away. The kid remained motionless with his mouth and eyes wide open. There were traces of tears down his cheeks and his eyes were red from crying. Peter wondered how long he had been lost in the forest and what he was doing in the forest in the first place. The boy couldn't be more than eight years old, maybe even less.

He didn't want to scare the kid more than he already was, so Peter lay down on the floor with his head on his paws and gave a sharp whine in question. The boy wiped his eyes with the back of his dirty hands and sniffled.

“Aren't you going to eat me?” the little boy asked, surprisingly calm.

Peter made another sound that made him seem more like a dog than a wolf. It was a bit humiliating, really, but he couldn't leave this child alone in the middle of the woods. The little boy approached on his knees and put a hand on his head, barely hesitating. Peter allowed him to caress him and perhaps closed his eyes when the little fingers scratched behind his ears.

“If you're a wolf you're not very scary. You look like Mrs. Pitts' dog, so maybe you're a dog? You don't have collar, though. If you don't have an owner, you can stay with us. Dad won't like it, but I don't think he'll notice, and Mom isn't going to leave the hospital so if you stay at home she won't know either. Now I just have to find the way back home. Not that I'm lost, just... uh... I'm not entirely sure where I am. Okay, yeah, I'm lost. Don't look at me like that.”

Peter wanted to laugh, but he wasn't sure how it would sound from the mouth of the wolf. He got up and pressed the boy's shoulder with his nose until he also got up.

“Are you going to take me home? Dogs can follow trails, you could follow the trail to my house, though you've never been there, but you could also follow my smell up there.” Peter barked and the boy was startled, but not scared.

“Yeah, I know I talk too much; everyone tells me. I never thought that even a dog would tell me.”

This time he could not help but snort, ignoring that the kid was calling him a dog, and gave him a gentle push on the back to start walking. The boy grabbed at the abundant hair on his neck and walked beside him. The fear was dissipating from his smell as they walked, giving way to a slight tinge of fascination –surely for him–, and to a deep and permanent sadness, like that of those who mourn the loss of a family member. In all his rambling Peter had heard him say that his mother was in the hospital. For a moment he thought she would be a nurse or doctor, but apparently not. And the child was already mourning her even before she died. When he saw the boy shudder with cold, Peter moved a little closer to him, trying to share his warmth.

The boy didn't stop talking the whole way; about school, about his friend Scott (and it seemed that kid was his only friend), about books and random facts that he had read somewhere. Peter didn't have a second to get bored with him and the wolf also seemed happy to spend his first night of “freedom” at his side. He followed the trail of the boy's smell until they reached a small house.

“There it is!” The boy ran excitedly toward the house. When he realized that the wolf wasn't following him, the kid stopped and turned around. “Come on!”

Against his good judgment, Peter followed him. Actually he was somewhat worried, he couldn't hear any heartbeat inside the house, nor were there any people outside or police cars as you would expect with a missing child. Nobody had noticed that the boy was not there. How angry his wolf was at that surprised him.

They entered through the back door directly into the kitchen and the boy went to the refrigerator and took out a milk carton and a chocolate bar.

“But dogs can't eat chocolate... um...” he muttered to himself.

The kid left the chocolate and took out a pan instead. He took a bowl from one of the lower cabinets and climbed up on a chair to get a glass and a plate from above. The little one left everything on the floor and filled the glass and the bowl with milk, offering the latter to the wolf. When the kid uncovered the pan, Peter almost drooled at the delicious smell of pumpkin pie. The boy placed a large piece on the plate and put it next to the bowl of milk while he began to eat directly from the pan.

“Come on, eat. Mom made this pie four days ago, but it's still good.” He took a bite and continued talking with his mouth full. “I don't know if she'll make another so take advantage.”

Peter looked at the pie and then at the boy. Knowing that it was perhaps the last meal cooked by his mother that the little one enjoyed, he felt a bit bad about taking it away. But this was the boy's way of thanking him and he would surely be upset if Peter didn't accept it so he started eating. Peter couldn't contain a shameful moan when he took the first bite. It was delicious, one of the best he had ever tasted, even if the dough was soft because it had been in the fridge and it had run a little dry after so many days. He even licked the crumbs that had remained on the plate and when Peter looked up he found the boy's happy expression. He resigned himself to losing his pride and drank some milk from the bowl.

After the boy finished his part, he put everything in the sink and washed it raised on his knees on the chair. When he came down, drying his hands, he looked at the wolf and then at the door to the backyard, his expression fading.

“Would you stay to sleep tonight?” he asked, looking hopeful.

Peter really should go. He shouldn't even have entered. However, that child was going to be left alone at home after being lost for who knows how long. And, besides, Peter was sure that he hadn't gotten lost just because, something had happened that had led him into the forest to escape.

He moved past the boy into the rest of the house. The little one hugged his neck for a moment with a little happy shout. There were some Christmas decorations in the hallway and he saw more in the living room, but they were very scarce. There wasn't even a tree. There was nothing upstairs or in the child's room. The boy took off his cold, dirty clothes and put on some Batman pajamas while Peter got into the unmade bed. The little one lay down next to him, threw the sheets over them and hugged him. He soon fell asleep with his face buried in his fur and Peter couldn't help but also fall asleep with the soothing sound of his heartbeat even faster than usual in a person.

He soothed the boy when the nightmares came (and Peter wasn't surprised he had them) and left the house in the morning before he woke up. There was no one else in the house yet. It wasn't until hours later that he realized he didn't even know the boy's name.

* * * * *

Stiles opened the fridge and checked the ingredients he had. He wrote down a couple of other things on the shopping list and left the house. He had been planning Christmas dinner because it wasn't going to be the same as the ones they had celebrated in recent years.

Usually it was just the Sheriff, Scott, Melissa and him. This time Isaac would also join because he was living with the McCalls. Then, he thought of Derek, alone in that cold, impersonal loft after sending Cora to South America, and Peter would not be of help, creeping around him almost like the Ghost of Christmas Past. He sent a text inviting Derek, leaving the werewolf no option to refuse. It took him longer to decide if he should invite Peter too, but since he had come back to life the Zombie Wolf hadn't behaved badly at all and had even fought by their side against the Alpha Pack and the Darach so he thought that even the Grinch deserved an invitation for Christmas (Stiles didn't think he'd come and wasn't going to force him). He regretted it when he received his response text: “There I will be, darling.”

He thought about inviting Chris and Allison, but that certainly was not a good choice with Derek and Peter there. He didn't want to have to clean blood from the walls and the decision was easy between them, no matter what Scott said. He invited Lydia too, but the banshee already had plans for that night.

Therefore, there would be three more at the table so he had to prepare more food than usual. He decided to prepare a few different dishes instead of making more of the same food he usually prepared (except for the turkey that would have to be larger). He also had to keep in mind that the new guests were all werewolves (Scott included) and ate double the amount of a normal person. He grunted as he realized that this dinner was going to be more expensive than usual.

Stiles arrived at the supermarket, which was full of Christmas spirit. A carol playing on the loudspeakers, the cashiers in Santa hats and the store decorated from top to bottom with Christmas decorations. Some normality and joy felt good after the year they had suffered. He began to fill the cart with the items on his list. Stiles could see the final bill increase in his head so he spent long minutes choosing each product, weighing price and quality.

“I don't think it's that hard to choose some peas.”

Stiles was startled to hear Peter's voice just behind him and he almost dropped both cans to the ground.

“Fuck, don't do that!“ he hissed through his teeth.

When he turned around, Peter stared at him with a mixture of surprise and horror. Well, more precisely he was staring at his sweater. A horrid thing in green and red stripes with small, white spaceships and helmets alternating in each row and a black Darth Vader helmet on the chest.

“Where is your plaid?” he asked, because that was better than what he was seeing.

“Hey! Do not mess with my Star Wars sweater! Scotty gave it to me last year and he hasn't even seen the movies, it means a lot to me.”

Peter shook his head and decided to ignore it no matter how much it threatened his fashion sense.

“This is what you are going to use for dinner? You couldn't have chosen anything cheaper,” he said, glancing at the car.

“My apologies, but some of us are not rich heirs. I have to prepare a dinner for seven, four of which eat twice as much as a normal human being. I have to be careful with the budget.

Peter rolled his eyes as if he had just said the most ridiculous thing in the world. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet.

“I'm not going to accept your money.”

“It's not my money, it's the pack's money,” Peter took out a card and offered it to him. “It is a fund for when the pack needs something and, since everyone in this dinner is part of the pack directly or by association, it's a good time to use it.”

“A fund for the pack? We really have something like that?” He looked at the card with his mouth open.

“Of course. I can't believe that Derek hasn't given you your own card. I'll take care of that. I understand that he doesn't mention it to the others, but you are responsible. You can also use it when you have to fix the jeep after some encounter with a creature, which I think happens quite often. Keep that card until I get yours. The PIN is your birthday.”

“My birth- Why is the PIN my birthday?”

Peter shrugged and left both pea cans on the shelf.

“Fresh ingredients are better.”

He took the cart (Stiles' cart), placed his own basket inside, and started down the aisle. Unintentionally, Stiles finished picking out the groceries with Peter, who forced him to forget the price and to pay attention to the quality of the products. They argued about which jelly they should buy or which flour was better, as if that were the most normal thing in the world. Stiles felt he had entered a parallel universe and it was hard to shake off the daze. He ended up buying more than he had planned and Peter helped him load everything in the back before getting into his jeep. Peter got into Stiles' jeep.

“What are you doing?” Stiles asked from behind the wheel.

“You have to make a lot of food; I think I'll give you a hand.”

“You want to poison the food, right?” He didn't really think so, but this was suspicious anyway.

“No, Stiles, I'm not going to poison the food,” Peter replied as if Stiles was being especially dense. “But I'm a great cook, if I may say so, and I often used to cook for the pack for these type of occasions.”

“You're so modest,” Stiles decided to stay with that part of the sentence because the other was too close to sentimental issues for his liking. It wasn't usual to hear the werewolf speak of his family before the fire. Even so, Stiles treasured these little bits of knowledge every time they escaped one of the Hales.

He started the car and headed home. When they arrived, he let Peter carry most of the bags because, well, he was the one with the super strength and he had volunteered. Peter looked surprised at the Christmas ornaments that filled the house: a wreath on the door, garlands on the pictures, a large tree in a corner of the living-room colorfully decorated (not like those pretentious trees that appear in the magazines) and even ornaments hanging from lamps. The only thing missing was the mistletoe, thank god.

Stiles placed the recipes he was cooking today on the doors of the upper cupboards (he would make most of them the next day so that they were fresh, like the turkey, but others could be made the previous day) and prepared the utensils. It was surprisingly easy to cook with Peter, they moved around the other as if they had been doing it for years and the werewolf showed him some cooking tricks he didn't know. Cooking was always fun for him, but doing it while exchanging comments and sarcasm with the werewolf was even better.

By the time they finished, it was already late and they had dinner together with a little of each dish they had cooked.

“Am I becoming the pack mom?” Stiles asked and smiled when Peter nearly choked.

“Excuse me?”

“You know. The person who cooks and cares for everyone, like a mother,” the boy explained, moving the fork around.

“There isn't... No, Stiles, there is no 'pack mom', I don't know where you got that from,” Peter said, sighing with the same tiredness every time he mentioned something taken from the fanfics he read.

“Why not? I don't mind that role. I like to cook and I'm always worrying about everyone.”

“Even if you're the one who gets into the most trouble?”

“That's not proven. Besides, who else could it be? Scott'd burn fried eggs, Derek's barely able to take care of himself and Isaac is dragging around too much trauma from his father. I think I'll keep that role and you'd be the dad.”

One... two... three...

“I mean, not that you and I- I don't mean that. Just that you, well, you're the one who knows things and- Forget it, there's no pack mom.” Stiles put a big spoonful in his mouth to stop talking, his cheeks a bright red.

Peter was trying to contain the laugh, but his shoulders shook with it.

When they finished dinner they cleaned everything and Peter took his leave.

“I'll be back early tomorrow to lend you a hand.” He leaned forward and brushed his cheek against Stiles' in an obvious gesture to scent him. Stiles was so surprised that he couldn't say anything before Peter left, closing the door behind him. He felt the heat that Peter had left on his cheek spread all over his face.

He left a plate prepared for his dad in case the sheriff wanted to have dinner when he arrived. Then, Stiles went to bed thinking how strange it was to feel Peter's presence in the kitchen as almost comforting, how easy it was to talk to him, how nice the brief moments in which they touched were. A hand on his back, their arms brushing, their fingers touching as they went to grab something. It had been so natural. Stiles was surprised when he found himself waiting eagerly for the next day to continue with it.

The next day, he barely had time to say goodbye to his dad before the sheriff left home for his morning shift. Noah hadn't rested for even eight hours, but he wanted to be free for dinner. A couple of minutes after he left, someone knocked on the back door and there was Peter.

“Were you waiting for my father to leave?”

“I didn't want to receive death threats first thing in the morning.”

Stiles looked him up and down. It was seven thirty and the guy was perfectly dressed and styled as always. Stiles yawned and ran a hand through his bedhead as he scratched his belly under his worn t-shirt.

“I hate you. How can you look so good at this hour? That's not legal,” he said, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“Oh, thank you.”

“Why?”

“Because you think I look good.”

Stiles should totally close his mouth while his brain-mouth filter was still deactivated.

“That's not, I haven't... It's too early for this, I need caffeine,” he took a long sip of his sugar-laden coffee and poured himself another cup.

“You need an actual breakfast. Why don't you go take a shower while I prepare it?”

“Are you going to become the pack mom?” Stiles bumped his shoulder against Peter's with a sleepy laugh and it took him several seconds to realize what he had done; his face turning red and his heart racing. “I'm going to take a shower.” He heard a soft laugh behind him, but didn't stop.

After breakfast (and Peter could make him breakfast whenever he wanted. Thank god I didn't say that out loud, his filter was finally working), they set to work with the rest of the dishes for dinner.

Hours later, in the dining room adorned from top to bottom for the occasion and with a carol in the background, the table was full of food and everyone was sitting around it. Noah was at the head, Stiles on his left, followed by Scott and Isaac, Peter on his right (because they knew that Stiles and he were going to start arguing with each other at any moment and it didn't make sense for them to do it from the other end of the table so they always sat like that when the pack met), followed by Derek and Melissa.

Both werewolves and humans devoured the food –luckily Stiles had cooked more than he had planned– while the conversation flowed with surprising ease after the first few minutes. It was funny to see how Melissa forced complete sentences from Derek and he didn't seem upset about it.

When the main courses were finished, Peter and Stiles picked up what was left, leaving it in the kitchen to put it in plastic containers later, and took out the desserts with coffee and some liquor (Peter had brought a special one mixed with wolfsbane for the werewolves).

“Son, it was a fantastic dinner,” his father said, patting him on the shoulder. “I don't know how you managed to do all this.”

“Peter helped me with everything so it took me less time than I expected,” Stiles answered smiling as he cut the pumpkin pie and handed it out. I think that next year I'll start two days before, though. Usually there are leftovers for two or three days after these dinners, but you have barely left enough for tomorrow.

Scott and Isaac blushed a little, neither had expected to eat so much, but they hadn't been able to stop. Stiles really didn't mind, he was happy to share tonight with everyone and make them happy with his cooking. He had never spent Christmas dinner with so many people.

After serving everyone, Stiles took a bite of his portion of pie and hummed satisfied with the result, a soft smile spreading across his face accompanied by memories of his childhood. He was glad to see the somewhat melancholy smile on his father's face.

“It's as delicious as your mother's,” Peter said.

Stiles froze just like Noah.

“How... How do you know...” His hand was shaking and his voice didn't want to come out for the knot in his throat.

“Don't you remember? When you got lost in the woods?” the werewolf said, with an almost fond expression on his face that Stiles had never seen before.

Stiles let out a strangled sob, his eyes moistening. The wolf. That wolf who had accompanied him home and had slept with him, keeping him company on one of the worst days of his life after his mother entered the hospital for good. When he had woken up, he had thought that it had been nothing more than a product of his imagination, an imaginary friend to help him spend those moments. The nightmares didn't disappear, but the wolf was by his side from time to time and they were never so terrible again.

He got up almost knocking the chair down and went around the table behind his father, practically jumping on Peter. Stiles wrapped his arms around the werewolf's shoulders, hugged him tightly, and buried his face in his neck, sobbing silently. Peter's hands caressed his back and his hair, comforting him while the other guests remained silent.

When he was able to control himself, Stiles got up and returned to his place without a word. He wiped his face with his napkin and took a deep breath, straightening his back.

“Ok, enough tears for today, let's finish dinner,” he said and kept determinedly eating his piece of pie.

Nobody asked anything, even though he knew that his father would do it when they were alone. Noah would understand it as soon as Stiles explained it to him and there would be more tears.

After dinner, the guests began to leave until only Noah was watching television in the living room, allowing a moment of privacy to Peter and Stiles while they cleaned the kitchen.

“Why didn't you tell me before?” Stiles asked as he put away the leftovers.

“Your smell was different at the time, I didn't know it was you until I came here one day and by then I was part of your nightmares.”

Stiles wiped his hands and left the dish towel on the counter with a determined expression on his face. He took Peter's hand and led him to his room. Stiles knelt by the bed and pulled out a box from underneath. There were several objects inside, all valuable to him, and among them a brown and white stuffed wolf. He took it with affection and hugged it. Peter watched him without words.

“You can't imagine how important that night was for me. How I cried the next few days until my father bought me this wolf and how I hugged it every night until I fell asleep. I had it in my lap when my mother died.” His broken voice was barely audible even to the werewolf and there were tears streaming silently down his cheeks.

“It was also an important night for me. It was the first time I managed to shift into a wolf, the first time I ran freely in that form,” he stepped closer and closer until he could place his hands on Stiles' arms, letting the boy know he was there if he needed him.

“And you had to spend it with a lost child,” he tried to laugh, but it was just a sob.

“I spent it where I had to. I let my wolf free, I let him guide me and he took me to you. In the same way that I felt attracted to you that fateful night years later, even when I ended up biting the wrong person,” and how much he regretted it, but at the same time Peter knew that today he wouldn't have dined with Stiles and his family if he had bitten the boy. “I was happy taking care of you.”

Stiles squeezed the stuffed animal tightly in his arms and let himself fall against Peter's chest, the werewolf's arms surrounding him right away. He felt safe just as he had felt that night with the wolf watching over his sleep, it soothed his heart in more ways than one, his tears ceasing and his breathing filling his lungs as it was supposed to.

“I'm going to ask you something and if you say no, nothing will happen, everything will remain the same,” Peter said in a soft voice caressing his hair.

“Yes,” Stiles answered without hesitation.

“You still don't know what I'm going to ask you.”

“Do you want to go out with me? On a date?” Stiles said keeping his head on his shoulder.

Peter laughed and hugged him harder, rubbing his face against his neck and breathing not so discreetly in his scent, pumpkincinnamonstormbooksmine.

“My smart boy.”

#fanfiction #fanfic #teen wolf #Steter #stiles stilinski #Peter Hale #gay #yaoi #slash #Steter Secret Santa 2k17 #english #english fanfic

[tailornorata]

My contribution to Steter Secret Santa 2017

Merry Belated Christmas @snazzysterek I hope you enjoy it!

Also thanks to @stetersecretsanta for once again creating this amazing event!

#snazzysterek #steter secret santa 2k17

[stetersecretsanta]

Hello everyone! This is a friendly reminder that you have until November 10th to sign up for the steter secret santa 2k17. I am proud to say this year we have the highest amount of participants that we've ever had! Let's keep the hype train going! Participate in all the fandom fun and rejoice with fics and other creations of one of the best ships TW has to offer!  

If you want to know more about the exchange click here If you want to sign up fill out this form

If you have any questions feel free to send a message to either this blog, or my main blog @killjoywhatsername, or shoot an email at [email protected] 

#steter #peterstiles #peter hale #stiles stilinski #teen wolf #does the gif make up for my lack of attention to the promoting?

[tailornorata]

This is my second fic for the Steter Secret Santa, as a backup Santa for @shebaren. I hope you enjoy it even if it’s a bit late, Merry Belated Christmas!

#steter secret santa 2k17 #shebaren

[stetersecretsanta]

Hello everyone! This is a friendly reminder that you have until November 10th to sign up for the steter secret santa 2k17. Participate in all the fandom fun and rejoice with fics and other creations of one of the best ships TW has to offer!  

If you want to know more about the exchange click here If you want to sign up fill out this form

If you have any questions feel free to send a message to either this blog, or my main blog @killjoywhatsername, or shoot an email at [email protected]

#steter #peterstiles #stiles stilinski #peter hale #I completely resused this pic from the first santa #shhhh #im being lazy