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Clever Boy

Chapter Text

 

Stiles could smell the smoke as he pulled against whatever the hell was around his wrists keeping him bound to the post. It bit against his skin, sharp metal still cold even though Stiles could feel the heat from the fire inside the house. He wasn't going to break free of the restraint, but that wasn't the point any more. He was trying to get cut now. It wasn't working.

 

Stiles let out a small sob as his frustration built. He was going to die here. On the porch of this stupid condemned building.

 

“Uh uh, don't cry,” Peter said lightly as he came outside, pressed up against him, and licked the tears from Stiles face. Stiles stomach rolled and he yanked hard against the metal round his wrists again. Peter sighed into Stiles neck, breathing him in. “I'll be back in one moment. I just want to watch the last of her burn,” he said stepping away back inside.

 

Stiles rolled his hands into fists and drove his finger nails into his palms. Finally, some breakthrough. He pressed his now bleeding palms against the banister he was tied to, praying it'd be enough. Peter stood in the doorway now, staring at Stiles.

 

“Stiles,” he breathed. “Stiles Stilinski. The Sheriff's boy,” he said stalking closer. Stiles gritted his teeth. “And such a clever boy too,” Peter remarked with some admiration in his voice. “So clever,” he said putting a hand to Stiles cheek. “That you're going to tell me exactly why I'm not going to kill you.”

 

Stiles stomach dropped. Heart going into overdrive. He could feel the edges of a panic attack creeping in.

 

“Oh my god. Oh my god, please,” he choked out. “Please don't -”

 

“Stiles, calm down. You misunderstand,” he said stepping even closer, nearly fully flushed along him. “I am looking for a reason.”

 

Stiles tried to take a deep breath, but he couldn't quite make it past shallow pants. He looked at Peter's eyes. They were steady, calm, expecting. The pros of being a psychopath he supposed, tranquil as a building catches fire. Fire. FIRE.

 

“This whole thing,” Stiles croaked out, tongue darting out to wet his lips even though his throat was dry too. “It's been revenge – justice. It's been about justice. About getting the people who... who burned your family, right?” Stiles asks. Peter gives nothing away, just keeps staring at his face, Stiles looks over Peter's shoulder through the window at the flames in the house that are only getting higher. “It's been about avenging them. Not about... hurting people. It's about getting the people who deserve it,” Stiles feels sick as he says it. Nobody deserved the brutality this man had dished out. “I... I never hurt your family,” Stiles coughed out. There's enough smoke now that it's starting to sting his eyes. “Please...”

 

Peter steps away from him and disappears. Stiles cries silently, trying once more to get free. He's making dents in the wood of the porch banister but nothing apart from that. God he was so weak. Peter walks past him with a bag and puts into the boot of his car. Slamming it shut he turns to stare at Stiles again. God what was with all the staring.

 

Suddenly Peter's right in front of him, up against him, hand wrapped tight around his jaw, pulling his mouth open, putting lips on his, tongue in his mouth.

 

Stiles' desperation wells up in him. This guy is a murderer and a rapist. Great. Oh god, this wasn't happening. Nononononononono.

 

“No no no no no no no no...” Stiles was yammering his eyes shut tightly as they could go.

 

“Stiles.”

 

“No no no no no no no no...” Stiles blathered on completely ignoring everything.

 

A sharp crack of pain blossomed on Stiles' cheek and Stiles' eyes flew open, mouth snapping shut. This was the first time Peter had actually hit him.

 

Peter held Stiles' gaze for a few moments. A part of the house fell down and Peter still didn't flinch.

 

“Stiles.” Peter placed his hands on Stiles hips.

 

“Yes?” Stiles croaked out.

 

“Do you understand,” he said brushing his nose along Stiles' jaw. Stiles started shaking. “Why I can't let you go?”

 

“Cause you're a super psycho rapist that -”

 

“No Stiles,” Peter said cutting him off with a nip of his ear that Stiles flinched back from. “Use your head. Why can't I let you go?”

 

“I don't know, man. I don't -”

 

“Stiles. Don't disappoint me.”

 

Stiles swallowed at the thinly veiled threat, and tried to think. So, apart from the heavy molesting that was currently going on...

 

“I've seen your face,” Stiles grit out.

 

Peter pressed ridiculously close up against him as he reached around and released his hands from their restraint. Peter stepped back, walked over to his car, and held open the passenger door. Stiles glared tearfully, rubbing his wrists, and glanced down to see what it was that had held him. All he could see was a crowbar, but surely the recently comatose psycho couldn't have bent a crowbar so quickly -

 

“Stiles. You stay there any longer you're going to burn.”

 

Stiles flicked his eyes up and walked over to the car.

 

“I hope you know what you're getting into here. I have ADD, can't control what I say.”

 

“I'm sure I'll find something else for your mouth to do,” Peter said leering at him. Stiles' stomach had finally reached its limit and he threw up. Dropping to his knees and gasping for air Stiles let out a final plea.

 

“Please, please. I won't say anything I promise. Please, please don't -”

 

“Shh shh shh,” Peter said curling a hand round the back of Stiles head and pulling him into a hug. “I'm sorry,” Peter whispered into Stiles' ear as he sobbed. “I've already made up my mind.”

Chapter Text

The Sheriff stared at the wooden post on the porch of the newly re-burnt Hale House.

 

Daddy! Daddy!”

 

“Sir?”

 

Stiles!” John said picking the boy up. Stiles screamed as he was flipped upside down and held by the ankles. John walked him into the kitchen like that. “Hey sweetie,” he said kissing his wife on the cheek. She hummed and raised an eyebrow. Uh oh.

 

Stiles, show daddy what you did.”

 

Oh no. What had the kid done now? Stiles thrust his hands obediently into the air, squirming as his dad took his wrists and inspected the crescent moon scabs.

 

“Sir, it looks like there was someone inside the house when it burnt down.”

 

Now tell daddy what you did.”

 

We were playing cops and criminals,” Stiles said speaking a mile a minute, using his hands to show his words. “I got taken by the baddies and had to stay in the secret hideout while they did battle,” John frowned as hands bashed against each other. Stiles was left out of the game. Again. Didn't even know it. “And I remembered you had to leave DNA on a crime scene so the goodies can tell the baddies took you so I did that,” he finished with a big grin.

 

Oh,” John said taking a moment to process. Then he looked up at his wife. “Oh.”

 

She widened her eyes and little and nodded.

 

“Looks like they were tied up so we're looking at murder. Arson and murder.”

 

Now Stiles. Listen carefully. Promise me you won't do this again.”

 

Stiles frowned. “But I was right.”

 

Yes,” John said automatically, because it was impossible to argue with this kid. “But games are only pretend, yes?”

 

Stiles squirmed. “Yeeeeeeeeeeeah.”

 

So next time pretend to leave DNA. Don't hurt yourself on purpose. Ever. You know me and your mom work really hard to keep you safe.”

 

Okay. I'll pretend when it's pretend.” John flitted his eyes up to his wife. She shrugged and smiled. John smiled back. He was getting better at this.

 

“It's definitly connected to the other murd – Sir?”

 

John pulled out his mobile and checked the calls. Nothing. He phoned home. No answer. He phoned Stiles. No connection.

 

“Sir? Sir!”

 

“My son was here.”

 

The deputy blinked.

 

“My son was here, and I don't know where he is.”

 

“Alright. How do you know?”

 

John pointed at the post.

 

“The gouges do look like someone struggled -”

 

“No. This. These. The blood here. See how it's shaped. Like little crescents. That is someone who has dug their finger nails into their palms and then put their hands against the post. I've seen Stiles do this before. Leave DNA behind at a crime scene. Link the bad guys to you and the crime. God, he...” John looked up at Deputy Browne. “He was here.”

 

The deputy nodded. “I'll get forensics down here. We first need to check he's actually missing. Phone the school, his friends – we'll need a list – and last known location,” the deputy looked at the Sheriff. “I'll need to take you down to the station.”

 

The Sheriff nodded and walked towards the car.

 

“Was Stiles even connected to this arson case?”

 

John flinched. “He... had a theory.”

 

“We'll discuss how he had enough information to even create a theory later. What was it?”

 

“Peter Hale. Stiles thought the murderer was Peter Hale.”

Chapter Text

Peter settled the bill in cash. Everything was in cash. It frustrated Stiles to no end that he didn't know where Peter kept it. It's like it magically appears in his pocket when no one's looking.

 

“Right, thanks,” the owner says as he rings it through. “You seen this thing?” he asks nodding to the small t.v. screen hanging on the wall. Peter glances up.

 

“Oh yes, I've heard. Kidnapping isn't it?”

 

“They don't know. Haven't recovered a body, haven't got a ransom,” the guy says around his cigarette. “First forty-eight hours are crucial – so if you see anyone with burns on their face with a teenager -”

 

“I'll phone the police immediately. Although with burns on half his face it'll be hard for him to get far.”

 

The guy grunted as he nodded and handed over their receipt. “Say he's crazy too, so don't get any wise ideas. Specially not with your son there.”

 

Peter smirked. “Of course not. Have a nice day.”

 

Stiles followed Peter out of the office and into the car door Peter opens for him. Stiles glares as he slides in and lets the car door slam behind him. Peter settles next to him and pulls out onto the highway.

 

“Going to untie my hands?” Stiles asks bitterly.

 

“Are you going to use my dashboard as a drum kit?”

 

Stiles curls up on the seat and stares out the window, fingers picking at the duct tape wrapped around his wrists. It was a hard task because his hands were inside the front pocket of the sweatshirt Peter had magically produced from the trunk of his car. Along with this cap. Stupid stupid cap, Stiles thought as he pressed the lip into the window making it rise off his head and fall. Peter caught it before it hit the floor with his crazy ass reflexes and shoves it back on Stiles' head without letting his eyes leave the road.

 

“Cap stays on.”

 

Stiles rolled his eyes and slumped back in the seat. “Can I at least have the radio?” Stiles groused.

 

“Of course you can,” Peter replied magnanimously. Stiles waited a few moments then groaned.

 

“Peter, could you please put the radio on for me?” Stiles asked as politely as possible.

 

“Of course, sweetheart,” he said flipping the radio on. Some pop channel came on and Stiles let his attention wander between road signs and radio chatter.

 

They had driven non-stop for eighteen hours from the burn-out, Stiles wasn't sure how Peter did that. He was like a machine. Stiles didn't really remember the first place they stopped. He had been pretty much asleep, but a few hours later and they were back on the road again putting as much distance as possible between them and Beacon Hills. This was hour thirty nine.

 

It didn't take long until Stiles started talking to the radio. It was something Peter didn't appear to mind. Singing, however, was out. They drove out of range eventually though, and that made Stiles sigh. They were getting further away. Peter switched off the radio static.

 

“What's with the sigh?”

 

“Just thinking, my history assignment would be so much easier to hand in if I weren't being forcible dragged across the country by a madman.”

 

“Did you even finish the assignment?” Peter asked wryly. Stiles screwed up his face.

 

“Did you even finish the assignment,” he mimicked back in a stupid voice.

 

“I'd appreciate it if you didn't do that,” Peter replied calmly.

 

“I'd appreciate it if you didn't do that,” Stiles parroted sticking out his tongue. Peter side glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. Stiles looked away. Peter made him feel like such a stupid little kid. How dare he anyway. He didn't ask to be in this car with him. If Peter didn't appreciate his company then he could jolly well pull the car over and let him out. Or go die in a blaze of fire. Or something.

 

“Quite finished?” Peter asked. Stiles glared in response. “Good boy,” Peter said patting Stiles' thigh.

 

Something snapped.

 

Stiles lifted his leg and kicked the steering wheel – or he would have if Peter hadn't simultaneously grabbed his ankle and pulled the handbrake. The car behind them honked their horn as it overtook them, but apart from that the atmosphere was still and tense. Peter took a few deep breaths.

 

I'm going to let go of your ankle. You're going to sit nicely.”

 

Peter let go of Stiles' ankle and pressed the hazard lights button on the dash – not that there were any cars around.

 

“Now, I can either put you in the boot or you can play nice. Pick.”

 

Stiles stared resolutely out the window. There was a dead nurse in the boot and as much as he hated Peter's company, he hated corpses more. Was the nurse still even in there? If so that was a bit risky, and she'd probably start to smell soon -

 

“Stiles...” Peter's hand curled around his thigh again.

 

“Here! Here, I pick here, god! Get your pedo hands off me!” Stiles yelled jumping a mile. The grip tightened. Stiles inhaled sharply.

 

“No yelling. I have a headache.”

 

“Okay,” Stiles replied shakily staring at Peter. Peter held his gaze for what seemed like ages.

 

“I either duct tape your mouth or my hand stays where it is. Pick.”

 

“Duct tape,” Stiles said immediately. Peter reaches back and pulls out the roll. Stiles' heart hammers in his chest just looking at it, and Peter is smirking like he knows. Stiles licks his lips nervously, Peter hones in on the movement. Stiles freezes.

 

“Well, hurry up dude,” he chokes out finally. “The longer we sit on the highway like this the more likely we are to die in a traffic accident.”

 

Peter wrapped the tape around Stiles' head and across his mouth, unnecessarily touching his lips as his fingers deftly circled his head. Stiles glared furiously as he leaned forward and broke the tape off with his teeth. “There,” he said pressing a kiss against his taped lips. Stiles' stomach rolled. “Much better.”

 

Peter started up the car again and proceeded on. Stiles eventually fell asleep on the road. When he woke up again it was dark. His cap was still on, the duct tape still gagged his mouth, his wrists were still tied together.

 

And Peter's hand was on his thigh.

Chapter Text

Dad, just look at this. It's the same nurse on the night shift every time there's been a murder!”

 

Stiles! How did you – when – Stiles drop this. It's not Peter Hale.”

 

I pulled up these documents from the hospital database.”

 

Stiles...”

 

And this person, Jennifer Blanding, is the nurse on the ward each night there's a murder. Well, she's on a lot at night actually, but she's on all of them. If you go and talk to her maybe -”

 

Stiles the man is in a coma!”

 

Is he really?”

 

Stiles!”

 

He's the only person with motive!”

 

Then why are his niece and nephew dead?”

 

Why were they here in the first place dad? Something brought them back here. Maybe someone?”

 

-------------

 

Peter sat in the middle of the bed, reading his book quite contentedly. Until Stiles starting flitting about unsure of himself again. Thoughts flew in and out of the boy's mind at the speed of light and when he latched onto one he became nearly insuffrable. “What is it?” he asked glancing up.

 

Stiles blinked and looked up at Peter like a deer caught in the headlights. Prey. “Huh?”

 

“You're thinking rather loudly. What about?”

 

Stiles shifted. “A shower.”

 

Peter nodded toward the bathroom. “Shower in there. Towels supplied.”

 

A moment later and Stiles still hadn't moved. In fact his heart had just started racing. Peter looked up properly and grinned lewdly at him. “There's a lock on the door too if that's what you're worried about.”

 

Stiles rolled his eyes but flounced towards the bathroom easily now. Twenty minutes later Stiles stepped out, his pjs clinging just slightly to his body where he was still wet. Peter's eyes tracked him. He needed more.

 

“Stiles.”

 

“Yes?” Stiles turned around.

 

“Take off your shirt.”

 

Stiles' fingers twitched towards the hemline of his top before he stopped himself. Peter smirked at the immediate response of obedience, Stiles looked at him coldly.

 

“Or sit in my lap. Pick.”

 

“No,” Stiles breathed out.

 

“No?” Peter repeated. Defiance was so sweet. Submission, however, was sweeter. He put his book to the side. Stiles' heart rate shot up and Peter restrained his smirk. “Come here, come sit,” he said gently, patting the bed beside him. Stiles shook his head and backed away slightly. “Stiles, come on, let's talk about this.” Stiles had his back against the wall now. His scent changed. He was going to run.

 

Stiles bolted towards the door and tugged on the handle, but Peter had already locked it. Stiles slumped down onto the ground shaking his head muttering 'no' and similar refusals. Peter stood up and gathered Stiles into his arms carrying him back into the bed, quickly removing the shirt, and then settled him against his chest. Stiles' head was cradled in his own hands. Peter crooned into his ear, and circled his thumb on Stiles' shoulder, calmed him down. Breathe in. One. Breathe out. Two. Breathe in. One. Breathe out. Two. Slowly Stiles relaxed, leaning into him more, uncurling ever so slightly. Peter stopped his chant and listened to Stiles' heartbeat for a moment. Steady.

 

“I'm going to read my book now. Will you be alright?”

 

Stiles nodded shakily. Peter kissed his shoulder blade and picked up the book. Stiles had yet to realise that he was sitting in Peter's lap and had no shirt on. Peter wrapped his arm around Stiles' waist and enjoyed the moment.

-------------

Stiles opened his eyes slowly. Peter was curled around him completely. Stupid pyscho. He fidgeted and then went cold with terror. Stiles had morning wood.

 

Okay. Will it away. This was a freaking terrifying situation anyway, it wouldn't take much. Then Peter shifted. He had woken up. Oh god.

 

Stiles tried to shoot out of the bed but Peter grabbed him by the waist and pulled him back against him.

 

“Uh, dude, gotta pee,” Stiles said pulling away from him.

 

“No you don't,” Peter said pulling him in tighter, practically bruising him, and pressing his lips against his shoulder. “In fact I would say that was the opposite of your problem, wouldn't you?” Peter's hands rolled around his hipbones and dipped underneath the loose waistband of his pyjama bottoms. He pulled them down to Stiles' knees letting his hands slip inbetween his thighs.

 

“Oh god, please don't. Please stop. Don't do this,” Stiles pleaded. He was going to black out, he was hyperventilating. Would that even matter to Peter? Being conscious?

 

“Hey. Calm down. Breathe in,” Stiles sucked in a breath. “Breathe out.” Stiles let out a gush of air. Peter repeated the instructions a few times and Stiles had stopped shaking. “Now Stiles, you aren't entirely without choice here,” he murmured pulling his briefs down to his knees. “I can touch you,” Peter's knuckled drifted over Stiles' bare ass. “Or you can touch yourself,” he said curling a hand around his hip. “Pick.”

 

Stiles brain was in meltdown. He wasn’t doing it. Not ever. Not in front of this guy. “Three.” Stiles shook his head, his eyes shut tight. “Two.” God it was a countdown. No he needed time to think. “One...” His hand's moving closer. I can't. He can't. “Ze -”

 

Stiles started palming his own dick furiously and tried to put his mind somewhere else. Somewhere other than this cheap motel room, pressed up against a murderer.

 

Stiles was pretty sure he zoned out for the majority – scratch that – the whole forced masturbation thing. He was pretty sure he had zoned out now. Curled up on his side. Mind numb. He could hear the shower in the background. Was Peter jacking off to the thought of him? Reliving those few moments like his own private live-porn collection?

 

The shower stopped and Peter was out of the bathroom moving around. Probably getting dried and dressed. Stiles closed his eyes and did that breathing thing Peter did. And he wasn't going to analyse the fact that he was using it. Not one little bit. Breathe in. One. Breath out. Two. Breathe in. One. Breathe out. Two.

 

“Stiles. I'm going to lock you in. I'll be back in twenty minutes, and then we'll go,” Peter said with the keys in his hands staring down at Stiles. “You will be ready to go – otherwise I'll just assume you want to spend more time in bed with me. Is that clear?”

 

“Yes,” Stiles whispered, tears leaking out. Stiles felt the bed shifting and opened his eyes to glare at Peter as he sucked the tears from the top corner of his cheekbone.

 

“You have no idea what you do to me, Stiles,” Peter whispered in his ear. “What you mean to me,” his breath gusted along Stiles' jaw. “You are so very precious to me.”

 

Stiles felt like he had been doused in ice water. This side of Peter, this gentle, possessive, caring Peter was far more dangerous and unforgiving than the angry, manipulative, irritable Peter. This was a man unhinged. A foot wrong and he'd slice Stiles up like the bus driver, or burn him alive like Kate -

 

“Don't,” Peter said dragging Stiles' attention back by pressing a thumb into the hollow of his cheek. “Do anything stupid.”

 

Stiles gave a nod and Peter back off and out the door. Stiles didn't breathe until he heard the lock of the door, and the engine of the car was out of hearing.

 

Chapter Text

That's a cool drawing.”

 

Stiles! Give that back. That's -”

 

Classified?” Stiles asked cheekily waggling his eyebrows. The Sheriff grumbled. "Tell me, is this anything to do with why Mr. Harris has been taken into Poilce custody?"

 

"Stiles!"

 

 

Stiles eyed the green car with speculation.

 

“New car?” Stiles asked. Peter ignored him. “I didn't think green was your colour. What did you do with the other car?”

 

“Sold it.”

 

“You sold a car and bought a new one in what, twenty minutes? Were you a car salesman before?” Stiles asked incredulously. Peter rolled his eyes.

 

“I've had this planned out for a while you know.”

 

Stiles blinked at that. “I hadn't actually thought about you making a get-away plan. Did you know you'd have me? Cause if you did, planned this all for me, then seriously dude I'm touched – in more ways than one now unfortunately. But really you didn't have to do this for lil' old me. I'll just catch a bus. Where we headed?”

 

Peter gestured for him to get in the car and Stiles slunk in.

 

“You never answered my question.” Stiles immediately bombarded Peter when he got into the driver's seat. “Did you know you'd have me? That you'd have to run? Cause otherwise you could have done a whole 'miraculous recovery' gimmick at the hospital, which would have been hard considering how you killed Jennifer. Which I still don't understand by the way. Why kill Jennifer? Or you niece and nephew for that matter -”

 

“Stiles. I didn't plan on having you. Yes I knew I'd have to run. The Argents are not people to be trifled with.”

 

“Why did they burn your house down? All those years ago?”

 

Peter looked at him sideways. “Not yet, Stiles. I'm not telling you that just yet. Maybe if you're good.”

 

Stiles tried to let the silence last a bit longer, but he couldn't. “There's a Met's game on today. Radio? Please?”

 

----

 

Peter carried Stiles into the motel room. Stiles roused himself a little when Peter lay him down on the bed.

 

“Shh, Stiles, go back to sleep.”

 

Stiles made a sleepy noise then frowned. “You aren't going to touch me up while I sleep?”

 

“No, Stiles,” Peter said pulling off Stiles' shoes. “I want you fully conscious when I have my way with you.”

 

“Huh,” Stiles put eloquently. “Excellent. Night.”

 

Stiles opened his eyes gently, slowly taking in his surroundings. He kinda remembered being put in the bed and a weird conversation with Peter. Speaking of which, where's Peter.

 

Stiles swung his feet out of bed, shivering slightly as he swooped down to get his t-shirt which was on the floor – and he wasn't thinking about how Peter took that off him nope – he stood up and took stock of the room.

 

“Peter?”

 

Stiles looked around. There was a kitchenette and a door to the bathroom, but that was it apart from the bed.

 

“Peter?”

 

And apparently he was alone.

 

Stiles took a deep breathe and grabbed his socks, but where were his shoes? After three minutes of frantic searching Stiles concluded that Peter had stolen his shoes.

 

Well if Peter thought that was going to stop him he had another thing coming.

 

After breaking the window and swinging out of it, Stiles headed over for the Diner across the street, but it was closed. God, what time was it? What day?

 

Paranoid that Peter was going to show up at any moment, Stiles started to head out to the road and walked along the main road with the intention of hitch hiking. He was pretty sure the pros outweighed the cons in this particular scenario. Getting picked up by a rapist: con. Getting picked up by a law abiding citizen: pro. Stiles continued to make his list until his toes went numb. Stiles stopped and sat by the side of the road, wrapping his arms around him to try and get some heat. Trying to figure out the next step. He needed to find a phone. Call his dad, call someone. It would help to know where he was.

 

A pair of headlights were coming from behind. Stiles turned and only registered the fact that the car wasn't green before he stuck his thumb out like a mad hitch hiker. Miraculously, the car stopped.

 

Stiles blinked for a moment then bounded up to the passenger door and climbed in.

 

“Uh, hi.”

 

“Hey kid,” the man said putting the car back into drive. “My name's Mike.”

 

“I'm Stiles.”

 

“Where you headed Stiles?”

 

“Nearest police station.”

 

Mike blinked and looked over at him. Mike looked regular and normal. Average build. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Average looks. A little bit of stubble to speak of. A wedding ring.

 

“Why's that then?”

 

“I'm Stiles Stilinski. Been missing since...” Stiles rubbed his face. “Friday. Friday the eighteenth.”

 

“Oh man. Yeah. Stilinski. Your name was on the radio. Man. Is that why you're not wearing shoes?”

 

Stiles snorted and shook his head. “Yeah. Look, do you have a mobile? I... I need to phone my dad.”

 

“Uh, yeah. My jacket pocket. But this place is a bit of a dead zone. We might have to wait for a gas station and pull over for their landline.”

 

Stiles reached behind him to the back seats and pulled the jacket over to him, checking the pockets for the mobile. He pulled out the touch phone and checked for signal.

 

“No signal,” Stiles sighed, his leg bouncing nervously up and down. “Guess you were right.”

 

“Yeah, I commute. I work one week in the city, then the next week at home with the wife. I know this road like the back of my hand.”

 

“Sounds a bit wearing.”

 

“Yeah it is sometimes. Miss my wife when I'm away,” Mike said snorting. “Then when I'm with her I feel smothered.”

 

“It's nice,” Stiles said quietly. “To have someone love you like that.”

 

“Wouldn't trade it for the world, right?”

 

“Right.”

 

“You want the radio?”

 

Stiles nodded and the radio crackled on. It was night time jazz or something, but Stiles was too focused on checking the phone every few minutes to see if there were back in range.

 

But then there was something else he focused on.

 

“How long have those headlights been following us for?” Stiles asked leaning forwards. Mike blinked.

 

“Uhh, I'm not sure. This is a pretty common route though.”

 

“At half four?”

 

Mike frowned and accelerated just a little.

 

“There a 24 hour gas station. Fourteen miles. We won't be long now.”

 

Stiles nodded and stared at the headlights. “You probably think I'm being paranoid.”

 

“I think you're entitled to it, besides, it's not paranoia if they really are out to get you.”

 

Stiles grinned at Mike's joke, but it did nothing to calm the growing fear in his gut.

 

The headlights turned off the road and Stiles let out a sigh of relief. Mike chuckled. “I think I can start breathing again now,” he said. Stiles nodded.

 

“Yeah, I know what you mean. Thought I was going to have an aneurysm,” Stiles replied with a smile. “Or my heart was going to explode or something.”

 

“Well I think -”

 

The car suddenly swerved as something hit it from the side. Mike slammed on the brakes as the car skidded off the road.

 

“Wow, kid you okay?”

 

Stiles nodded. “Yeah. I'm fine. What was -”

 

The car door swung open and someone grabbed Mike out of the car. Stiles froze. He heard a thud and that was it. Nothing else. Stiles reached for the handle and pushed open the door, spilling out onto the roadside.

 

“Stiles.”

 

Stiles spun on the spot. Peter. Peter was standing in front of the car now. Stiles stared at his face, then his eyes dropped down to the hands that hung by his sides.

 

Blood.

 

“What... what did you do to Mike?” Stiles whispered still staring at his hands.

 

“I think you can see.”

 

Stiles watched the blood drip off Peter's fingers and hit the ground. Stiles knees went weak and he stumbled against the car.

 

“Oh my god.”

 

Stiles stomach rolled. The smell of blood was stronger now. Had Peter literally pulled the man apart with his bare hands? How else did a person get that much blood on their hands?

 

Stiles slid slowly down the side of the car until his knees hit the ground and closed his eyes. This couldn't be happening. Not to him. This was just a nightmare. He was going to wake up.

 

Stiles physically threw himself back as he felt the slick blood covering Peter's fingers sliding under his chin and the smell of blood filled his nostrils.

 

“Don't touch me!” Stiles' screamed. He took a deep breath, trying to stave off the hyperventilation. “Don't. Please. Don't,” he repeated, quieter, staring at the ground, rubbing his hand from where he'd scraped it off the ground while he scrambled away.

 

Stiles' held his breath as Peter took a step closer and crouched down in front of him. Peter took hold of his jaw and Stiles grimaced.

 

“God,” he said grabbing Peter's wrist and trying to pull it off. “I said don't touch -”

 

Peter leaned forward and kissed Stiles. Stiles immediately tried to push him away, hit him, scratched at his face, but not even that would make him stop. This man was like a machine. A terminator. Arnie style metal skeleton and he would not shift. The worse part was the blood he could taste on Peter's mouth. Mike's blood. Peter had what, bitten him? Drunk his blood? Licked it up? Tried to eat him? Like an animal? A monster? Stiles gave up and let his hands drop to his sides. He was too tired for this. Too tired to fight and be angry. He was so angry and it just exhausted him.

 

The blood on Peter's hands had started to congeal into a sticky sap that made a small 'thip' when Peter finally pulled away. Stiles felt a bit like a rag doll as Peter pulled him up to his feet and led him down the road. Still in bare feet he stumbled once or twice, but Peter didn't seem to care.

 

Peter opened up the car door and placed Stiles in and even did up his seat belt for him. Stiles just let him. It wasn't like he could stop him.

 

Peter slid into the seat next to him and started up the engine. As they drove down the road Peter said the last word on the matter.

 

“I will kill whoever tries to take you away from me, Stiles.”

 

Stiles didn't even have the energy to cry.

Chapter Text

If there was one thing Stiles was good at it was compartmentalising. He couldn't – he would not – become some sad, scared, given-up-on-life, subdued person just because Peter had gone and murdered someone. In front of him. Again.

 

If he could get over Kate, he could get over Mike. His aim now was to annoy Peter so badly, he would just let him go. That didn't go over so well. Hence his present situation.

 

Stiles held as still as he possibly could. A small whimper escaped and he bit down on his lip in response. Peter simply smirked in return bending his head a little to press a kiss to Stiles forehead. Stiles glared at him.

 

“You're doing so well,” he murmured into Stiles' ear. Stiles' eyes flitted away from him and he kept still.

 

It wasn't like this was the first time Peter has punished him. This wasn't even a particularly bad one, or overtly sexual one. Of course, Stiles hated the more physical punishments. Once, Stiles kneed him in the groin and he spent a night on the floor of the car in the space in front of the passenger seat. Another time, Stiles continued to crack his fingers and joints - even after fair warning – so Stiles' fingers were individually sucked and nibbled. Stiles still shuddered at that one.

 

Currently Stiles was lying on the floor with Peter looming above him, the fragile skin beneath his eye was currently being pinched between Peter's ridiculously strong fore fingers.

 

“A few more moments and we'll be done, sweetie, just stay still,” Peter crooned. Stiles grit his teeth and tried not to think about blinking too much. Which was easy because the pain distracted him quite well – and he was pretty sure Peter was tightening his grip and trying to grind a hole into his skin.

 

In the end it was easier to just take the punishments. He did something wrong, he got caught, he took the punishment. Fighting the punishment was not only disrespectful, which Peter was not a fan of – but it was stupid. Stupidity had no place with Peter.

 

“There we go,” Peter said gently letting go and rolling onto his side along side Stiles, one leg gently resting on top of Stiles'. “Finished.”

 

Stiles heaved a sigh of relief and a tear trickled sideways down his face. Peter immediately swooped down and licked the train back the way it came and gave the blackening eye a kiss. Stiles curled his hands into fists.

 

“Finished. Great,” Stiles said as he tried to sit up. “I'll just -”

 

Peter's hand pressed against Stiles' chest before he even got an inch up from the ground. Stiles concentrated hard on not hyperventilating.

 

“It's been fifteen days.”

 

Stiles waited. Not wanting to be drawn into a conversation with the psycho.

 

Too bad the psycho knew him so well.

 

“Right okay. Fifteen days. What does that mean? We lie endless here on the floor with your pedo hands on me? The camera man jumps out and says you've been framed and this whole thing has been a screwed up joke?”

 

Peter smiled that horribly amused and patient smile at him that made Stiles want to punch him in the face.

 

“Not quite,” he said flicking a hand up the inside of Stiles' t-shirt. Stiles' hand automatically went up to try and push it away, but he froze when he caught Peter's gaze. Peter raised and eyebrow at him and Stiles let his hand drop back to his side. Peter smirked and continued his path along Stiles' torso.

 

“It's not consent. I want you to stop.”

 

Peter hummed. “Full moon is coming up.”

 

Stiles rolled his eyes. “And you're a lunatic. I see the connection.”

 

“No. I'm a werewolf.”

 

“And I'm the abominable snowman.”

 

Peter smirked. “Is that more of a seasonal thing?” he asked skimming his fingers over Stiles' ribs.

 

“Ha freaking ha,” Stiles said with a glare. Peter glanced up at him, his eyes glowed red. Stiles froze.

 

“Why are your eyes doing that? How? They're red. Like glow in the dark red. Like Voldemort – which makes sense. I'm sure he's a huge role model for you being a psycho who obsesses over a kid, hell bent on revenge and causing general death and destruction. It didn't turn out to well for him though. Kid won in the end.”

 

Peter grinned at Stiles' ramblings. “You've just reminded me. I haven't read the past few books. They're all out now aren't they?” he said pushing Stiles shirt up. Stiles grabbed the shirt.

 

“Stop. Stay on topic. Please,” Stiles asked, knowing he was far too under medicated to manage a real conversation.

 

Peter smirked. “Do I have something you want?” he asked playfully, tugging at the shirt.

 

“You have many things I want,” Stiles said coldly.

 

“Would you exchange sex for freedom?” Peter asked lightly.

 

“Would you let me?” Stiles responded to the barb sharply, sliding himself along the floor and getting out from under Peter. Peter rolled over and stood as Stiles sorted his clothes and stood himself.

 

“Stiles?” Stiles ignored Peter as he rifled through the shopping bag and pulled out a pre-made sandwich. “Stiles...” Peter sing-songed, bounding up behind him and pulling his arms tight around his waist. “Would you have sex with me in exchange for something else?”

 

“No,” Stiles said trying to escape Peter hold. “Peter let go. Please, I need you to give me a break. Please.” Stiles was hitting his limit of creepy behaviour for today. He didn't need this. His eye stung like crazy, he missed his dad, it had been fifteen days, his ADD was acting up, and he was hungry damnit.

 

“I want to talk, put your head back.”

 

Stiles closed his eyes and counted to ten. Breath in, one. Breath out, two.

 

Stiles dropped his head back onto Peter shoulder and Peter ran his nose along his neck. Stiles snorted.

 

“What?” Peter mumbled into his neck.

 

“You really are a werewolf, aren't you?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Stiles took another deep breath.

 

“What does that mean?”

 

“It means I'm stronger humans, faster than most animals, I have heightened senses, and I heal.”

 

“You 'heal'. Humans do that too,” Stiles snorted. Peter nipped his ear. Stiles flinched slightly.

 

“You've seen my face.”

 

“Yeah, it's the whole reason I'm in this mess,” Stiles whispered.

 

“You think burns disappear like that in a few moments.”

 

Stiles frowned. “I had wondered. Also the crowbar thing, what you did to Mike, ability to hear me at a hundred paces, that thing you did when I tried to run us off the road...”

 

“I never did discipline you for that, did I?” Peter breathed in his ear as he tightened his hold. Stiles struggled automatically, trying to get away but Peter growled gently and Stiles stilled. “Lean back.” Stiles closed his eyes and dropped his head back onto Peter's shoulder. He humfed happily.

 

“Like an exposed neck then, do ya?” Stiles chided, trying to gain some ground.

 

“Yes.”

 

Peter held them like that for a few minutes longer. Stiles getting more and more anxious.

 

“Look, dude, I'm hungry and tired. Can we do the whole non-consensual hugging thing later?”

 

“Alright.”

 

Peter let go and Stiles heaved a sigh of relief. He rubbed his eye and tore the packaging off the sandwich, taking large bites out of it.

 

“Don't go anywhere.”

 

Stiles glanced up as Peter slipped out the door. Stiles finally felt the muscles in his body relax as he slumped down onto the bed.

 

------

 

Stiles heard the rattle of the keys in the door as he came round from his nap. He picked up the empty sandwich carton and threw it in the bin from where he was lying on the bed.

 

“How are you feeling?” Peter asked as he came in and kicked off his shoes. Stiles shrugged, sitting up.

 

“Stronger?” Peter asked.

 

Stiles frowned. “Stronger?”

 

Peter put his hand under Stiles chin angling his head up to look at him, and slowly climbed on top of him. “Stronger.”

 

Stiles froze. “What do you want?”

 

“You're a clever boy. Figure it out.”

 

Stiles' swallowed. “I'll scream. These walls aren't that thick.”

 

“And I'd kill whomever came to the door,” he growled, pulling back, eyes flashing red. “But I don't expect you to give me something for nothing.”

 

Peter slowly reached into his pocket and pulled out a mobile phone. He smirked as he caught Stiles' eyes and tapped it against Stiles lips, letting it pull Stiles' lip down, grin growing wider – feral Stiles' mind provided.

 

“The real question is... how much do you miss your father?”

 

- - - - - -

 

“Dad?”

 

Stiles! Oh god, Stiles.”

 

Stiles felt choked up as he heard his father's voice. “Hey dad,” he managed to get out.

 

Tell me what's going on? Are you okay? Where are you?”

 

Where am I? Stiles thought. I'm sitting half naked in bed on the lap of the man I let come inside my mouth - and I even swallowed. You'd be so proud dad. First blow job is a freaking mile stone.

 

“Tell him I'm listening,” Peter said running a claw up Stiles' spine. Stiles jumped at the contact. Claws, yeah. New extra exciting psycho feature in this nightmare.

 

“I can't answer that, dad. He's listening.”

 

His dad breathed heavily. “Can I speak to him, Stiles?”

 

“Tell him no. That this phone call is for you. Your reward. Tell him that.”

 

“Uh no. This phone call is for me. How are – ah!” Stiles yelped as Peter's claws came up again.

 

Stiles?”

 

“Your reward, tell him,” Peter growled letting the claws sink in ever so slightly.

 

“My reward. It's my reward, and it's biting me on the ass,” Stiles grumbled down the line. Stiles could practically feel the satisfaction coming off the man. Oh god, he hadn't given Peter a new idea had he -

 

Reward?” Stiles swallowed, not sure how he should respond to his dad's question. He knows it's a loaded question. Reward for what? What did you do? What has he been making you do? So what does Stiles - What does he say to that? Oh there's been some forced masturbation, inappropriate groping, and a little bit of oral rape? “Stiles... You do whatever you have to, to stay safe. The longer you stay safe, the closer I will get. Okay?

 

Stiles nodded.

 

You're nodding, aren't you.”

 

Stiles laughed and cried at the same time. “Yeah. I am. How... how are you?”

 

I'm... I'm doing okay kid. Don't worry about me.

 

Peter bounced his knee, sending Stiles into the air and back down. Stiles spun around to glare, but Peter was lying back against the headboard pretending to read a book.

 

“Melissa looking after you?” Stiles said turning away from him. “Making sure you stick to you diet? Because you know what the doctor said. Less greasy foods, we need to keep your cholesterol down – and don't think I don't know about the chocolate you keep in the cruiser. You can have a piece every once in a while but eating three bars in a row is not a suitable lunch replacement. If I have to eat properly, you have to eat properly.”

 

Yes I'm sticking to my diet, Stiles. Honestly one bad report from the doctor and you two...

 

Peter's hands snuck around Stiles' waist and pulled him sharply up against his chest, knocking the wind from him momentarily. Stiles struggled against the hold.

 

“Dad, could you hold on for two seconds?”

 

Yes.”

 

Stiles spun sharply off Peter so he was sitting facing him.

 

“What the hell, dude?” he hissed. “You said I could do this – you suggested -” Stiles took a deep breath. “I want to talk to my dad, uninterrupted and undistracted. Do you need to leave the room for me to have that?”

 

Peter's hand drifted up Stiles leg and rested on his thigh. “I won't move.”

 

Stiles held Peter gaze for a few more moments before putting the phone back to his ear. “Sorry about that, Dad. How'd the Mets do? I missed the game on t.v and the radio got banned mid-way through the game.”

 

He managed to talk for another ten minutes until Peter told him to hang up.

 

“What? Why?”

 

Stiles? What's going on?”

 

“He's telling me to hang up,” Stiles said to his dad. “Why?”

 

“Someone's just came into your dad's room to trace the call. Hang. Up.”

 

Stiles blinked. “You can...” he shook his head. “Yeah, dad, I need to hang up. Don't... don't expect me to be rewarded too often, alright?”

 

Good. I love you. I'm coming for you.

 

Stiles closed his eyes. “I love you too, dad.”

 

Stiles hung up the phone and stared listlessly at his hands. Peter pulled and twisted him until they were both lying down and Stiles was curled at his side.

 

“I hate you,” Stiles whispered as Peter put his arms around him. “Thank you.” Peter kissed his forehead and pulled the blankets up.

 

“Goodnight, clever boy.”

 

Chapter Text

 

Maybe it was punishment,” Stiles said as he passed his dad a coffee.

 

What?” the Sheriff asked blearily. “Is this decaf?”

 

Well, Laura and Derek left for New York what? Straight after the memorial?”

 

Yeah we assume.”

 

They ran.”

 

Ran?”

 

If this thing really was arson -”

 

If it was really murder they were scared they were next. They knew all along.”

 

Exactly,” Stiles said, eyes lighting up. “What if Peter -”

 

Stiles...”

 

What if Peter,” Stiles pressed on. “Killed them as a punishment. For running away instead of avenging the family or whatever.”

 

The Sheriff stared at Stiles. “That's awfully weak. You're assuming a lot of things.”

 

Stiles shrugged. “I can't talk to the dead, dad. I have to assume.”

 

That man isn't dead Stiles. He's lying in hospital with burn covering sixty-eight percent of his body. Even if he weren't comatose he wouldn't be able to move without being in excruciating pain, let along rip people apart without blacking out.”

 

Whatever, dad, and yes it's decaf, I don't want you up all night.”

 

- - - - -

 

Stiles threw up the next day trying to eat breakfast. Peter rubbed his back as he slumped over the toilet bowl.

 

“Better?”

 

Stiles nodded blearily.

 

“I had planned on going clothes shopping, get you out of the car for a while,” Peter said lightly. “But I can move it around if you prefer.”

 

Stiles shook his head. “I think I'm alright so long as I don't eat,” or swallow, Stiles added mentally. “I want to go, please.”

 

Peter eyed him critically, but nodded and kissed his forehead in a way that made Stiles feel bizarrely homesick. “Brush your teeth. Then we'll go.”

 

They didn't drive far. Nor did they drive to a mall, which was what Stiles' mind had conjured up when Peter said shopping. He hadn't expected... this.

 

Peter grinned when he saw Stiles staring out the window wide eyed. He squeezed Stiles' knee gently, and Stiles unbuckled his seatbelt and stepped out of the car along with Peter.

 

The market was huge. Tents and stalls were everywhere. There were food stalls, and candy stalls, and antique tents, and musicians, and clowns, and statues, and trees, and...

 

“Is this... a flea market?”

 

Peter smirked from the hood of the car as he watched Stiles. Stiles blushed slightly and shut his mouth quite firmly when he noticed Peter staring.

 

“Ready?”

 

Stiles nodded and fell into step beside Peter. Peter kept a hand on him at all times. Waist, hip, hand, wrist, neck, shoulder, ass when he was feeling particularly forward, but that didn't stop Stiles from exploring. Peter let him take point on the route, making him stop to try on jeans and shirts every so often, Stiles' nausea quickly abated after watching a man fry some sort of sugar cake thing which he demanded to eat straight away. Peter smirked as it burned the roof of his mouth off and Stiles glared at him. It was still delicious.

 

A few hours later Stiles flopped back into the car with a smile on his face. Peter dumped the new clothes in the boot of their car and slid into the seat next to him.

 

“So...” Stiles said. “Werewolves.”

 

Peter grinned and started up the engine, pulled out and headed down the road. “Werewolves.”

 

“It was you who... hit Mike's car. Right?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“The murders at home... They always stumped the police because they looked like animal attacks.”

 

“You already know that was me.”

 

“No, but...” Stiles shifted. “Were you an actual wolf? Or more like a man-wolf? And does it only happen on full moons? And – OH MY GOD! That's why Kate Argent tried to kill you all, right? Oh my god!”

 

“Stiles, not so loud,” Peter said patting Stiles' knee.

 

“Sorry, but like. I'm right. The reason she burned down the house – and the necklace with the wolf on it – and them coming back to town just as the murders started. Everything's slotting into place.”

 

Peter smiled lightly. “Of course it is.”

 

“There's just -” Stiles cut himself off.

 

“What?” Peter asked glancing over at him.

 

“Your niece and nephew.”

 

Peter grew silent.

 

“I'm man enough to admit I'm not all together sane. I spent years, alone, healing cell by cell. In pain. Laura and Derek left – ran. I don't blame them for that. They were children. So I plotted. You'd be surprised how much information you can gather in a hospital.”

 

Stiles frowned. Peter's thumb circled his knee.

 

“Werewolves senses are much stronger than a human's, in that hospital bed I learned to rely on those senses far more than ever had before. I could hear my whole floor and the one above it and beneath it and the parking lot by the end.”

 

“Wow,” Stiles whispered. “You... you can hear that much?” Stiles asked.

 

“I can hear your heart beat Stiles. Can hear the blood rushing through your veins. It's rather distracting sometimes.” Stiles felt his face go red. “Particularly when you blush.”

 

“That's insane...”

 

“I know. The most insane is when I can smell you getting hard.”

 

Stiles' blanched and was now hyper aware of the fact Peter's hand was resting on his thigh. It suddenly felt like a hot brand burning through his jeans.

 

“Your heart rate just spiked.”

 

Stiles choked. “That's, uh, that's super creepy.”

 

“Stiles...”

 

Stiles looked up at Peter.

 

“I understand that this is all new and scary for you, but this is your life now. I'm never going to leave you and no one will be able to take you away from me. You could shoot a bullet into my chest and I would still get up. You could run across the country and I would hunt your scent like a bloodhound. I am the top of the food chain, Stiles. You will never be as safe anywhere as you are with me.”

 

Stiles tried to calm the impending panic attack.

 

“Oh, I'm sure you say that to all the minors you kidnap.”

 

Peter chuckled. “Yes, it's a classic. Did I get the possessiveness right? I was going for underlying sexual tension as well.”

 

Stiles actually burst out in hysterical laughter. “Oh I think you got it spot on. Ten out of ten for creepy werewolf.”

 

“Alpha.”

 

“What?” Stiles asked.

 

“I'm an Alpha. Stronger, faster, better. And capable of turning humans into werewolves.”

 

“Alpha.”

 

“Yes. The reason I killed Laura was to take the Alpha power. It gets passed you see. When the family died, she was the strongest, most capable wolf in the pack. The only way to have it, is to take it. To the victor the spoils. I needed the extra strength, otherwise it could have been years more before I could heal myself enough to enact revenge.”

 

“And Derek?”

 

“He was there with Laura. The two were inseparable. I killed Laura, then Derek tried to kill me. So I killed him first.”

 

“That's awful,” Stiles whispered.

 

“Yes,” Peter said softly. “I suppose it is.”

 

- - - - -

 

Peter stared at the sleeping boy. He had fallen asleep on top of the sheets again annoying enough. Then again he moved so much in his sleep he probably got tangled in the sheets more often than not. He might not ever sleep under the covers given the choice.

 

Well... he could easily remove that habit.

 

There was just enough light from the street lamps outside to see. He imagined if Stiles were awake he wouldn't be able to see a thing. Such odd things humans were. How did they survive. Not being able to see the way the light hit off Stiles' cheekbones, how the shadows caved in the hollows of his cheeks. The pout of his lips. Lips that stretch so easily around him. Hot and wet and -

 

Peter blinked as he realised that he had already knelt up ready to mount the boy's mouth again, see his tears clump his eyelashes -

 

But that wouldn't do. Not now. Not so soon. It wouldn't be good. Not for either of them. Peter was still too close to the edge of insanity. Still too near to death. His headaches were slowly trying to heal his fractured mind. He hadn't really thought that a mental infliction was something they could heal. Then again, maybe it was physical. Maybe he was missing a part of his mind and he was slowly growing it back.

 

Peter slunk back down beside Stiles. The things he'd do to him. Things he would get him to do. Things he would beg for, eventually. Peter would transform him, grind him down, slowly reshape him, mould him into something new, something his, but he could hold back for now – had to. Long term gain, over short term profit.

 

After all, erosion took time.

Chapter Text

I saw that drawing today.”

 

Huh?”

 

That drawing. On your 'classified' bit of paper. I saw it.”

 

Stiles, this isn't a burger.”

 

Nope. It's a turkey leg. And salad. Athletes eat it.”

 

I am not an athlete -”

 

Dad,” Stiles fidgeted, agitated. “It was on Allison's necklace. Allison Argent.”

 

The Sheriff looked up. “Necklace?”

 

Yeah. Big ass necklace. She got it from her aunt. For her birthday. She says it's a family heirloom.”

 

Her aunt?”

 

Yeah. And I was thinking, the Argents used to be in Beacon Hills, right? A while back and -”

 

Stiles.”

 

Yeah?”

 

I can do my own investigation, alright?”

 

- - - - -

 

Peter was sitting reading a book as Stiles strengthened his resolve and made his way over. Gently removing the book, he straddled Peter's hips and looked right into his eyes.

 

"I want to phone my dad."

 

Peter's hands rested on Stiles' hipbones, thumbs digging in ever so slightly. He gave a nod. "Take off your shirt."

 

Stiles took his t-shirt off in one easy motion and placed his hands on Peter's shoulders. Peter gave him a once over, a small smile appearing at the corner of his mouth. Stiles recognised that smile. It was his fond smile. Stiles nearly ran away at that.

 

Peter's eyes flicked up. He must have heard his heart increase, or was there a smell for 'runawayrunaway'? Either way Peter lifted up his head slightly to kiss the underside of his jaw, meant as a calming or reassuring gesture. It still baffled Stiles that he was heights with Peter. Peter always managed to make him feel so small and dwarfed.

 

The kisses made their way down his neck onto his chest as Peter lay him down on the bed. His tongue started to play with Stiles' nipple and Stiles freaking arched into it, panting. It was when Peter unbuckled Stiles' trousers that he got concerned.

 

"Hey, what..." Stiles breathed. "What are you doing?"

 

"Reciprocrating," Peter said kissing his way down his ribs as he slipped the jeans off. Reciprocrating Stiles thought blankly, then jerked.

 

"What?" Stiles exclamied pushing up onto his elbows. "You mean..." Stiles' brain went into overdrive. Was Peter offering him a blow job? "You want to go down on me?"

 

Peter's tongue made a pattern on Stiles naval that did things to him. "Is that what the kids are calling it today?" he asked lightly.

 

"Why? I don't understand. Don't you want to just -" Stiles cut himself off, unwilling to say the harsh truth of their situation outloud.

 

"Use you? Break you into a million little pieces then toss you aside? Take what I want from you?" Peter asked. Stiles nodded when it became apparent that Peter was expecting a response. "Stiles," he breathed nosing the skin between his hipbone and his groin. "I want this to be good for you. I don't want sex to be a punishment, or a chore, or a weapon. I want you to enjoy it, to like it. To want it. With me." Peter looked up into Stiles' eyes. "I want you to feel as happy and as good as I feel when I'm with you."

 

Stiles inhaled sharply and everything seemed to stop. For a moment all there was, was Stiles and Peter as Stiles tried to wrap his mind around what Peter had just said.

 

Peter... Peter really did love him, didn't he.

 

"That... That's really nice, Peter," Stiles said carefully. "But I'm not going to feel like that while you're holding me captive like this. Do you understand that?" Stiles sked shakily. This could go wrong. This could go terribly terribly wrong...

 

"I'll change your mind," Peter said running his hands up Stiles' thighs. "Would you like me to stop now?"

 

Stiles looked away. "I would like to phone my dad," Stiles replied. Peter's tongue was lapping at his skin again and Stiles dropped off his elbows and stared at the ceiling, determined not to look at Peter as he coaxed a orgasm from him.

 

- - - - - - -

 

“Hey dad!”

 

Stiles.” Stiles could hear the relief in his dad's voice. “It's good to hear your voice.

 

“Feeling is mutual, Dad,” Stiles chuckled. “How's it hanging?”

 

I would feel better if I got a ransom note or something.

 

Stiles looked up at Peter who was lying on his stomach on the bed reading. Where did he find those books?

 

“Don't think that's in the cards for some reason,” he let out a bitter laugh.

 

Can you tell me why that is?”

 

Stiles rubbed the back of his head, tugging at the hair that was now growing.

 

“I don't think he really knows,” Stiles said. Peter's head shot up and he examined Stiles. “Don't look at me like that, you could have dumped me in the middle of nowhere ages ago and left me if you really didn't want to kill me so, yeah, there.” Peter snorted and went back to his book. “Sorry, dad, yeah.”

 

Got yourself a case of Stockholm syndrome there, don't you?”

 

Stiles took a deep breath. “I'm fine.”

 

I know you're fine, Stiles. You're incapable of being anything else, but I want you to be more than fine. Need you...”  Stiles heard his dad sigh. He did that a lot. “You know...

 

“I know what?” Stiles said cagily, picking up something strange in his dad's tone.

 

Peter Hale was in an institution for a long time. Catatonic. I'm sure that took it's toll.

 

“Dad, where are you -”

 

Especially if it was locked in syndrome. Was it?

 

“I don't know,” Stiles answered slowly, eyeing the way Peter had stilled.

 

The fact he hasn't... hasn't hurt you would put him in good stead.

 

“Good stead,” Stiles said distantly.

 

I'm sure if he were in his right mind he would have never committed those murders.”  Peter stood up and started to approach. Stiles backed up into the wall shaking his head. “I'm sure we could work something out, if he were worried about the repercussions of his actions,”  Peter placed a hand on Stiles' cheek. “Letting the hostage go goes a long way towards clearing up this whole situation.”

 

“Dad,” Stiles whispered.

 

Yes, son?”

 

“You really need to stop talking.”

 

Son? Stiles? I just want to make my standpoint clear -”

 

Peter punched a hole in the wall next to Stiles face.

 

Stiles! Stiles what was that? Are you okay?”

 

“Dad. Please. Stop. Talking.”

 

There was silence on the other end of the line as Stiles stared up into Peter's face, trying to read him.

 

“Okay, the last conversation I had lasted twenty minutes, right? So if I hang up now can I phone back tomorrow. Get ten minutes or so?” Stiles said gently to Peter.

 

“No.”

 

“No?” Stiles repeated.

 

“I'm not stopping you. Continue to converse.”

 

Stiles shifted. “It's kinda hard to do when you're...” Peter tilted his head.

 

“Then it will be hard.”

 

Stiles took a deep breath. “Okay, dad, I'm back. Tell me, has Maggie had her baby yet? She's due soon isn't she?”

 

The conversation continued on awkward and stilted all the way to the end.

 

Stiles, I'm sorry. I want him to know I didn't mean -

 

“Dad it's fine -”

 

I just wanted him to know there were options -”

 

“Dad really -”

 

I want you home. I need you, Stiles, kid. I... I'm just glad you're alive.

 

“Hey, that makes two of us,” Stiles quipped. “I'll see about what I can do. I'll phone... Maybe in a fortnight or... I dunno? Whenever Peter's feeling particularly generous.”

 

Alright kiddo. I love you.”

 

“I love you too.”

 

Stiles hung up the phone and kept his eyes downcast, knowing meeting Peter's eyes was seen as a challenge nine times out of ten.

 

“Put the phone in my pocket,” Peter said evenly. Stiles chanced a look up. Peter didn't have any sort of expression on his face. Which wasn't unusual per say, wasn't good or bad. He reached forward and slipped the phone into Peter's front pocket, then retracted his hands. Peter leaned forward until their foreheads were touching. Stiles felt boxed in. The hand on his cheek. The hand on the wall. The forehead on his. What was Peter doing? What was he going to do? Should he apologise? Would that make it worse?

 

“Take off my belt.” Stiles' eyes widened at the command and Stiles swallowed hard as he reached forward with shaking hands to undo the buckle. Peter growled. “Come on, Stiles, you're never going to get it if you pick at it like that. Put some welly in it.” Stiles glared and yanked hard at the belt until it came off easily. “Good boy. Hold the buckle in your right hand.” Stiles shifted slightly, confused as to what was happening, but did as he was told. “Hold the belt in your left.” Stiles complied. “Holding tight?” Stiles gripped hard.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Good,” breathed Peter. The hand on the wall dropped to close over Stiles' right fist. “Don't let go,” he said gently, then pulled fast.

 

“Ah!” yelled out Stiles as the belt ran through his left hand causing a massive welt. He was pretty sure it was bleeding.

 

“We can do this again to your left hand, or again to your right hand. What would you prefer?”

 

Stiles always hated it when Peter made him pick the punishment. For one it gave Peter more of an insight into his mind, and then there was the fact it was less of a punishment because he picked it. Which it wasn't, but that was the mindset. He wasn't going to feel grateful though. Not ever.

 

Stiles switched the buckle into his left hand wincing at the sting, he then put the belt into his right. “Do the right,” he bit out. Peter was just as quick on the right hand and a tear did escape Stiles this time. Peter, true to his psycho form licked and kissed his tears away.

 

“You're such a freak,” Stiles muttered. Peter nipped the shell of Stiles' ear then placed a gentle kiss to each of Stiles' palms. Stiles winced at each kiss. “Sadistic freak,” Stiles muttered knowing full well that Peter heard him. “He was just trying to help. The only way he knows how.”

 

Peter's eyes darkened. “No he wasn't.”

 

Stiles frowned. “Yes he was. He's trying to give us an out.”

 

“You're a clever boy, Stiles. He wasn't trying to help,” Peter said stepping away and getting into the bed. “You're not allowed in the bed until you've figured it out.”

 

Stiles felt fury boil beneath his skin. He didn't want to be in the bed. He didn't. Peter always dragged him in, made it obvious where he was supposed to be, now if he figured it out it was going to look like... Stiles huffed and threw his hands up in the air and made himself comfy on the threadbare sofa. It was where he'd rather be after all.

 

- - - - - -

 

“Okay,” Stiles said twisting in the seat of the red car. “So if you're a werewolf – an Alpha, as you seem so keen to remind me – then are you going to... you know...”

 

Peter glanced over at Stiles. He was biting his lip staring down at the cat's cradle he was playing with in his hands.

 

“Bite you?” Peter asked lightly. Stiles nodded mutely. “Not yet. I have it planned, don't worry. I took you with the intention to bite you,” Stiles looked up at him at that. “The urge, the drive, to create pack, to have pack... It's overwhelming sometimes. I've been very close to just...” Peter's eyes grew red and his canines grew ever so slightly. “However. I'm not fully stable yet. What happened with Jennifer -”

 

“What did happen with Jennifer?” Stiles asked bouncing in his seat slightly. “I never understood that. Kinda made me freak out. I mean killing people who you think deserve it sure – but killing someone whom for all intents and purposes was willingly helping you, that's not sane dude. Not right.”

 

Peter smiled gently. “Thank you, Stiles. May I continue?”

 

Stiles groused for a moment. “Whatever,” he said with no real heat. He knew he was pushing it.

 

“Jennifer instinctively knew I was a weak Alpha. Not good for pack. Eventually she began to turn on me. She was getting stronger every day. She would have challenged me for my position. I would have lost,” Peter reached over and rubbed his hand on the back of Stiles neck for a moment. “I need to wait until I'm better, because I'm not sure if I would be able to defeat you. I can tell, you will make such a strong wolf. Powerful, smart, loyal. I want to be the Alpha you deserve, that our pack will deserve. Until then, I sate the wolf by keeping you close. You're pack already.”

 

“You keep saying pack. What... what is pack?” Stiles asked tilting his head, baring his neck ever so slightly. Peter smirked at the boy's unconscious gesture.

 

“It's stronger than family. It's like being brothers in arms. The only people who understand you, who can know you completely. It's community. It's strength. Wolves hunt in packs. We're stronger together. Better together. Safer.”

 

“Sounds like joining the mafia,” Stiles snorted then quietened. “You keep saying better as well. Are...” Stiles breathed deep for a moment before facing him head on. “Are you getting better? Is being a psycho something you can heal?”

 

“I don't know, Stiles. The headaches however, are growing more and more infrequent so...”

 

"You're getting as close to healed as you can be?" Stiles muttered quietly.

 

"Yes, Stiles. I imagine so."

 

"So... this is you now?"

 

"Yes, Stiles. This is me."

Chapter Text

 

Stiles was having a bad day. He couldn't stop moving. He had tried alright. He had. Really. But it was hard. He didn't like being cooped up in a car all the time, and Peter had one of his headaches. Those headaches were so annoying. The car rides were actually bearable when Peter was talking to him. The dude was funny, and smart. Super smart. Smart like 'I got an English degree bitch' smart. He managed to distract Stiles, and alright there was that element of complete and utter fear whenever Stiles opened his mouth to talk, but somehow his ability to stay quiet in high pressured situation hadn't passed on to his limbs being able to. Stop. Moving.

 

“Stiles,” Peter ground out.

 

“It's not my fault you kidnapped a kid with ADHD and didn't bring his medicine,” Stiles said trying to fix the glove compartment he had broken yesterday with the duct tape. Peter pulled into a gas station and Stiles let out a sigh of relief.

 

“Stay in the car.”

 

Stiles turned sharply to him, shocked and amazed that Peter would even dare suggest staying in the car. “No,” he said stepping out. Peter was around the car and beside him in a second, iron grip seizing Stiles' wrist.

 

“Peter please. I need to move. You can't keep me cooped up in the car all day and not expect me to do something stupid, then you'll punish me and," Stiles stopped and inhaled sharply. "Oh my god... Oh my god! That's the point isn't it,” Stiles hissed. “You're trying to wind me up so tight I'll snap and do something that you won't like and you'll pummel me and I'll feel like I deserved it – you complete – you complete and utter bastard. I can't believe – I can't believe you've been making, making me – then I feel – but this is your fault. You. Your fault. You've done this to me. You're doing this to me. You. Not me. I don't deserve any of your stupid 'punishments' because you are the psycho that has kidnapped me. You – you hurt me. And it's not my fault. It's not.”

 

By the end of his tirade Stiles was out of breath, tears threatening to fall but not quite managing it. Stiles stared resolutely in front of him, and not at the werewolf by his side. Peter was silent for a few moments.

 

“I need you to stay in the car because there are two cameras here and an off-duty cop. Step back into the car. Don't turn around.”

 

Stiles nodded and stepped back into the car. He fidgeted incessantly, looking around trying to figure out who the off-duty cop was. How did Peter even know that? Was there a scent for off-duty cop? That you could smell over the gas?

 

Peter stepped back into the car and passed over a box of caffeine pills and mountain dew. Stiles popped a few into his hand and took them as Peter pulled away from the station. Stiles could feel the tension building in the car and when Peter took a turn onto a secluded patch Stiles’ sense of terror racked up.

 

“This is a bit off the beaten track,” Stiles said lightly as Peter turned off the car.

 

“Pick,” Peter started as Stiles’ internally groaned. “You can say I’m sorry, I love you, and I won’t disobey you again or you can spend the next day or two tied up.”

 

As the words sunk in Stiles slowly went numb, like he was going into shock. It was as if all the air in the car had been sucked out and he couldn’t breathe. He didn’t think, he just pulled the handle on the car and ran. Ran as far away as he could, which was further than he had ever gotten before. It was barely ten feet.

 

Stiles gasped for air as Peter caught him around the middle. Stiles went limp and Peter dragged him back to the car and popped open the trunk. Stiles hadn’t even realised he was crying until Peter licked the tears away. He was shaking too. Excellent.

 

“Please let me go. Please, Peter, please,” Stiles rasped as Peter brought out the rope. Peter had bought rope nearly a week ago and Stiles had full on freaked out. Peter had tried to calm him down. Said it was an investment and he didn’t want to spend all his money on duct tape that wasn’t very effective when he was wearing long sleeves anyway. It hadn’t calmed him down. “Peter I’m never going to love you, just let me go now. Please Peter, I can’t…”

 

Peter lifted a hand to Stiles cheek and kissed him softly. It just made him cry more.

 

“It doesn’t have to be the truth. Just a little white lie,” he murmured gently against Stiles’ skin, cradling hid face. “I wouldn’t mind.”

 

Stiles gritted his teeth. “I am never going to say that,” Stiles spat, drawing on the fury that never really faded anymore. “Get that into your head, you psycho.”

 

Peter gently turned Stiles around and tied his elbows up in some weird web, then looped it round the front of his neck and tugged down so Stiles had to bare his neck. He groused at the odd angle, but Peter gave him no slack. He tied it back into his elbows, and pulled the rope down and tied his wrists, then brought the rope back into the weave at his elbows. Stiles was honestly starting to get a bit bored now. Peter’s fingers pulled Stiles mouth open wide and started wrapping the rope around his head, gagging him, and pulling it back down into the weave yanking Stiles head back fully. He then pushed Stiles into the boot and pressed his feet into the back of his thighs, then bound them up tight against his thighs, palming his crotch as he went. Stiles snarled and tried to pull away, but Peter just tied his feet to his wrists and his elbows. Stiles was seriously starting to hate the rope.

 

“Comfy?” Peter asked running a nail along the rim of his ear. Stiles leaned away from the touch as much as he could. It wasn’t much. Peter then rolled him onto his back. Stiles yelped in protest as the strain on his legs and arms suddenly increased. His back was going to get sore like this too, arched from his arms pulled straight and from his hips gutting up from his feet and his hands trapped under his ass. Stiles couldn’t see Peter’s face, but he was sure he was smirking.

 

There was no movement for a while, long enough for Stiles to get edgy. He jumped a mile when Peter’s fingers ran against the bottom of the ropes in his mouth, along his cheek and across his lips.

 

“You know… I enjoy you talking,” Peter said pensively. “You’re clever when you want to be,” Peter’s fingers move to the hem of Stiles’ shirt. “Plus, it reminds me of that oral fixation you have.”

 

Stiles’ heart hammered against his ribcage. For some reason he felt more exposed and helpless than he had ever been before. Being unable to see where Peter was putting his hands, his own body weight crushing him, Peter talking. Stiles really hated the rope. Hated Peter.

 

“But I think I could get used to this,” Peter said pulling open Stiles’ shirt, running a hand along his chest. “Silent. Submissive.” Peter swung up and over Stiles’ hips, grinding down on him slightly. “Strained.”

 

Stiles pulled at the restraints but there was no way out of them. Stiles couldn’t see what was going on above him, but he could hear him, feel the movements against his body. Peter was jacking off.

 

“Maybe I should keep you like this. Quiet and obedient and ready. You know, it’s funny, even when your mouth is jammed up, your body…” Peter said. “It’s just so loud.

 

That word came out as more of a growl and Stiles flinched as he pictured Peter wolfed out, fangs, red eyes, claws. Peter came over his chest suddenly and lifted off Stiles. He ran a finger through it and smeared it onto Stiles lips.

 

“I’ll let you decide if you want me to lick that off, or if you want to do that yourself later,” Peter said as a parting shot, slamming down the trunk lid and leaving Stiles in the dark, with come drying on his lips.

 

- - - - -

 

Stiles didn’t really remember much when he woke up in the morning. He remembered being in the boot, remember how tense every part of him had been. It had felt like he couldn’t breathe at certain points. He remembered that when the car eventually stopped he was in so much pain he wasn’t certain which way was up. He remembered being rolled onto his side and nearly passing out, or did he actually pass out, from the sudden pain that lanced through his body. He remembered being put on the bed and being ever so gentle untied and uncurled. He remembered every pain filled whimper, pant, gasp, moan –

 

Stiles’ eyes shot open and he lay panting, trying to catch his breath. He tried to sit up but his hands were tied up above him and his legs were stretched out below. Stiles snarled as he pulled against the binds. Still gagged, Stiles tried to scream, but only a muffled noise came out. He tugged futilely on the ropes again. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t move. He felt like he couldn’t breathe, like he was being pinned down, trapped, confined to a space too small for him, compressed into a little box, getting smaller for his coffin. Like mom. He couldn’t move.

 

nononononononononononononono -

 

A soft hand ran over his face and Stiles tried to rear back, like a wild horse, eyes jumping to Peter as he shushed him.

 

“Shh, shh, it’s okay. I’ve got you. You’re safe with me. Always safe with me, shh, breathe with me, come on…”

 

Slowly Stiles could breathe again, but his heart still beat furiously against his ribs. Peter leaned over and kissed the tear tracks off from down the side of his face, then reached behind Stiles’ head and untied the gag. Stiles gulped down the air like he’d been suffocated, Peter curling into his side like that was normal.

 

“Please, Peter, please, I want my dad, please,” Stiles begged not caring that he was a full grown teenager who was far too old to be asking for his dad to come and take the pain away.

 

“Hey, hey,” Peter soothed. “You can’t just now. Being punished. You’re safe, I promise,” Peter said nuzzling into his cheek. Stiles fought the flinch and tried not to grit his teeth. Peter would feel that with his face being all up in his business.

 

“Peter? Peter, I really can’t cope with these ropes. I can’t – I can’t think with them on me like this. I can understand restraining me, I can understand the car and all that, but this is different. This is different. This isn’t about restraint and I can’t deal with,” Stiles was starting to hyperventilate. “I can’t deal with the way it’s making me feel, please. Please.”

 

“Breathe with me Stiles. Calm down, breathe.”

 

Stiles managed to start breathing regularly after Peter’s gentle instructions.

 

“Peter, I promise I won’t try to get away, I do. You can hear me, listen to my heartbeat, tell if I’m lying. Throw away the ropes and I won’t ever run from you.”

 

Peter’s eyes flicked up Stiles’, his head resting on top of Stiles chest, staring at Stiles as if it were the first time he had ever seen him.

 

“You ran from me yesterday.”

 

Stiles’ eyes squeezed shut.

 

“You scared me.”

 

Peter shifted until he was over him, hands cradling either side of his face, breath gusting across Stiles’ mouth.

 

“I scare you a lot Stiles, but this time you ran.”

 

“I know, I know and I’m sorry. I’m really, truly sorry. I can’t always control myself. I wasn’t thinking. I really wasn’t. I’m sorry. I’m so, so, sorry. I understand that it freaks you out, that it triggers you, and I know you don’t want to hurt me. I put us both in danger and I’m sorry,” Stiles pleaded. “I’m so – ”

 

Peter smashed his lips up against Stiles, kissing the air and life out of him. Stiles kissed back with just as much ferocity, opening his mouth and letting Peter lick inside his mouth with a passion that left Stiles’ breathless. He arched up against Peter’s body, letting out a small whine, yanking his wrists once more trying to be free.

 

It was weird and intense when Peter made eye contact with him so close to his face. “You’re in those ropes,” he said circling a fingertip over Stiles’ nipple. “Because you chose to be,” Peter kissed along the underside of Stiles’ jaw and along his neck. “I’ll give you that same choice again.” He sat up, looming high above Stiles, staring straight into Stiles’ eyes. “I’ll claw these ropes to pieces,” he said resting a now taloned hand in the centre of Stiles’ chest. “Just say you love me.”

 

Cold fear doused Stiles and he froze. Suddenly he was hyper aware of everything else in the room: the small draft coming in from the bathroom, the noise of the traffic on the road not too far away, the smell of cheap fabric conditioner from the bed sheets.

 

Peter raised an eyebrow so minutely others would have missed it. He leaned down slowly, and ran his nose along Stiles’ cheekbone till he reached Stiles’ ear.

 

“I thought not.”

 

Stiles felt his anger and hatred flare as Peter ducked his head and took another kiss, softer than the last, then wound the gag back around Stiles’ mouth with a light smirk. He trailed his fingers down the middle of Stiles’ body, starting a Stiles’ lips and moving down, neck, chest, stomach, and stopped when he caught the waistband of Stiles’ pants. Peter’s eyes shot up to Stiles’ so fast it was like a switch. Stiles’ felt a jolt of adrenalin thrum through him. Peter sent him a wicked grin, a feral grin, and Stiles dropped his head back onto the pillow. He wasn’t playing Peter’s games. Peter could do as he liked.

 

It wasn’t as if Stiles could stop him.

 

Chapter Text

 

Peter had noticed a remarkable increase in obedience after the two days Stiles spent in bondage. He smirked ever so slightly as he eyed the sleeping boy in the passenger seat. It could be due to a number of things. Purchasing the game boy to entertain him, finally getting a workable dosage of caffeine into the boy, maybe the boy had even given up, but Peter believed the reigning cause of this new found compliance to be directly related to the reaction Stiles had to the rope. Now Peter had a suitable threat to hang over the boy’s head – rather than leaving a messy trail of dead bodies behind him like breadcrumbs – he found himself breathing that little bit easier. He reminded Stiles of it every so often - pulling out shorter pieces and perfecting some knots and positions: securing his wrists to his knees, wrapping his arm to the door, bandying it across his neck like a collar, binding his torso to the headboard, tying it like a fishing net over his chest and pulling it tight, not even restraining him. Just having him wear it decoratively under his shirt was enough, or like a sleeve along his arm. He could feel how tense and uncertain Stiles was when he did it. It was intoxicating.

 

He was sure the boy had noticed a discernible pattern in their direction by now, but Peter didn’t mind. He was bored of the circle he had been travelling in since leaving Beacon Hills and was intent in reaching their destination. It would be nice if he could trust the boy enough to drive while he slept, but alas Peter didn’t think Stiles was that committed to staying with him. Nevertheless, Peter was still searching for ways of keeping the boy close to him, courting him in a fashion Peter supposed. A brutal courtship one might say, but Peter couldn’t be without Stiles. He was beginning to feel an almost overwhelming urge to create pack. If Stiles didn’t start submitting completely, soon, Peter might not be able to give him the choice for much longer.

 

Stiles’ skin looked beautiful bruised. It was going be a shame to give that up.

 

*

 

“Stop,” Peter said gently grabbing Stiles' hands. Stiles had done a load of washing and had ironed and folded it all neatly into bundles according to ownership, colour, and size. Now he was counting up all the loose change he had found in the rented out apartment. Peter really had planned this out in advance; apparently the flat was being let out while the owners were holidaying. He had managed to get all the pennies divided up into sizes and now -

 

“Stiles. Stop.”

 

Stiles looked at Peter; he was sitting on the coffee table in front of Stiles staring right into his eyes, his knees pressing against Stiles own.

 

Stiles blinked.

 

“I can't.”

 

“I'm going to make you some coffee. An espresso.”

 

Stiles made a face and ducked his head. He wasn't a big fan of coffee, but caffeine.

 

“Caffeine. Yeah,” Stiles said blinking as Peter dropped his hands and stood. “ADHD. It's a deficiency so my body over compensates by -”

 

“I know, Stiles. I'll get you coffee, and then you'll strip.”

 

Stiles' head snapped up as he felt the oh too familiar cold fear thrill through his veins, but Peter had already moved through to the kitchen.

 

“W- Why?” Stiles winced as he stammered. This was not the time to show weakness. Weakness probably had a scent anyway, but still, no open invitations for the natural predator ought to be presented; particularly when said predator could just tie him down and have his way with him whenever he freaking wanted.

 

“I'm going to give you a massage. Relax you right down.”

 

Stiles chewed his lip as he bounced his knee up and down and up and down and up and down.

 

Peter's hand pressed down on his leg as he sat beside him in the couch. Stiles jolted surprised. Peter raised a sardonic eyebrow and Stiles blushed at his startled reaction.

 

“Triple espresso,” Peter said handing over the relatively small cup. “This place has a beautiful coffee machine.”

 

“Whoop. De. Doo,” Stiles said making a face at the super bitter taste. “Can you put a galleon of sugar in this thing please?”

 

Peter rolled his eyes. “Do it like a shot.”

 

Stiles snorted. “Another first.”

 

Peter's grin grew. “Never had shots?”

 

Stiles sent him a flat stare. “I'm only sixteen. Barely sixteen,” Stiles said.

 

“Well then, I'll just have to take over some life experiences. Like shots... and body shots.”

 

Stiles felt his stomach roll and he chugged his coffee letting it burn his tongue to have something to distract him from Peter's searing gaze.

 

“Finished?” Peter asked. Stiles nodded and let Peter take the cup out of his hands, not even tensing as his fingers brushed lightly over his wrist. Peter returned the cup to the kitchen, then came back and retrieved Stiles, leading him gently to the bedroom.

 

“I wonder how horrified the home owners would be if they found out what kind of person you are,” Stiles commented as Peter unbuttoned his shirt for him. “Not that you're even a person, of course,” Stiles continued as his pants were dropped down. “You're a monster,” Stiles finished. Peter's eyes glowed red and his nostrils flared ever so slightly. Stiles knew Peter well enough now to know when he got under his skin. Looks like the monster barb had hit the mark. “Definitely a monster. Red eyes... fangs... claws… kidnapping… rape… inability to grasp any emotion – any feeling at all -”

 

Peter snarled and Stiles found himself pushed up into the bedpost.

 

“Stiles,” he said sounding completely calm and in control. “We can drop this now. Forget it, continue on, and you will never use that word again,” he said. “Or I can show the exact kind of monster I am. Which would you prefer?”

 

Stiles looked away and bit the inside of his cheek. He didn't particularly want Peter's 'massage' but at the same time he wasn't looking forward to whatever demonstration he was about to receive on monsters.

 

“Can I have another cup of coffee please?” Stiles asked quietly. Peter studied him for a moment before he nodded and kissed him on the forehead.

 

“I'll put, what was it? A galleon of sugar in it?”

 

Stiles nodded and Peter left the room. Stiles slumped down to the floor resting against the bed.

 

Then suddenly he was up running through the apartment slamming all the doors, then opening them all again, and slamming them shut – until Peter finally caught him around the waist and restrained him.

 

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” Stiles gasped as Peter hauled him back into the bedroom.

 

“Calm down. I know, I know,” Peter said gently. “Do you want that coffee?”

 

Stiles shook his head. “TV. Can I have the TV? Are there any movies? I think I could focus on a movie. Well, depends on the movie I guess, maybe like an action. Like Die-Hard or something, or maybe there’s a new release on demand or something in the tele already. I bet there’s tons you haven’t seen yet. Probably some I haven’t either,” Stiles babbled.

 

Peter guided Stiles through to the living room and pushed him into the couch.

 

“Have you ever seen Logan's Run?” Peter asked from the shelves.

 

“No.”

 

Peter smiled over at him and plucked it off the shelf. “It's one of those important movies where you learn about the world and humanity. It's good,” he said as he put it on then plopped down on the couch next to him. “Feet up,” Peter said patting his lap. Stiles raised an eyebrow. “Massage, remember?” Stiles stared blankly for a moment. Peter held the stare until Stiles dropped his eyes and pulled his feet up into Peter's lap. Peter hummed happily and the movie started to play.

 

Stiles settled down soon enough, able to concentrate on the movie quite well. It was old school scifi, just what he liked and Peter wasn't half bad at this foot massage business either.

 

It was when Peter pressed deep into the arch and Stiles actually moaned that Stiles realised he was getting turned on.

 

Stiles yanked his foot out of Peter's hold and Peter just smiled back. His super creepy I-could-eat-you-up smile.

 

“You're such a dick.”

 

“Shut up and watch the movie,” Peter joked. “And give me back your feet.”

 

* * *

 

Peter blew him in the shower while running a finger along his hole. It was the first time Peter had ever made aspersions of stepping things up to the ‘next level’. Stiles had been so close to a panic attack he wasn’t entirely certain how Peter managed to get him to come at all, but here he was fully encircled by the smug sleeping wolf while Stiles cried until morning. It made getting any rest a tad difficult, but Stiles couldn’t care less. Besides if he slept in the car he had less chance of doing something stupid which would lead him back to being trussed up like a turkey ready to be devoured. He saw the look in Peter’s eyes when he was spread out immobile on the bed like that. Stiles was pretty sure that if Peter thought he could get away with it Stiles would be reduced to nothing more than a whimpering little bitch legs spread ass in air hole ready worthless whore–

 

Stiles closed his eyes and let the tears soak into the pillow. He knew Peter would smell it in the morning and frown and say nothing. If Stiles wanted to pretend he was fine Peter was more than willing to go along with it. Besides it was the only time he got the space to cry without Peter licking it up like it was a fine wine or whatever. Stiles felt like he was being stretched too thin, like he was see-through, turning into a ghost and he didn’t know how to stop it, how to reverse it.

 

What was worse is that Peter had started to touch him. Simple little non-intrusive things, hand on his thigh, fingers around wrist, shoulder to shoulder, kiss to the head, and Stiles had gotten used to it. Anticipated it. Welcomed it sometimes. Peter was all he had on any given day. The only contact he had with anyone. He was sassy and smart and challenged him, when he wasn’t leering and molesting him.

 

He wanted his dad.

 

The last time he rung his dad it’d gone to voicemail. He had pleaded to Peter but he shrugged. It wasn’t his fault his father hadn’t picked up in time, he should be thankful there even was a voicemail.

 

Stiles started as Peter shifted behind him, pulling him in tighter. Stiles sucked in a deep breath. He was going to ask to phone his dad tomorrow. Peter wasn’t likely to say no. Little steps, Stiles. Little steps. First get your head together. Then run away. Find a way to run away.

Chapter Text

 

- - - - - -

Stiles heart thudded violently in his chest. It had been what felt like hours now and it was starting to get hard to breathe, every muscle in his body was shaking with the tension, the strain. He could feel Peter’s eyes on him examining him for any twitch, any movement that he could use, but Stiles stayed perfectly still.

 

His forehead was pressed into the cold tiled floor, his chin resting on his knees, body curled up, and hands clasped behind his back. It reminded him of those strange oriental bows you would see in the movies when people would bow to the emperor face down on the ground. The King and I had been one of his mom’s favourites.

 

Stiles shivered as a breeze swept through the room, skin going tight. Of course he had to be naked for this. Peter had stripped him down and given him a choice. Sometimes Stiles thought Peter should be on those gameshows, where the host tells you to pick behind door number one or door number two, and is so damn annoying about it too. Would you liked to be tied up unable to move, or not tied up and keep still by yourself – however should you move before your time is up I’m going to beat you black and blue! Choose quickly now, we’ve only got a few more seconds before these options are made unavailable.

 

And no matter what Peter said, he hadn’t been flirting with that waitress. Hell, he didn’t even really know how to flirt!

 

Stiles took a deep breath and tried to relax his body without moving. The tremors in his arms were getting worse and he knew Peter could see how much effort was going in to keeping his hands clasped behind him: his back ached like it was on fire, his forehead felt flat and cold, the bumps in his knees felt like stabbing needles, and he hadn’t been able to feel his feet in a very long time now.

 

The show could be called Would You Rather. Or something as equally lame.

 

Peter ran a finger down Stiles spine, draining the pain away. Stiles whimpered. Shut up, Stiles!

 

“Oh, you poor thing,” Peter cooed. “Shall we stop?”

 

Don’t answer. It’s a trick. Stay still.

 

“Stiles, you can answer the question. Do you want to stop?”

 

Stiles gulped. “Yes.”

 

“Have you learned your lesson?”

 

“Yes,” Stiles grunted.

 

“Good,” Peter said, unravelling Stiles’ clasped fingers. “Leave the flirting to me.”

 

“That’s such a double standard,” Stiles muttered, toppling over onto his side. Peter lay down beside him and traced the red mark on his forehead, Stiles leaned in to Peter’s body heat and shivered again.

 

“I am resolute in my feelings towards you. You are not. That is why I may flirt harmlessly and you may not.”

 

Stiles eyes flickered up to Peter’s own, he was looking at him like… Stiles didn’t know what like. Like he’d hung the moon or something.

 

Huh, hung the moon. That expression had a whole new level to it now.

 

- - - -

 

... I’m nauseous all the time. And tired, god dad I’m so tired. Sometimes he doesn’t let me move or speak for hours at a time. I feel like I can’t breathe. Like I can’t catch my breath. Like I’m suffocating like I’m being buried alive. It feels like he’s killing me dad, I feel like I’m dying and I can’t – I can’t keep going. Not like this. I can’t – this isn’t living. It feels like I’m not alive anymore. I feel like a doll, or a pet or… He says he love me dad. He keeps saying it, and touching me, and it fucks with my head dad. He keeps hugging me and kissing me and tying me up and pinning me down and I can’t get out, I can’t get free. Not for two seconds. Even now, even now he’s listening to this. He’s listening to this phone call, dad, and watching me fall apart, and he’s just going to swoop in after I hang up and put me back together again. But he’s doing it wrong. Doing it wrong on purpose. So I’m not me anymore. And I liked me dad. I liked me a lot. I don’t want to change. I don’t want to die dad. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

 

The Sheriff had listened to the voicemail over and over again for days. Had memorised every hitch of Stiles’ breath, every scuffle, creak, rustle. Every background noise had been stripped and analysed for information on their location. The phone had been traced, left behind destroyed at their previous location. Always previous. They never seemed to get there in time.

 

The phone calls were getting more and more infrequent, as if Hale had begun to care about being found. As if now it mattered, now where they were was important. Which terrified the Sheriff because that meant that he was going somewhere, somewhere safe, planned on settling down. With his son.

 

And he had missed the damn call.

 

If the phone calls stopped it was likely he was going to be transferred off the team that had taken over the manhunt. If the phone calls stopped, this would slowly become a cold case. The way this man moved between states there was no way he could keep up. He needed the resources that the FBI gave him on this team.

 

He had nothing to go home to.

 

The Sheriff rolled over on the bed and pressed his ear up against his phone. Then he pressed play.

 

... - ase, Peter. Can I phone back later? I want to actually talk to him...

- - - - - - - -

 

“But think about it,” Stiles spouted from the hotel bed. “If the moonlight causes the transformation, then why go into the moonlight? Why does Hollywood go for the dramatic turning around to face the moon thing?”

 

Peter rolled his eyes and stepped through from the en suit, flopping down on the bed next to him. “I believed you just answered the question.”

 

Stiles smirked kicking his feet up in the air behind him. “Ah, but real application. Is the moon strong all the time, as soon as it starts rising – or does it have a rise and fall. A ‘peak time’ if you will.”

 

Peter grabbed one of his feet slid his hand up under the pyjama bottoms until his fingers brushed the rope he wound like a cuff just under Stiles’ knee. Stiles stared resolutely at the television screen ignoring Peter’s hand entirely, ignoring the feeling of dread that clawed at his chest every time Peter brought his attention to the rope.

 

“It’s rise and fall. We feel the moon always. Like a tide washing over you, strong or weak,” Peter replied kissing the arch of Stiles’ foot as he let go.

 

Stiles flipped himself onto his back to look at Peter. “Would you take a cure? I mean if you could cure it, would you?”

 

Peter stared at him for a moment. “If there was ‘a cure’ for being gay, would you take it?”

 

Stiles looked like someone had killed bambi’s mother and asked him to coat himself in her blood.

 

“First – I’m not gay. Second, that’s different. Completely different. You don’t choose your sexuali -”

 

“And I chose to be a werewolf?” Peter asked, a hand sliding up Stiles’ hoodie, fingers coming to rest on the bottom of his ribs. Stiles ignored the fact that prior to Peter kidnapping him, he still had baby fat on him, and couldn’t tell you where the bottom of his ribs were.

 

 “Right, fine,” Stiles huffed and rolled his eyes. “I get your point, but… If you could change that, go back in time and make everyone not a werewolf. Would you?”

 

Peter frowned. “I do not dwell on such things,” he said bending down and kissing Stiles lightly on the lips. “I fear I would go mad.”

 

Stiles rolled his eyes but allowed Peter to turn off the television and drag him to the head of the bed and under the covers.

 

“Now sleep,” Peter muttered, pulling him tight against his chest. Stiles closed his eyes.

 

It was still dark when he was woken up.

 

“There are hunters in the lobby. They will shoot to kill both you and I. Put on your shoes now.”

 

Peter was already out the bed and throwing the one or two things lying around the hotel room. Stiles shoved on some socks and trainers, still shock sleepy and not fully grasping the situation.

 

Hunters. Hunters are in the lobby. Hunters like Allison’s dad. Hunters like Allison’s dad who hunt bad werewolves. Hunt werewolves like Peter. Peter.

 

There were hunters after Peter.

 

The swell of relief Stiles felt at that simple conclusion was probably tangible. Peter could probably smell it, but Stiles couldn’t care less. His dad may not be able to find him, may not be equipped to deal with an alpha werewolf, but these guys were, and they were hunting Peter down.

 

Stiles was jolted out of his thoughts as Peter grabbed his shoulder, extended claws piercing through his sleep hoodie and skin. Tears sprung to his eyes.

 

“Cooperate, Stiles. You’ve been with me a while, they think you’ve been turned,” he said pulling his to his feet and taking him to the door. “Stay silent.”

 

Stiles gritted his teeth and looked down. Peter paused then ripped open the door moving quickly down the corridor heading for the stairwell. Stiles heard the ding of the elevator and looked up. Three men and one woman, dressed all in black, guns, crossbows. His eyes locked with the point man, Stiles inhaled.

 

Peter pulled Stiles to his chest, and put his claws into his neck. Stiles cried out in pain.

 

“He’s human, so unless you want the child’s blood on your hands I wouldn’t shoot.”

 

Stiles could feel the thudding heart beat pump thin trickles of blood down his neck on the collar of his hoodie. Stiles watched as the hunters tilted their head and exchanged glances, each of them shook their head and the man on the left dropped his gun down slightly. None of them had a clear shot on Peter. Stiles made for a pretty good human shield.

 

Stiles locked eyes with the guy on the left then glanced down at his hand. It was spread like a five. Then Stiles dropped a finger. Four. He dropped another, god he hoped this worked. Three. Two. One.

 

Stiles dropped his weight and went limp, kicking his legs at Peter’s ankle as he did so. Peter retracted his claws from Stiles throat, and let him drop to the ground as a shot went off. It grazed the top of Stiles shoulder, but hit Peter in the collar bone. Stiles hit the ground and Peter took off running, down the stairwell.

 

Was that it?

 

The group moved forward, the woman saying something as three of them went after Peter and one – the one on the left – knelt down beside him and looked at his neck. Looked for a long time.

 

“I am human,” Stiles eventually gasped out. “It’s not going to magically heal by itself. You got a band aid or something?”

 

He nodded and pulled out a bandage and stuff from a pocket on his pants. He stopped the bleeding and wound the bandage on.

 

“Your team… will they kill him?”

 

The hunter looked up at him. “Can you stand?”

 

Stiles nodded and pushed himself up off the ground, following the hunter to the elevator. To the lobby. To the car. It was raining. Raining cats and dogs, and both of them were dripping wet when they slid into the car, the hunter sat down in the driver’s seat, Stiles in the passenger’s. Then the hunter’s phone started ringing. He frowned and pulled it out.

 

“Mia, what -”

 

Stiles saw it in stages. The sudden tensing of his body. The darting of his eyes. The deep breath in. The slow drain of colour from his face. The subtle glance sideways to Stiles’ presence. Stiles saw the conversation in stages. Peter had found his team and killed them and he was to hand over Stiles immediately. Something along those lines.

 

The hunter hung up.

 

“I never did get your name,” Stiles said in a small voice, rainwater still dripping off his nose.

 

“Alec. Alec Argent.”

 

Stiles hummed and nodded.

 

“Alec. Start the car. We can still try. Alec?” Stiles pleaded. This could be his only chance. “You realise he’s going to kill you. No matter what he said, right? Mia’s already gone.”

 

Alec looked at Stiles and nodded, key in the ignition, and then the passenger door was being torn off.

 

Just like Mike.

 

The flashback to Mike was so sudden and prominent that Stiles didn’t follow what happened to Alec. Stiles had curled himself into a ball by the time a drenched Peter Hale stepped into the car, threw their backpack into the backseat, and turned the key. The car engine purred to life.

 

“Stiles, you’re shivering, we should get you warmed up. And put your seat belt on. We don’t want any accidents.”

 

Peter switched the heating on, and Stiles slowly unfurled, pulling the seatbelt across. Peter smiled and reached out a hand to squeeze Stiles’ thigh reassuringly. When his hand pulled away there was a bloody handprint left behind on his sleep pants.

 

- - - - - - - - - - - -

 

His fingers traced over the healing scrap on the top of Stiles’ shoulder. It was scabbing over nicely. Healing well. Then his hands ran lightly over the slopes of Stiles’ shoulder blades. Pale smooth skin littered with a few moles, bruises, rope burns, then his hands followed the gentle dip beneath the protruding shoulder blades, tracing his spine down the small of his back then letting his hand spread flat, pressing the heel of his hand in before adding his other hand and pushing out and back up the way, straddling Stiles for easier access as he began a massage.

 

“Nhg.”

 

Peter gave a small predatory smile as the sleepy noise made its way past Stiles’ lips. Sleep made Stiles so pliant and agreeable, made his barriers weak enough to enjoy what Peter had to offer him, wanted to give him. He fingers pushed into a tense knot just below the right shoulder and Peter sighed, pressing in deep and breaking the calm.

 

“Ah! What are you, uhg ngg -” Stiles yell broke off into a gasp as Peter finished with the ball of tense muscle. “What are you doing?” he mumbled into the pillow, suddenly collapsing like jelly.

 

“Wake up massage. Are you awake?” Peter chuckled.

 

Stiles hummed neutrally and Peter ran his hands off of Stiles.

 

“We’re travelling today,” Peter said pressing a kiss to the wound on Stiles’ shoulder. “Get dressed and we’ll leave after breakfast.”

 

“Not hungry,” Stiles grumbled drawing his legs up and curling into himself. Peter stared at him for a long moment then kissed him on the cheek.

 

“Then we’ll go as soon as you’re dressed.”

 

Then Peter pulled away the sheets, ignoring Stiles’ outraged cries. They had a schedule to keep to after all.

Chapter Text

 “You’re tense.”

 

Stiles snapped his head up from the Gameboy.

 

“What?”

 

“You’ve been tense ever since we got in the car this morning. What’s wrong?”

 

Stiles shrugged lightly and glanced out the window. Cars and road and tarmac. It was a blue car today, old, with bad suspension: every bump in the road felt like a small mountain.

 

“Nothing wrong, per say…” Stiles said. “I just…” Stiles leaned back and exhaled. “I’m wondering what my punishment will be.”

 

“You mean for trying to get that hunter to run?”

 

Stiles hummed in agreement. Peter said nothing for a few moments then shook his head.

 

“Four people died last night, Stiles,” Peter remarked. “I find it redundant to discipline you. I never did for… Mark.”

 

Stiles blinked and observed Peter as he drove along the highway. “Do you think there will be more hunters?”

 

Peter shrugged. “Hard to say. These four stumbled on us by chance. The last lot were actively looking for us, so -”

 

“The last lot?” Stiles interrupted, sitting up.

 

“Yes. Stiles, I don’t share everything with you. Hunters have found us once before. They have an extensive network, most of their people work in surveillance or CCTV cameras. Low level people. It’s the actual ‘Argents’ of the world that hunt and pull the trigger.”

 

“Huh. What did you do?”

 

“They haven’t bothered us since,” Peter said, matter of factly. “Why? Getting sympathetic for the hunters? They slaughtered my whole pack, I don’t see why I shouldn’t cull them.”

 

Stiles shrugged. Peter sighed, he reached over and squeezed Stiles knee.

 

“The point is: you don’t have to worry about repercussions from last night. So relax a little, alright? I… I would hate it if you lived in constant fear.”

 

Stiles slunk back down in his seat, going back to his game.

 

“I don’t,” Stiles announced a few minutes later. Peter glance over at him. “Live in constant fear. I used to, but I don’t really anymore. Just… just when you’re being frightening now.”

 

Peter’s face softened and he nodded. “I’ll try harder then. Thank you.”

 

Stiles nodded and looked back down at the Gameboy, playing away the rest of the day.

 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

 

“Can I phone my dad?” Stiles asked a few days later, slurping down a coffee and a breakfast bagel.

 

“Okay.”

 

Stiles blinked. “Okay?”

 

“That’s what I said.”

 

The silence went on building until Peter groaned.

 

“What?”

 

“You usually want something. Ask for something.”

 

“Oh,” Peter said, stumped. “Stiles, it’s usually a reward, and you… you’ve been really wonderful this past while. You’ve earned it.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Peter leaned over the bed to where Stiles was sitting and kissed him on the cheek, pressing the phone into his hand.

 

“That’s all I’ve ever really wanted.”

 

- - -

 

“Hey, dad,” Stiles croaked.

 

Stiles, thank god. Are you alright?

 

“Oh yeah dad I’m just swimming,” Stiles snorted.

 

Stiles? Where are you?

 

Stiles sucked in a breath sharply eyes locking onto the door he knew Peter was on the other side of.

 

No. No I mean. Your voice is really echoing.

 

“Oh… oh,” Stiles let out a small giggle. “God dad, I nearly had a heart attack there. I’m uh… I’m kinda hiding in a bathtub right now,” Stiles said playing with his trouser hemline. He heard his dad chuckle on the end of the line.

 

I remember you used to do that when you were younger. Hide in the bathtub. Do you remember the purple vase that used to sit in the hall?

 

Stiles frowned. “Oh yeah… I loved that vase! What happened to it?”

 

You broke it.

 

“I did not!” Stiles exclaimed, aghast.

 

You broke it then you ran and hid in the bathtub,”his father laughed from the other end. “Took me and your mom ages to find you. We never knew you could stay in one place for so long. Your mom had to crawl in beside you and wait until you had calmed down enough to lift you out.

 

Stiles laughed with his dad until another memory hit him. He was in a suit, curled up in the bath crying.

 

Stiles?

 

“Mom’s funeral.”

 

Stiles heard his dad sigh. “Yeah. Yeah you hid in the bathtub then too. I thought you had grown out of it, thought you were outside in the garden or something. It was one of the deputies that told me where you were. Had to go in and curl up with you myself that time. Don’t think we actually went back downstairs to the wake now that I think about it.

 

Stiles palmed the tears off his face. “I’m sorry.”

 

Don’t be stupid, kid. I’d much rather be curled up in the tub with you than… than anything really. God, Stiles, I miss you. I could kill that man for taking you from me.

 

“Dad…” Stiles said. “Don’t. Don’t say things like that. Please.”

 

“… Alright… why are you in the bathtub?

 

“What?”

 

The bathtub means something, Stiles. Are you hiding? Are you upset about something? Has something happened?

 

“Um,” Stiles frowned, staring up at the ceiling as he slouched down and lay horizontal in the bathtub. “I dunno. I’m just… sad. I guess. Scared. Maybe. I feel a bit lost. I suppose.”

 

I need you to keep trying, Stiles. Keep your head okay? We’re… we’re still trying to find you, alright? We’re not giving up. I’ll never give up. I promise, okay?

 

“Okay.”

 

Stiles? You have to promise me something too, alright?

 

“What?”

 

That when I find you, you’ll come home. Promise me you’ll come home with me.

 

“What?”

 

Stiles, promise me you’ll come home.

 

Stiles eyes instinctively went to the door, terrified that Peter was about to storm in. “Dad, I…”

 

Stiles, please.

 

“Dad, I can’t, he’ll -”

 

Stiles.

 

“Alright! I promise. I promise, dad. I promise. I’ll come home. I’ll come home, dad. I promise I’ll come home. I promise,” Stiles took a deep breath. “I’m coming home, dad.”

 

Stiles heart was racing frantically, pounding relentlessly in his ears, a tear ran down his face and he swallowed heavily.

 

“I don’t know why that was so hard to say,” Stiles whispered. Stiles heard the door opened and jumped a mile, hitting his elbow off of the bathtub as he shot up. “Damn,” he hissed.

 

Stiles?

 

“Yeah, no. I’m fine,” Stiles said as Peter slipped in the door and crouched beside the tub. “Peter just gave me a freaking heart attack, bashed my elbow.”

 

Peter huffed, making Stiles smirk.

 

Still clumsy?

 

Peter nosed his way onto Stiles face, lapping up the tear tracks covering his face.

 

“Clumsy as ever, pops. Fell down a flight of stairs last week, Peter was down right adorable, flapping around asking me if I wanted carried. He hadn’t been introduced to my flexible bones, obviously.”

 

I remember the first time you took a tumble down the stairs. I swear you bounced when you hit the bottom step.

 

“Yeah I bounced. I’m tigger!” he said, grinning as Peter rolled his eyes. “And you know the wonderful thing about tiggers,”

 

Is tiggers are wonderful things,” his dad continued. Stiles smiled wider.

 

“Their tops are made with rubber…”

 

The bottoms are made of springs. Yes, Stiles, I remember the song. You singing it for weeks on end while running into the walls is certainly one way of remembering something for life.

 

“Uh… whoops? I hope you know Peter has become very well acquainted with the running into walls side of my personality.”

 

Good.

 

Stiles snorted. “I’m all dosed up on caffeine and stuff now. He was very quick to figure that trick out,” Stiles said idly tracing his fingers over Peter’s face which he had propped up on the edge of the bath.

 

Yes. He’s a very intelligent man from what I can tell.

 

“Oh yes,” Stiles answered. “Very intelligent, and smart, charismatic, witty, charming, temperamental, manipulative, terrifying, short tempered, possessive, homicidal…” Stiles sighed. “He’s a real catch, pops.”

 

Peter turned his head sharply and kissed the inside of Stiles wrist. Stiles started minutely, but gave a half-hearted smile to the man.

 

You should bring him round the office some day. Let me introduce him to all my buddies.

 

“Oh if I could I would, dad. Infact if I could influence any of his decisions I’d count it as a win.”

 

Peter kicked off his shoes and slid into the bathtub beside Stiles, curling a hand round his thigh. He frowned slightly. Stiles’ heart jumped.

 

“What? What is it? What’s wrong?” Stiles whispered frantically to him. Peter looked at him concerned for a moment then shook his head. Stiles’ eyes raked over Peter’s face and he went back to his phone call, slightly more tense than before. A few minutes later Peter twisted his hand under Stiles’ knee, lay back, and flipped Stiles to straddle his hips. Stiles gave a lack lustre glare.

 

“Hang on a sec, da,” Stiles said, pressing the phone against his chest. “What have I told you about pestering me when I’m on the phone?” Stiles said in an exasperated but teasing tone, bopping his finger on Peter nose. “Hmm?”

 

Peter’s hands slipped easily under the waistband of Stiles’ jeans and curled around his hips, the heel of his hand slotting into the hollow of his hipbones. Peter lifted an eyebrow expectantly. Stiles pursed his lips but brought the phone back up to his ear.

 

“Sorry, what were you saying?”

 

Stiles settled down on top of Peter as his dad gave his commentary on the latest game. Stiles wasn’t sure which sport they were talking about, but he was talking to his dad and that was the important part. Suddenly Peter’s grip tightened. Stiles’ eyes shot down to Peter’s and he tilted his head.

 

“Dad?”

 

Yeah, kiddo?

 

“I think that’s all we have time for on today’s special, but be sure to check back next week for new prizes,” Stiles replied.

 

Love you. I’m going to see you soon.

 

“Yeah, love you too old man.”

 

Stiles hung up to the sound of his dad chuckling.

 

Stiles settled himself on top of Peter’s chest, curling his body up, knees hitting the side of the tub, head tucked under Peter’s chin. Peter’s arms rested gently on Stiles’ waist. Stiles shivered feeling the cold of the porcelain bathtub suddenly, and snuggled in closer to the werewolf radiator. Peter frowned again, unseen by Stiles, and pulled the boy in tighter. Stiles hummed. Peter hummed back.

 

“I miss him. I miss them both.”

 

Peter responded by kissing Stiles on the head while Stiles’ fingers curled up in the fabric of Peter’s shirt.

 

“Mom was…” Stiles searched for the words. “Mom. Dad says I look like her, when he’s had enough to drink. I remember only bits really now. Looking back I always knew mom was ill. She always took pills, but it was never… not until that last year when suddenly everything just broke down. I spent a lot of time at this girl’s house – Heather. Our moms were best friends. They used to paint ceramics. I can remember being in her kitchen and they’d have these beautiful vases and mugs and figurines all painted, and me and Heather would be covered in paint. There was never a spot on them. That’s… That’s the clearest thing. I don’t really remember anything else,” Stiles burrowed in closer to Peter. “Not holding her hand, or cuddling her, or her laugh. Just… paint and how she sat at Heather’s mom’s kitchen table.”

 

Peter ran his hand up and down Stiles’ arm, warming him and comforting him at the same time. “My mother died after giving birth to my little brother. Complications or whatnot. I don’t have memories of her at all.”

 

“Who raised you?”

 

“My uncle mainly. Grams was the alpha, and she and gramps would be busy. I never really knew what with,” he said puzzled. “He was… great. I suppose. It must have been difficult for him, we certainly didn’t try to make it any easier for him either.”

 

“Were you a toerag?” Stiles grinning and twisting up to see Peter’s face.

 

“I was perfect,” Peter said and then waited a beat. “My uncle simply did not appreciate my perfection.”

 

Stiles snorted and flumped his head back down. “You really are a piece of work.”

 

---

 

Peter entered the bedroom quietly so as not to wake Stiles. He had sprawled out over the whole bed and had fallen asleep on top of the covers, once again. Peter sighed and moved Stiles easily, like a rag doll, onto one side of the bed. There would have been a time when moving Stiles around in his sleep would have woken the teen up, but Stiles had gotten used to his presence, and used to being manhandled while sleeping.

 

Peter gently straddled the unaware boy, giving a small smirk to the muffled whine that made its way from Stiles’ throat. He gently pushed up the hem of Stiles’ jumper until it was bunched up at the top of his torso. Peter ran his hands gently down Stiles sides and slipped his fingers under Stiles’ sweatpants. He took a moment to admire Stiles creamy and in some places purpling skin. The way it clung to Stiles’ bones was what some people might even call…

 

Unhealthy.

 

Peter leaned over Stiles and breathed in deeply. He could only faintly pick up the acrid smell of vomit on Stiles, but that didn’t mean anything in regard to the fact Stiles had learnt everything he could about wolf biology – hoping for some weakness, Peter was sure. He was also sure Stiles never found any and stopped prying for his own safety. The boy had probably learned how to hide the smell a while ago – if he was actually throwing up. He might not be.

 

But as Peter glanced down at the thin, frail, body beneath him, he doubted that was true.

 

And he felt stupid. Stupid that he had fallen for Stiles complacency act, that he had allowed Stiles to distract him with his curiosity, and the way his eyes could flash a thousand meanings, and how his thought process made huge leaps in logic that were nearly always correct. He felt stupid because Stiles was obviously not falling into complacency. That he was not accepting his place by his side – not becoming obedient – certainly not offering submission. Hunger strikes were traditionally how prisoners showed their defiance.

 

Maybe he was reading too much into this. Maybe the boy was severely homesick, weight loss was also related to stress – or grief perhaps. Maybe his body wasn’t coping with the ‘on the road’ lifestyle they had been living and when they stopped running Stiles would regain the pounds that had dropped off.

 

Maybe the boy was trying to become so ill he needed to be hospitalised.

 

He was certainly smart enough to come up with a long term plan, and had a low enough self-esteem to believe putting his health on the line was worth the payoff of his father’s happiness in the end.

 

Either way he was going to need to clamp down on this behaviour. He couldn’t afford for Stiles to become weak enough that his body rejected the bite.

 

Chapter Text

“I think it’s you.”

 

Stiles stood in the doorway of Peter's room, taking in everything.

 

“I'm missing something though. Something big, I can feel it.”

 

“Like why anyone would want to burn your family to the ground in the first place? Or how you can even move when you're hurt like you are? I assume that has something to do with the nurse,” Stiles glanced up the hallway.

 

“Stiles! What the hell do you think you're doing?”

 

“Come on, dude, give me a sign that I'm right? About anything! That you're even listening!”

 

“Stiles!” The Sheriff grabbed his arm. “I swear to god I'm going to take your keys for this...”

 

Peter smirked and breathed in the scent of the boy. Stiles.

 

----

 

Stiles had missed the ocean. When he had first seen the signs for California he had begun to get more and more anxious, but Peter just talked him down out of it. Now he was freaking begging to get to go to the beach. It was summer now, the sand would be hot under his curled toes, the ocean waves roar in his ears, slat spray on his face, the sun would blast down on him. It’d feel like home.

 

“Oh gaddi, Peter, please.

 

“You know you’re quite adorable when you pout.”

 

Please.”

 

“But not when you whine,” Peter said frowning.

 

Stiles narrowed his eyes. He leaned over and ran his hand slowly up Peter’s thigh, casually elongating his fingertips across Peter’s groin, smirking as he saw Peter’s fingers squeezing the steering wheel tighter. He ran the tip of his nose along the top of Peter’s ear.

 

“You think I’m adorable now? Wait till I’m soaking wet. Wait till I’m dripping. Can’t you imagine kissing me in the water? Hands all over? Can’t you picture it? Hot and wet and -”

 

Stiles cut himself off with a gasp and one of Peter’s hands shot down and encircled his wrist tight, tight enough to feel his bones rub against Peter’s fingers. Stiles glanced down and saw claws. He gave a small smile.

 

They were totally going to the beach.

 

- - - -

 

Peter placed the shopping bag in the backseat and slid into the driver’s side. Stiles glanced up from his Gameboy and blinked.

 

“What’s that?” he asked suspiciously.

 

“A present,” Peter answered back lightly.

 

“For me?” Stiles asked, grin lighting up his face. Peter let the suspense build and Stiles bit his lip, worrying at it.

 

“Maybe.”

 

“It’s totally for me!” Stiles said chucking his Gameboy into the glove compartment and leaning over. Peter grabbed him by the back of his collar and pulled him back into his seat.

 

“Hey!” Stiles grumbled.

 

“It’s for tomorrow,” Peter said leaning over and kissing Stiles lightly on the nose. “Behave or you won’t get it and I’ll just have to go to the beach without you.”

 

Stiles’ face lit up again when Peter mentioned the beach. Peter rolled his eyes.

 

“Think there’ll be sharks?” Stiles smirked. “Think you could take a shark?”

 

“My aunt once battled a shark,” Peter replied. “We barbequed it afterwards.”

 

Stiles mouth hung open long enough for Peter to start the engine and pull out.

 

“What!”

-

After story time with Peter, and another few hours in the car, Stiles rolled down the window and could smell the salt on the breeze. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, letting his hand hang out of the window. He was so close to home now. They were in the same state. He was near the beaches he road tripped to when he was little on summer holidays.

 

Peter pulled up to a small motel place. Stiles gave up long ago trying to figure out how Peter had memorised where all of these places were and how he had even booked some of them in advanced. Or how he paid for it all. Or what he did when Stiles was left by himself. Peter was sneaky like that.

 

A hand brushed the small strands of hair that had grown back. Stiles blinked. Had he fallen asleep?

 

“Are you awake?” Peter asked gently. He had opened the passenger door up, the car was parked, motel keys in Peter’s hand.

 

“Yeah I’m up,” Stiles mumbled, slowly unfurling and letting Peter guide him out of the car. “Beach tomorrow,” Stiles said smiling into Peter’s shoulder as he locked the car.

 

“Really? I had no idea you wanted to go to the beach, Stiles. You should have said something.”

 

“You’re funny,” Stiles snorted. “Funny, funny guy. Anyone ever tell you that?”

 

“No, Stiles, people just tell me I’m creepy.”

 

Stiles mumbled and Peter manoeuvred him into the motel room and dumped him onto the bed. Stiles snuggled into the pillow and half dozed half watched Peter unpack and get ready for bed.

 

Peter caught Stiles’ eye as he changed into his pyjama bottoms. Stiles pressed his face shyly into the pillow. Peter smirked and stalked over to the bed, pulling off Stiles shoes, then his socks, then his jeans – keeping his eyes locked with Stiles. He leaned over Stiles, turned him, and kissed him gently, Stiles remained passive to his administrations. He slid his hands up Stiles’ torso bunching up the t-shirt Stiles had on. He kissed up his chest, lips latching onto Stiles’ nipple. Stiles gasped.

 

“Peter, no,” he said, tugging at Peter’s hair as Peter hand curled round the waistband of Stiles’ underwear. “Peter. Stop,” Stiles demanded, pushing at Peter’s face. Peter snarled, eyes blazing red as he jumped up the bed and wrapped his thighs around Stiles’ face. Stiles automatically grabbed Peter’s wrist, pressing his thumb on the pulse point. Peter froze immediately.

 

“Breathe, Peter. Calm down, please, Peter. Please calm down now, Peter. Peter…” Stiles whispered, slowly rubbing his thumb up and down Peter’s wrist. “Come here,” Stiles said, twining their fingers together. “Come down here and kiss me.”

 

The red gradually bled out of Peter’s eyes and he slowly slid back down Stiles until they were lying side by side. Stiles pressed forward and gave him a kiss, wrapping his arms around Peter. Peter lay tense in his arms. Stiles curled up around him and held back his tears.

 

“Just… It's just that I’m tired, Peter, yeah? I just wanna go to  sleep, alright…” Stiles murmured as he pressed his head into Peter's chest and curled up. "... Just let me sleep..."

 

- - -

 

Stiles blinked awake.

 

“Beach.”

 

Peter groaned as Stiles poked his shoulder.

 

“Beach. Beach today. Today’s beach day.”

 

“I’d rather be a beached whale and lie here. I’m a terrifying creature of the night, not an early bird.”

 

Stiles grinned and shoved at his shoulder. “Where’s the bag?”

 

Peter rolled over and slid and arm between Stiles and the sheets, pulling him in close and pressing a nose to his throat. “Car.”

 

Stiles blinked again.

 

“Go fetch,” Stiles said nudging him. Peter groused but stepped out of the bed and pulled on some pants. The second the door shut Stiles sprang into the bathroom and threw up.

 

He was pretty sure both he and Peter had been wearing clothes before he fell asleep.

 

Stiles retched again as he thought of Peter doing anything to him while he was asleep – and breathed, exhaling with a shudder. Flush the toilet, find toilet cleaner or bleach, rinse mouth, brush teeth, brush teeth again.

 

Stiles managed to get to brushing his teeth just as Peter re-entered the room. Stiles brushed his teeth and repeated, flouncing out into the room when he was done.

 

“Give me, give me!” Stiles said making grabby hands at the bag. Peter rolled his eyes and grabbed Stiles’ hips, pulling him inbetween his legs. He got a short piece of rope out of his pocket and Stiles’ hands tightened fractionally on Peter’s shoulders as Peter wound it round near the top of Stiles thigh, tying it off and giving his hip a small kiss before letting go. Stiles shifted.

 

“If you’re done with my garter can I have my present?” Peter snorted but handed over the bag. Stiles nearly ripped it open. Purple swimming trunks. A sandcastle bucket. An Iron Man beach towel. A wee shovel. Sun cream lotion. Stiles grinned. “We’re really going to the beach?”

 

Peter sighed and nodded. “Yes. We’re really going to the beach. Would you like me to draw you a picture?”

 

Stiles stuck out his tongue and slipped into the swim trunks. “I’d prefer a painting.”

 

---------

 

Peter’s eyes flashed red when he heard Stiles empty his stomach in the bathroom the moment he stepped out of their room. Although he was pleased to note Stiles didn’t seem to force himself to vomit. That ruled out a few things.

 

Peter trudged back to the car and grabbed the bag from the backseat. He headed back to the room and sat on the bed, waiting for Stiles to finish brushing his teeth. Stiles bounced back into the room and made grabby hands at the bag.

 

“Give me, give me!”

 

Peter rolled his eyes and grabbed Stiles’ hips, pulling him inbetween his legs, revelling in the obedience the boy now gave without even thinking about it. Stiles would never have bared to be around Peter naked even a few weeks ago, now here he was nestled between his legs. And there he would stay.

 

Peter pulled out a short piece of rope and gently wound it round Stiles thigh, high enough that the swim shorts would cover it. He could feel Stiles’ blunt fingernails dig in to his shoulder, feel the barely concealed terror emanating from Stiles. Peter hated putting Stiles on a mental leash, but it was the only way to ensure he wouldn’t run off while in public, the gentle reminder he was owned. That he was his.

 

Peter pressed a kiss to Stiles’ hipbone over a healing bruise, flicking his eyes up to Stiles upper arm where another bruise gleamed green against his skin, and smiled softly. Stiles fidgeted.

 

If you’re done with my garter can I have my present?” Peter snorted but handed over the bag. Stiles nearly ripped it open, going over each item in childlike glee, getting more and more excited as time passed.

 

Stiles beamed at him. “We’re really going to the beach?”

 

Peter sighed and nodded. “Yes. We’re really going to the beach. Would you like me to draw you a picture?”

 

Stiles stuck out his tongue and slipped into the swim trunks. “I’d prefer a painting.”

 

Peter smirked. “Of course you would. Only the best for my darling.”

 

Stiles snorted. “Darling? We trying out pet names now, wolfie? Cause if so darling sucks.”

 

Peter shrugged. “I like darling,” he grouched uncapping the suncream and starting to cover Stiles.

 

“Of course you do, bumpkin, it’s as old fashioned as your face.”

 

Peter gave a friendly nip to Stiles’ waist and the boy yelped, smacking his hand off Peter’s shoulder in retaliation, Peter turned and captured Stiles’ finger in his mouth nibbling at it. Stiles let out a small squeal before abruptly going still. Peter glanced up. Stiles’ eyes had gone strangely blank.

 

Peter slowly released the finger and ran ran his nose along Stiles’ wrist, cheek along palm. “Stiles?”

 

Stiles seemed to come out of his momentry lapse. His other hand reached forward for the suncream. “I can finish myself -”

 

“No.”

 

Stiles’ jaw twitched and he seemed to repress a flinch for a moment, but the gentle tugging on the suncream stopped. Peter gave a small bite to the heel of Stiles’ hand before going back to spreading the suncream.

 

Peter frowned as his hands passed over the back of Stiles’ legs. He didn’t know how to get Stiles’ joy back. He didn’t understand how the mood shifted so suddenly, how to get it to shift again.

 

-

 

Stiles froze as Peter’s teeth grazed his fingers, flashing back to the first time Peter had nibbled at his fingers. Individually. As a punishment.

 

God, and now they were doing it as banter.

 

CRACK.

 

Stiles popped the knuckles in his fingers one at a time, feeling a ridiculous amount of glee at the twitch in Peter’s eye the noise created.

 

CRACK.

 

“If you don’t quit drawing attention to those fingers of yours I’ll make you.”

 

Stiles raised an eyebrow. “Oh really?”

 

CRACK.

 

“Do it one more time I’m pulling over. You won’t like it.”

 

"Stiles?”

 

Stiles blinked for a moment, Peter had stopped sucking his finger and was rubbing his face on his hand instead, it took all of his strength not to rip his hand away. He tugged at the suncream bottle. “I can finish myself -”

 

“No.”

 

Stiles’ clenched his jaw and repressed the urge to run away, instead he dropped his hand away from the bottle and stared ahead resolutely. Peter worried his teeth at the bottom of Stiles' thumb in what Stiles had learned was supposed to be a reassuring gesture and went on with the suncream. Stiles tried to get his head out of the rut it was now in, he could sense Peter was upset. If Peter was upset, he'd hoard Stiles, wouldn't take him out again, wouldn't listen to anything he said or suggested.

 

CRACK.

 

The tires screeched as Peter pulled over and braked. Stiles’ heart beat ratcheted up, he grit his teeth, and tried to keep calm. Let it happen, don’t struggle, don’t run away.

 

Stiles hadn’t realised he had closed his eyes until they sprang open in shock as his car seat plummeted backwards. Stiles immediately jerked up, but was pinned by Peter’s body weight descending upon his chest; Stiles felt the air whooshing out of him, Peter’s bulk making it hard to draw a deep breath.

 

“What -”

 

Peter’s hand pressed down heavily over Stiles mouth, Stiles could swear he heard his jawbone creak under the pressure. Peter leaned down and whispered in Stiles’ ear.

 

“Now, you can suck my fingers or I can suck yours,” Peter taunted, turning his hand so that the fingertips rested on top of Stiles’ bottom lip. “Hmm?”

 

Peter pulled Stiles’ lip down and glanced up at Stiles. Stiles could see Peter’s eyes dilate. Freak was turned on. Peter pushed his fingers up past Stiles’ lips, nails curling around Stiles’ teeth and pulling his mouth open. Stiles let out a yell and pulled his head as far away as he could.

 

Peter removed his hands from Stiles’ face and stilled for a moment, watching the tears begin to leak out the corner of his eyes. Slowly he pulled Stiles’ arm out from where it was pinned down underneath him, gripping his palm, and pushed one of Stiles’ fingers past his own lips. Stiles inhaled sharply in shock and tried to yank his hand away from Peter’s mouth, but the man’s grip was too tight. Stiles screwed his eyes up tight, better this than having his mouth wrenched open and Peter’s fingers plunging in and choking him.

 

Peter kissed Stiles’ nose startling him so completely that Stiles’ heart jumped. Peter, now standing in front of him, tilted his head.

 

“Where did you go?”

 

“Psycho boy,” Stiles replied. Peter frowned, Stiles shrugged. “Rule number one.” Peter frowned more, Stiles sighed and shook his head. “Just thinking is all,” Stiles said, pressing their foreheads together and rubbing their noses against one another. “Just thinking.”

 

He hadn’t cracked his fingers since.

 

"Get dressed," Peter said.

 

"Then beach?"

 

"Then beach."

Chapter Text

“You must be Stiles.”

 

Stiles turned around and jerked back against his car as he recognised the man in front of him.

 

“Oh my god.”

 

The burned face of Peter Hale was one Stiles could recognise from a mile, unfortunately he was barely a foot away.

 

“I was wondering if I could borrow you for a moment,” he asked, stepping forward and curling his hand around Stiles’ bicep in an iron grip - effectively trapping him against his jeep.

 

“Uhm, sure man. Need a lift back to the hospital?” Stiles replied flippantly. “Or the sheriff’s office?”

 

“Cute, Stiles,” Peter said smiling. “But I’m not expected anywhere for a while. And neither are you I believe.”

 

Stiles tightened his grip around his keys. “Don’t know what you mean. My dad, the sheriff by the way, is expecting me any minute.”

 

“Don’t lie, Stiles. Your father is on the night shift and won’t notice you’re missing until mid-morning tomorrow.”

 

“Missing?”

 

Peter gave a light smile and reached for something inside his jacket pocket. Stiles panicked. He struggled against Peter’s hold, aiming to run, but Peter’s grip didn’t slacken. Stiles raised a fist, going for Peter’s face, but Peter smacked his arm aside like a paperweight and stared at Stiles. Stiles stared back for a moment before he shifted his weight slightly – intending on kneeing Peter in the balls – when Peter pressed his whole body up against his, thighs separating out Stiles’ legs easily. The hand then let go of Stiles’ upper arm, snaked under his arm and palmed its way up Stiles’ throat, pushing back Stiles’ chin and covering his mouth. Stiles tried to push him off, but he was pinned. Pinned like a butterfly.

 

Peter rolled his eyes.

 

“Are we quite finished?”

 

Stiles hit the back of his head off the jeep and exhaled heavily.

 

“I thought you’d be smarter than this, Stiles,” Peter whispered into his ear. “After all you’ve seen the crime scene photos and my… propensity to tear people apart.”

 

Stiles closed his eyes and took a deep breath, tears leaked unbidden from the corners from his eyes. Stiles flinched as he felt fingers sweep against his face. He opened his eyes in time to see Peter lick his tears from his fingers.

 

God that’s gross and creepy.

 

Peter released his clamp like grip over Stiles mouth, moving to cradle the nape of his neck instead.

 

“Your friend… Scott? He’s with Allison. Where are they?”

 

Stiles stared wide eyed. There was no way in hell he was telling –

 

“Stiles. I’m not after them. There’s no need to be so anxious.”

 

“I’m not telling.”

 

Peter tilted his head and shrugged. “Fine, but you either tell me or…” he brings a phone out of his pocket. “Hack into little sweetheart Allison’s phone for me.”

 

Stiles frowned as his fingers curled around the phone that was being pressed into his hand. Then he makes the connection.

 

“Kate. You’re after Kate Argent.”

 

Peter’s face doesn’t change. “Well done, would you like me to get you a cookie.”

 

- - - - -

 

It felt surreal. To do something so normal when everything about his life was so abnormal.

 

The sun was shining so bright that Stiles had to close his eyes against the glare. The water was just lapping at his thighs, hands dipping in. Stiles had always been fascinated by the way water clung to his hands. He and his mom used to put their palms on the water in rock pools and watch the ripples as they moved.

 

He wondered if he could stay here, basking in the sun with the sea at his fingertips. He would stay like this forever if he could.

 

Could he swim? Could he swim out into the horizon until he was gone? Could he swim till he was home again?

 

Stiles took another few steps into the ocean, stopping when the water hit mid torso.

 

He couldn’t. For one thing Beacon Hills had the small issue of being land locked, then there’s Peter. Who would outswim him and drag him back. Tie him up and twist him round. Mark him and lay him bare. For another, Stiles wasn’t sure how long he could swim without getting so tired he’d pass out. Passing out was beginning to become a bit of a problem.

 

He heard a sloshing of water behind him and opened his eyes at the voice.

 

“Hey.”

 

Peter’s body slotted in behind him easily. Stiles leaned back into him and kissed him on the chin.

 

“I’m scared the tide will wash you out to sea,” Peter said gently, his hands wandering up and his sides, his left hand dipping past his hips and tracing the top of the rope.

 

“Maybe mermaids will capture me,” Stiles said with a grin. “Or kelpies. But I think they’re Scottish. Or Irish. Ooo, what about sirens?”

 

Stiles felt Peter’s chuckle come from his chest before he heard it.

 

“Mermaids are not as glamorous as Disney has made them appear. JK had it more right. They’re like sharks, with webbed hands and scaley skin. Cold to the touch and their eyes never blink.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Nope. I have never seen nor heard of mermaids ever been spotted. Ever.”

 

Stiles huffed. “Spoil sport.”

 

“Now kelpies I could get behind. They’re just another type of shifter, right? And the ocean is affected by the moon…”

 

“Do you like the ocean?” Stiles asked, turning around so he wouldn’t have to face the sun’s glare.

 

“I love it,” Peter said before landing a heavy kiss. “I can feel the moon pulling on it gently – it feels familiar and… safe,” he said, pulling down the front of Stiles’ swimshorts. Stiles bit his lip as he felt Peter’s hand curl round his penis, and shoved his head into the crook of Peter’s neck, small whimpers escaping him as Peter rubbed him into full hardness. Stiles wondered if the people on the beach could see them, if nearby swimmers would hear them. Stiles bucked up against Peter, Peter’s hand reaching around both of their dicks now. Hey, at least sex in the sea meant no clean up right?

 

Peter bit into Stiles’ shoulder when they came, the pain shot down his whole arm but he held in his yelp.

 

“Sorry,” Peter murmured.

 

“You break the skin?” Stiles asked wearily. Peter shook his head like a chastised kid. “Good. There’s nothing worse than a cut on a beach.”

 

Peter nodded and kissed along Stiles’ cheekbone. Stiles closed his eyes and breathed.

 

“Let’s go sunbathe,” Stiles said after a few moments. Peter nodded and let Stiles lead the way back to the beach. As they got closer Stiles’ eye honed in on a kid making sandcastles with what was presumably his dad.

 

Stiles felt hollow as he saw the kid get picked up by his dad and swung upside down. When his dad had done that he used to laugh, shriek more like it, this child was the same.

 

Hot arms wound round him like restraints, swaying him slightly. Peter ran his nose along the back of his ear.

 

“What is it duckie?”

 

Stiles shook his head. “That’s a ridiculous name, wolfie.”

 

Peter bit the top of his ear playfully. “Grr,” he said in an unconvincing manner. Stiles snorted. “What’s up?”

 

“Bottoms.”

 

Peter turned Stiles around to face him. “What?”

 

Stiles burst out laughing at the confused look on Peter’s face, Peter looked down sulking. Stiles caught his face and lifted it up to look at him.

 

“Bottoms up? Aristocats? It’s a Disney movie. There are these two ducks and they paddling along – oh wait! They’re geese. Oh… that makes less sense now I suppose,” Stiles said frowning off into the distance, he then glanced back at Peter. “But the look on your face was priceless. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you more confused.”

 

Peter scowled. “Shut up.” Stiles laughed.

 

“Aw… did I hurt the poor big bad wolfie’s feelings?” Stiles replied in a baby voice, giggling hysterically at his own joke. Peter gave a friendly snarl and gave a wicked grin, then flipped Stiles onto his bum and into the water.

 

Stiles – who had still been laughing – spluttered and choked for a moment, spitting out sea water. Peter smirked and turned to walk back to the shore.

 

“Oh no you don’t,” Stiles called, and body slammed into Peter, sending them both tumbling into the water. Peter rose, completely soaked with Stiles’ piggy backing on him laughing his head off.

 

“You are incorrigible,” Peter humfed as he carted Stiles back onto the beach. He deposited Stiles onto his beach towel and Stiles stretched out in the sun like a cat, grinning like a loon. Stiles lay there, letting the water evaporate off his body gradually, listening to the ocean waves, Peter turning the pages in his book, groups of people chatting, it all sounded so… busy. Mind numbing. Relaxing. It felt like he could ignore everything, even the noise in his brain.

 

Stiles turned to the side and watched Peter read his book. It was an old worn paper back with a fading cover and curled up page corners. Stiles knew better, but Peter seemed to be completely absorbed in the book. It was a nice gesture, Stiles supposed, ignoring Stiles’ staring. Stiles sat up slowly, placed himself gently on Peter's lap, pushed the book to one side, and wrapped his arms around Peter’s neck.

 

“Hey,” Stiles said.

 

“Hey,” Peter replied looked amused and slightly surprised.

 

Stiles leaned forward slowly and pressed his lips to Peter’s. Peter’s hands settled on Stiles’ hips. Stiles teased Peter’s lips open. It was the way Stiles’ once dreamed of kissing Lydia, all those months ago.

 

“Thanks. For the beach,” Stiles said as he curled his toes into the heat of the sand either side of Peter’s legs. “Yeah?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah,” Stiles replied, turning around so that his back was to Peter’s almost too hot chest and burying the tops of his feet into the sand. He leaned his head back against Peter’s shoulder and closed his eyes, drinking up the sunshine, and drifting off to sleep as Peter lifted up his book, placing one hand against Stiles’ hip.

Chapter Text

 

Sandcastles and ice-cream and talks about politics and the tide sweeping over toes. Rock pools and sun cream and sand stuck to legs and debates about superpowers and swimming in the ocean. Hot dogs and banter and laughing and naps in the sun curling up like a cat on top of a laptop charger.

 

Strolls along sidewalks and shining street lights and lazy showers and gentle kisses under the spray. Pinches and pet names and references to movies (and a lot of explaining those references). Pyjamas and reruns of bad television and pizza and hot cheese dripping down fingers. Blankets and snuggling and sea battered skin feeling rough and stretched across cheeks.

 

Lips along temples and hands intertwined and squealing and giggling and squirming under sheets. Thumbs digging in and hair being played with and hot gusts of breaths along necks. Bruises and bite marks and eyes screwed tight and darkness and tears. Choked moans and pleas and bunched up fists and breathing that comes short and fast. Sweat dripping down necks and licks and skin under fingernails and blood pumping thunderous in ears. Mouth spread wide and lips stretched thin and eyelashes clumped with tears. Spit and slick and saliva and semen and whispered crooning’s that sound like prayers. Nausea and compliments and little praises that worm their way deep into the mind(he loves you) and contented huffing and tight arms round the waist. Loose limbs and stiff muscles and easy dreams and insomnia and staring eyes in the dark that can’t sleep and hell is empty because the monsters are here.

 

Suns peaking up over the horizon and quick breakfasts and left behind receipts. On the road and in the car and gas station after gas station for breaks. Hands on thighs and game boy games and talking and veiled threats and sweets. Sweets and muffins and candy and chocolate bars and flapjacks and pancakes and sugar. As much sugar as you can possibly stuff into your mouth. Motel rooms and diners and barely touched dinners and rinse and repeat. Again and again and again and again and again and again and again.

 

Did you like the beach. We could go again. Empty promises and platitudes and appeasements. Little differences to continuing on and more of the same monotony. The cycle is driving you mad. He loves you he hits you he laughs at your jokes you smile at his stories he ties you up and ties you down you share food and a bed and a car and the shower. There is only little bits of you left stubborn rock refusing to be swept away in the tide of Peter where you can’t tell where he ends and you begin where there are no boundaries and you don’t know if you’re you or you’re being what he wants you to be. Car. Lunch. Car. Dinner. Bed(but not sleeping(he loves you)). Car.

 

Good thing you don’t get car sick.

 

Much.

 

-

 

Stiles slid into the booth and glared at the menu.

 

“Come now, Stiles. This is supposed to be a treat.”

 

Stiles looked up at him, weary. A restaurant was not his idea of a treat.

 

“Restaurants make me tense,” Stiles muttered, his eyes flicking back down to the menu.

 

Peter frowned. “How so?”

 

Stiles sighed and shrugged. Peter reached over and took Stiles’ wrist in his hand. “What’s worrying you?”

 

Stiles rolled his head a bit. “I don’t want to upset you. You like this,” he waved his hand about. “Sort of stuff. It’s never been my scene.”

 

Peter eyed him speculatively rubbing his thumb in a lazy circle over Stiles’ pulse point. “That’s not all, is it?”

 

Stiles grit his teeth. “Every time we go to a restaurant or whatever, something happens. I set you off, or someone else does, or… whatever,” Stiles muttered.

 

“That won’t happen this time though, will it?” Peter asked eyes wide staring at Stiles. Stiles froze for a moment under Peter’s hopeful gaze.

 

“Course not,” Stiles stuttered out. Peter smiled at him and Stiles felt his heart flip for a moment. He ducked his head and read through the menu, keeping his hand interlocked with Peter’s on top the table.

 

The waiter arrived at their table and Stiles flinched, pulling back his hand at super speed. The waiter hesitated only for a moment, glancing between the two. Not the father son duo he had thought, not his business either, Peter thought as he raised an eyebrow at him.

 

“Are you ready to order or shall I give you a few more minutes?” he asked.

 

“I think we’re ready,” Peter replied, seeing Stiles nod. “I’ll have the steak, rare.”

 

The waiter jotted it down and turned to Stiles expectantly.

 

“I’ll have the mushroom thingy on the starter menu,” Stiles replied. The waiter looked flummoxed for a moment.

 

“You want me to bring that along with his main?” he questioned. Stiles nodded and the waiter made a note. “The starter size is quite small, would you like to order a side with it?”

 

“No that’s -”

 

“Pick a side.”

 

Stiles glanced up at Peter who was looking particularly stern.

 

“I don’t want -”

 

“Pick. A. Side.”

 

Stiles glared down at the menu, not really seeing it, then dumped it down and shrugged, hiding the fact he was nearly in tears from facing the decision. Peter held his gaze for a moment then turned to the waiter.

 

“Give him a side of garlic bread.”

 

“And to drink?”

 

“We’ll both have water.”

 

The waiter nodded and scurried away, happy to be out of the tense situation.

 

“Dude, there’s some weird ass couple at that table…”

 

Peter tuned out the waiter as he gossiped to the girl at the kitchen window and turned his attention to Stiles.

 

“You’ve been losing weight. Too much weight.”

 

Stiles stared at the tablecloth.

 

“Not just that. Puffy face. Fatigue. Your teeth… Your voice.”

 

Stiles flinched at that. His voice had started getting hoarser the other week. It freaked Stiles out.

 

“Stiles? Talk to me,” Peter pleaded.

 

“I’m just… not hungry.”

 

Peter heard the tell-tale thump in Stiles’ heart beat that signalled a lie. He slipped out of his seat and into Stiles’ booth to sit beside him. He placed a hand on Stiles’ knee and brushed back some stray hairs, curling his hand round the nape of Stiles’ neck.

 

“That’s not all of it, is it?” Peter murmured into Stiles ear.

 

“Can we not? Please?” Stiles whispered back.

 

“I’m sorry Stiles, but if you lose any more weight you’ll start to become unwell. Seriously unwell.”

 

Stiles shifted under Peter’s grip.

 

“You’re still throwing up.”

 

Stiles nodded.

 

“Why?”

 

Stiles shrugged.

 

“Why, Stiles?”

 

Stiles’ tongue darted out and licked his lips. “I just…get nauseous,” he replied.

 

Peter breath tickled Stiles’ ear and made him shiver slightly. Stiles knew he was losing weight, probably had a health issue or something, but had never thought in a million years that Peter would care or confront him about it.

 

“Why? What makes you nauseous?”

 

Stiles laughed bitterly. “I dunno, food?”

 

“Stiles,” Peter whispered harshly. “You’re far more self-aware and perceptive than that. Come on my clever boy, tell me.”

 

Stiles took a deep breath. “Don’t be angry.”

 

“I won’t. I promise, not for this. Not when you’re being so brave and honest with me,” Peter whispered encouragingly, trailing a finger down Stiles’ cheek. Stiles looked up at him, big eyes glimmering with unshed tears. He looked down at the tablecloth again.

 

“You.” Stiles stopped for a moment to take a deep breath after making the statement. “You make me nauseous. You. And swallowing you and -” Stiles sobbed. “I feel like I can’t swallow anything without feeling repulsed. Without feeling sick,” Stiles spat.

 

There was a tense moment of silence as Stiles waited for the retaliation, eyes closed. However, instead of a blow or a whispered threat, Peter simply kissed his forehead. Stiles slowly opened his eyes and looked warily at Peter.

 

“I promised not to be angry,” he said simply. Stiles snorted.

 

“And it’s as easy as that,”

 

“I would do anything for you.”

 

Liar,” Stiles spat out low. “If you aren’t a liar take me home right now, Peter. Take me home.”

 

Tense silence followed Stiles’ request and Stiles laughed bitterly.

 

“You don’t care Peter. So stop pretending. Stop trying to convince me that this is more than just… just you wanting some company along for the ride.”

 

Stiles jumped when Peter’s fist banged down onto the table. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare say that, Stiles. I care more than you could possibly imagine, more than you could possibly conceive -” Peter took a deep breath and a moment to regain his composure after spouting out his proclamation. He uncurled his fist, moving it back to Stiles’ thigh, and began to speak in a calm rational manner. “Think, Stiles. If I didn’t have you ‘along’ with me then there would be no ‘ride’. I’d be a missing person. Not a murderer and a kidnapper. What you’re saying doesn’t make sense. Taking you has created the ride. I’d love to settle down with you, Stiles. Start a pack with you, a family. Go running with you under the full moon. Show you what it means to be a creature of the earth…” Peter sighed wistfully. “I want you. I care. Don’t belittle my feelings for you. Please.”

 

Stiles swallowed heavily, throat choked up and closing over. God, he was not going to cry like some sappy girl at the end of the movie when the guy says his stupid formulaic love monologue. He wasn’t. This wasn’t a movie. The final credits were not going to roll up with some upbeat song. Stiles hated romcoms. Where was the angst over your parents being dead and being raised by your butler? Or on a farm in Smallville? Or by penguins or wolves? Jungle Book was his mom’s favourite -

 

“Stiles? You need to get out of your head. Stop overthinking things. It’s making you worse… I know… I know that you’re crying at night too, Stiles. I can’t bare it. I don’t want you to be so ill, so upset. I want you to be happy, need you to be happy…” Peter kissed Stiles so gently and softly, the pads of his fingers running over Stiles’ cheeks, pulling his hair ever so slightly at the nape. “I’m sorry, Stiles, but I can’t let you go. I can’t, need you too much. I just wish things could be different for you, for us.”

 

“I know,” Stile breathed out. “I know you do. It’s okay,” he said pressing their foreheads together. “It’s okay, Peter. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’ve just…” Stiles let out a sob, god he was crying now wasn’t he. “I’ve just been sick for so long. I can’t stop feeling like, like my skin’s going to crawl off. I don’t feel right and I don’t know how to stop. It helps Peter it does, it helps. It feels like…”

 

“Like it’s the only thing you can control.”

 

“It’s my body. My weight. Why shouldn’t I control it?”

 

“Because it’s not your body. It’s mine.”

 

Stiles let out a choked laugh that sounded more like a cry. “Yeah, Peter, that happens to be the problem.”

 

Peter ran his fingers frantically through Stiles’ hair. “I’m sorry, sorry baby. I’ll be better. We can look it up online, find out what to do. You want to be in charge of that? In charge of your health?”

 

“I don’t know. I don’t know. Can we just – can we stop talking about this?”

 

“Alright.”

 

Peter leaned back, away from Stiles, so that their only points of contact were the fingertips running over the nape of Stiles’ neck and the knee Peter pressed into Stiles’ thigh. Stiles wiped off his tears with the back of his hand, sniffling and shaking. Peter ignored the waiter when he came back with their drinks.

 

Dude, I swear there’s something wrong with that couple. I think he just made him cry.

 

Peter held back the snarl as he heard the waiter talk to girl once more. Instead he nudged Stiles gently.

 

“The couple by the window?” Peter said, pointing them out.

 

“Yeah?” Stiles asked after sneaking a glance.

 

“The woman’s pregnant. The man doesn’t know. However, he is exceptionally nervous. I think he’s going to propose.”

 

Stiles straightened up slightly, and leaned back to be closer to Peter.

 

“What makes you think that?”

 

“That he’s nervous, she’s pregnant, or he’s going to propose?”

 

“That he doesn’t know about the baby,” Stiles replied. Peter smirked.

 

“Well…”

 

The evening moved swiftly on after that. Peter and Stiles curled up in the booth next to each other and picked apart both their fellow diners and the staff – the poor waiter who served them was particularly ridiculed and humiliated every time he came to their table. It wasn’t their fault he hid his crush badly and the kitchen girl was gay now, was it? It certainly wasn’t their fault when the waiter asked the kitchen girl and she confirmed it, crushing the poor boy’s dreams. Perhaps Peter had gone a bit far when he asked what time his shift ended and copped a feel – but it seemed to make Stiles laugh when the waiter dropped their plates so it was worth it.

 

They shared a chocolate mousse for desert – getting it more on their faces than in their mouths.

 

“Gah! Stop it, oh my god,” Stiles squealed as Peter licked chocolate off his cheek.

 

“Don’t want the chocolate to go to waste now, would we?” Peter murmured into Stiles ear.

 

“The reason there is chocolate on my face is because you put it there, jackass,” Stiles exclaimed, smiling as he made the accusation.

 

“My nefarious plan is working then.”

 

“Oh yeah? Okay, what is it then wise guy?”

 

Peter pulled back and blinked. “To eat you up, obviously.”

 

Stiles snorted and rolled his eyes. “Obviously.”

 

Peter kissed chocolate off Stiles nose. “You know in the older versions of Little Red Riding Hood, the wolf had Little Red eat her grandmother.”

 

Stiles’ eyes got comically wide. “No way.”

 

“I used to be fascinated by old fairy tales, trying to discern truth from fiction. Little Red Riding Hood in the earliest translations… it’s quite barbaric,” Peter breathed into Stiles’ ear, biting the ridge. Stiles jumped at the sudden lancing pain, shivers going down his body. “Originally, a beautiful child of the village in a red cap meets a werewolf in the forest. She tells him where she’s going and he takes a faster path, kills grandma, chops her up and puts her in the cupboard as meat, puts her blood in a wine bottle, and disguises himself as her in the bed. When little red arrives, the werewolf tells her to eat and drink. After she’s had her fill the werewolf tells her to undress and get into the bed with him.” Peter slowly slid a hand up Stiles’ shirt, getting higher and higher with each word. “She asks where will I put my apron, and the werewolf replied on the fire for you won’t need it anymore. She asks for every piece. Clothes, bodice, dress, petticoat, and the long stockings.” Peter’s thumb started to rub against Stiles’ nipple. Peter smirked as he heard the boy’s heart thump faster. “Quite the strip tease. After she lies down next to the wolf completely naked and I’m sure you know the next bit, different versions have different lists, but they all end with o Grandma, what big teeth you have. Then the werewolf eats her up,” he said violently twisting Stiles’ nipple. Stiles gasped out and lurched forward, tears smarting. “The end. No woodcutter rescues them, the wolf isn’t tricked or trapped. A werewolf tricks little red, corrupts her, devours her and then the story ends.”

 

Stiles rubbed the heel of his hand against his stinging nipple. “You’re such a graphic story teller.”

 

Peter rolled his eyes. “I prefer the term dramatic. The interesting thing about Little Red Cap though is its origins.”

 

“Oh really?” Stiles muttered.

 

“France. It was originally werewolf propaganda. Stay away from the woods or we’ll destroy you.”

 

“Then the additions…” Stiles added.

 

“Argent retaliation - turning the werewolf into an ordinary wolf, removing the idea that little red was turned into a monster, putting wood cutters into the forest – as if hunters were everywhere and to be feared. Oh yes, propaganda turned around on us.”

 

“Serves you right. You were probably giving yourself a bad reputation,” Stiles said lightly.

 

Peter grinned. “Well, we wouldn’t want that now, would we?”

 

Chapter Text

 

“Dad?”

 

Stiles. Are you okay? You’ve… you’ve not been calling as often. Is everything okay?

 

“Yeah of cour -” Stiles cut himself off as Peter raised his eyebrows at him. Stiles swallowed heavily. “Actually dad, I’ve got something to tell you. It’s um, it’s not easy to say but Peter…” Stiles pulled at his hair. “Peter said I needed to. So. Uh. Here goes.”

 

I’m ready,” came his dad’s reply, tinny from the phone.

 

“I have an eating disorder,” Stiles blurted out quickly. There was silence over the other end.

 

Oh… Okay.

 

“Oh okay? That’s all you have to say on the matter?” Stiles asked in a high pitched voice.

 

Give me a minute here kid. I thought you were going to tell me you were pregnant or something,” he sighed. “How are you then? Physically. How long’s it been going on for?

 

“Honestly? I threw up the first time on the first night. You might have seen some of that lovely DNA at the Hale house.”

 

Did you do that on purpose?” comes his dad’s voice, more curious than angry.

 

“Uh no. I just…” Stiles picked at the hem on his t-shirt. “Well you saw it.”

 

Hm. What do you feel like?

 

“Tired. All the time, tired. Then sometimes I feel like eating a whole horse. Then other times I can’t even stand the sight of food. I can’t…” Stiles grunted, struggling to find the words.

 

There’s no inbetween, I remember. You need a regular meal plan. And then stick to it.

 

“Wait. You… You remember?”

 

This isn’t the first time I’ve had news like this.

 

“Whadda ya mean?” Stiles asked flopping back onto the bed.

 

Your mom… she had some difficulties of the same nature before you were born and… just when you were little. You might not remember it -

 

“No. Wait. I do. She took little red pills for her tummy,” Stiles answered frowning back at his memories. “I had forgotten that.”

 

Yeah. The doctors warned me that you might have a genetic predisposition to it, but I never really worried about you like that before… before Peter took you.

 

“Peter’s been really… supportive. Strict about meals and stuff now.”

 

I bet he is. And I bet he brought up the issue as soon as he noticed. Didn’t wait until you were so ill you would need to depend on him. Exactly how tired are you Stiles?

 

“Shut up, dad,” Stiles whispered.

 

If you had the chance, if an opportunity arose for you to get away – to come home – like you promised, would you be able to take it?

 

Stiles closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. “I can’t… I can’t walk much more than round the block without feeling like I’m going to pass out if that’s what you’re asking.”

 

Do you see what he’s done to you?

 

“Dad you can’t talk like that,” Stiles mumbled back.

 

Stiles as long as you can see what he’s doing to you, there’s hope. Do you see it? He’s doing this to you –

 

“No, pops, I did it to myself,” Stiles spat. “So just shut up. Okay?” Peter rose and wrapped himself around Stiles, kissing his cheek.  “I did it to myself,” Stiles whispered.

 

Stiles, that’s not true.

 

Stiles turned so he could be face to face with Peter, letting Peter run a nose along Stiles’ – like an eskimo kiss.

 

“It is true dad. I…” Stiles frowned. “I let myself think that it was helping. That somehow I was gaining control by… By what I was doing, and that’s wrong, you know? Cause Peter’s the one who’s in control.”

 

There was silence on the other side of the phone. Stiles ducked his head down and pressed it into Peter’s chest.

 

Why did you throw up the first time? At the Hale house.”

 

“Dad…” Stiles groaned.

 

Please? For me Stiles, try to think back.”

 

“Like hundreds of other people aren’t listening to this phone call,” Stiles muttered.

 

I’m the only one here Stiles. I make sure it’s just you and me. They might listen to a recording, but it’s only you and me here together.

 

“And Peter,” Stiles said softly.

 

Sometimes he’s not there. I can tell Stiles, you change. He’s next to you right now, isn’t he?

 

“He’s supporting me,” Stiles murmured, more into Peter’s chest than the phone receiver.

 

Think back, Stiles,” his father’s voice comes over calm. He’s always so calm. Stiles closed his eyes. “Why did you throw up that first time?

 

“I was scared. I was repulsed. I was terrified I’d end up like Kate Argent or…” Stiles swallowed heavily. “But -”

 

No buts, Stiles. I want you to remember that. That horror, that fear of him. I never want you to forget that he took you, and no matter what you may feel now or in the future, he took you. He terrorised you. He’s still doing it. Come home, Stiles. You remember the movie Hook? I want you to run home. Everytime you see a TV or a movie I want you to think about running home. Please Stiles -

 

Peter gently reached down and took the phone from Stiles’ slack fingers, hanging up delicately.

 

“Time’s up,” Peter said gently. “He took the news well.”

 

“Yeah. He did,” Stiles replied absently as Peter’s hands pushed up his t-shirt and he kissed along Stiles’ abs. “Do you think he still loves me?” Stiles asked as Peter lifted up Stiles’ hips and pulled down his trousers.

 

“Why do you ask?” Peter queried him with a kiss.

 

“He didn’t say it this time,” Stiles whispered. Peter nipped at Stiles’ hip bone, Stiles involuntarily arched upwards. Peter smirked against Stiles’ skin and palmed his growing erection. Stiles snorted. “Asshole.”

 

“Why do you think he doesn’t love you anymore?” Peter asked pulling off his own shirt, then Stiles’.

 

Stiles stared at the ceiling and shrugged, unwilling to voice his insecurities.

 

“I still love you.”

 

Stiles hummed in response and ran a hand down Peter’s naked torso, cataloguing Peter’s reactions, bringing out that little bit of red.

 

“Kiss me?” Stiles asked. Peter swooped down and devoured his mouth. Stiles loved kissing Peter, Peter pressing his whole length along Stiles, rubbing up against him. Stiles gasped for air when Peter broke off and kissed down his neck.

 

“What if I made it so that you’d never have to swallow me ever again?” Peter whispered against Stiles neck. Stiles frowned and Peter sat up between Stiles’ legs. “What if I stopped coming in your mouth?” he asked pushing up Stiles’ knees and kissing along the inside of his thigh. “Would that help?”

 

“I, uh. Probably, I dunno,” Stiles garbled. “You would do that?” he panted out weakly.

 

Peter angled Stiles hips up and bent down to kiss the tip of Stiles’ erection. “Of course I would,” he said gently. Then licked a wide stripe along Stiles’ entrance.

 

Stiles leapt out of bed so fast he didn’t realise he moved until he smacked into the kitchen table in the next room. His fingers curled white against the back of a chair and he tried desperately to get a hold of his breathing.

 

“Stiles…”

 

Stiles turned sharply to Peter who was lounging against the door frame.

 

“If this is another one of your stupid screwed up choices then no. I choose no.”

 

Peter stared blankly. Stiles felt a chill creep into his gut.

 

“Peter?” Stiles swallowed heavily. “Peter I choose no,” he said hoarsely. “Peter?” Peter continued his stoney look. Stiles started to realise.

 

“You bastard,” Stiles spat. “You sick fuck -”

 

“Language.”

 

“Language!” Stiles screamed. “Is that all you have to say! What happened to loving me? What happened to not wanting sex to be a punishment? What happened to me enjoying it!

 

Stiles grabbed the nearest thing to him and hurled it at Peter. Vase. Whisk. Plate. Plant. Jug. Glasses.

 

Knife.

 

It hit Peter’s chest dead centre, dripping thick globs onto the floor. Peter’s eyes flashed red. Stiles’ gut dropped out as his anger suddenly deserted him. Seeing Peter hurt felt like a physical blow, it left him breathless and unsteady, like the ground underneath him had disappeared. He slowly approached Peter. Peter’s claws and fangs were out, but he hadn’t fully shifted yet. He pulled out the knife as carefully as he could and dropped it down onto the table behind him, then dipped his head and kissed the gaping wound as it knitted itself back together, whispering continuously.

 

“…I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

 

After he had ran his hands over Peter’s healed skin a few times he sunk down into a chair.

 

“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” Stiles whispered.

 

“Just trust me,” Peter said crouching in front of him. “I’ve never pushed you past further than what you could manage.”

 

“You call this managing?”

 

“Yes,” Peter replied immediately. “I was so scared that I’d break you those first few days. So scared I’d push too hard or too fast, but you were so strong – are so strong, and so clever, and so brave, and so vibrant. You’re so full of life, Stiles. It’s my privilege to be in your company,” Peter took a deep breath in. “I know you’ve heard me say it before, but I love you, Stiles. You have literally given my life back to me.”

 

Stiles looked up mournfully at Peter. He didn’t say it out loud, instead he let it hang in the air: you’ve taken my life from me.

 

Peter gently picked Stiles up and carried him through to the bathroom, placing him down in the shower and putting it on full spray ice cold. Peter walked away and Stiles soon started shivering violently, curling up on himself and pushing his forehead into his knees.

 

“Peter?” Stiles whispered, his fingertips were starting to hurt. Stiles bit his lip, worrying at it. “Peter?” Stiles called, teeth chattering. “Peter!” Stiles finally cried out, letting out a sob. “Peter! Where are you? Peter!”

 

“Shh, shh,” Peter cooed, appearing from nowhere, gently cradling Stiles’ head. “Shh, it’s okay. I’m here now,” Peter said turning off the water and kissing Stiles’ temple. “Come on now,” Peter tugged at Stiles’ arm. Stiles cried as he slowly unfurled convulsing from the cold, numb as Peter pulled him into the bedroom and sat him on the bed. Stiles grabbed the blanket behind him but Peter took his wrist and removed it.

 

“P - Peter, please. I’m s – s – so cold,” Stiles said futilely rubbing his arms.

 

“Don’t worry about it, babe,” Peter murmured softly as he repositioned Stiles onto his side. “I’m going to warm you right up.”

 

-

 

Stiles sat up against the headboard in the dark, Peter wrapped up in the sheets beside him, a hand falling in amongst Stiles’ thighs.

 

Honestly… Stiles wasn’t really expecting this.

 

He expecting blood and tearing and crying and… just a big bloody mess he supposed.

 

He was fine.

 

A gentle burn in is ass maybe, but he thought… he had assumed…

 

But it was Peter. How could he have expected that from him? He’d always been good in bed.

 

Peter snuffled in his sleep and Stiles absentmindedly let his hand drop down the stroke his hair.

 

What was he doing?

 

“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore”

 

Stiles shuddered as he remembered seeing the kitchen knife stuck in Peter’s chest. That feeling like the world had stopped – had fallen apart. When had Peter become his world?

 

Run home.

 

Stiles rubbed the heel of his hand against his eyes as tears threatened to fall.

 

He had been so cold, could barely feel – and Peter so hot. He couldn’t pull away, only press up against the heat, and then…

 

Well, soon it had been too late to pull away.

 

It had been too late to pull away for a long while Stiles’ thought. It had always been too late for him.

 

But did that mean he should accept it? Peter could make him happy. Peter could try and make him happy for the rest of their lives. He could be happy.

 

Couldn’t he?

 

Or should he fight it? Try and regain the ground he knew he’d lost over these past months? Peter couldn’t keep his guard up for the rest of their lives. He could get back to his father. His life.

 

Couldn’t he?

Chapter Text

 

“Peter?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I’m cold.”

 

Peter clenched his jaw. He was cold because he was thin. He was thin because he hated him. Didn’t want him. Didn’t love him. He's putting weight back on. Soon he wouldn't need Peter. Soon he'd try to fight and leave like before. Soon -

 

Peter reached across the seat and grabbed Stiles’ upper arm, pulling him in sharply, curling a hand round the back of Stiles’ head, claws raking through his hair. Stiles stiffened ever so slightly.

 

“Ow,” Stiles muttered off handily.

 

“Quiet.”

 

Stiles’ tongue darted out to wet his lips. “You in one of your moods?” Stiles asked lightly. Peter extended his claws down Stiles face, revelling in the hitch in Stiles’ breath as he trailed claws gently over Stiles’ eyes, stopping at his lips and digging in his thumb. He took a deep breath in as Stiles’ blood hit him. Unconsciously his fangs protruded and he licked his lips. Stiles whimpered.

 

“You tell me,” Peter replied glibly, smearing the blood dripping out of the cut he had made on Stiles’ lip across his cheek.

 

“Yeah,” Peter heard Stiles whisper. “Yeah I think you are.”

 

By the time they got out of the car three hours later Stiles had gotten nine small, shallow, cuts pressed into his body: the back of his neck, his shoulder blades, the inside of his thigh, the underside of his chin – anywhere Peter felt the urge to split the soft, creamy, mole dotted, fragile skin. Peter could hear the stuttered breath and feel the tremors running up and down Stiles’ arms and legs. He had wound the poor boy up so tight...

 

Time to make him snap.

 

Peter gently pressed a kiss to Stiles’ temple. Stiles’ eyes flitted up, wary. Peter slid out of the car and grabbed their stuff from the trunk. He heard Stiles step out of the car and exhale, glanced up and saw the kid rub his head of hair. A nervous tick he’d gotten from somewhere. He used to do it when his hair was buzzed too. Peter liked his hair longer though. Something to pull and pin Stiles down with.

 

Stiles gave that cocky half grin and his short three fingered wave when he saw Peter staring. Peter kept his face blank and stepped around the car, rope coiled up in his hand. Stiles’ eyes dropped to it and the smile fell off his face.

 

-

 

He was always sorry in the mornings. The way Stiles flinched when he curled a hand around his ankle, the way Stiles would whimper when he ran his nose along his shoulder, how he would keep his eyes shut tight when Peter rolled him round to face him.

 

The way he’d break down and sob into his chest, hands clinging onto Peter like he was a lifeline. The way he would be quiet and pliant for the rest of the day. How he would be grateful the next night when Peter let him fall asleep watching the television gathered up snug in Peter’s arms.

 

Oh yes, Peter was always sorry in the mornings.

 

But not for long, never for long.

 

-

 

“Hey, Dad,” Stiles said flopping down into a chair in their new motel room.

 

“Hey Stiles, what's up?”

 

“Well…” Stiles glanced out the window where Peter was fetching bags out of their car. “I’ve gone all the way with my boyfriend so uh... that's happened. What about you?”

 

Well, we just crossed a state line into Wyoming.

 

“Really? You're catching up then, aren't you,” Stiles said without thinking. Then he thought about it. “I shouldn't have said that,” Stiles added hollowly.

 

Stiles -”

 

Peter knocked the phone out of Stiles' hands and pinned his chest to the wall before Stiles could even register that Peter had entered the room.

 

“I'm sorry! I'm sorry! My ADHD I can't control what I say, it just comes out. You know that, I -”

 

“And you think your father doesn't?” growled Peter. Stiles froze.

 

“What?”

 

“I told you once that your father does not want to help you. Don’t you see what he’s trying to do?”

 

Stiles grit his teeth. “He was being – ah!” Peter twisted Stiles arm up, pushing his chest further into the wall.

 

“Come on, clever boy. Your dad's still on the line, you really want him to hear you scream?”

 

Stiles breathed slowly. “I don't understand, okay. You might be able to see it, but I can't okay,” Stiles said gently. “He's my dad.”

 

“He’s worried about you.” Stiles snorted.

 

“He's my dad, you've kidnapped me, of course he's worried.”

 

“What exactly is he worried about?”

 

Stiles racked his mind then groaned. “Stockholm syndrome. He’s worried I have it.”

 

“Yes,” Peter said, slackening his grip on Stiles' wrist. “Continue on that thought.”

 

Stiles twisted in Peter’s grip, trying to figure out what Peter wanted him to see. Stiles shook his head, licking his lips anxiously.

 

“He tried to make me angry. Push you away from me. Get you hurt.”

 

“No!”

 

“He knows what he’s doing Stiles. It’s not the first time that he’s known that you would get hurt for what he said,” Peter said running a finger along the lines on Stiles' palm. Stiles remembered that belting. His dad had asked all sorts of questions about him coming home, about Peter’s mental state, about the murders. “And now he's made you give away information on our location. By playing you. Even though he knows that it will get you hurt.” Peter took a deep breath, letting go of Stiles’ wrist and instead holding his waist, pulling Stiles’ back into his chest. “I think we need to take a break from your dad. A little distance. Until we’re both more capable of handling him.”

 

Tears leaked out from the corners of Stiles' eyes and Peter kissed them away. Stiles let out a choked sob. “You always do that.” Peter sighed into Stiles' neck. “Okay... Give me the phone,” Stiles said. Peter backed off and retrieved the phone.

 

“Stiles?”

 

“Dad, I...” Stiles slumped down the wall and ran his hand through his hair. He looked up at Peter. “Can we at least pretend I'm alone for a few seconds, illusion of privacy, something?” Stiles snarled. Peter's eyes narrowed. Stiles took a breath and shook his head. “Sorry. Sorry, please... this is hard enough,” he said looking into Peter's eyes. Peter nodded and stepped outside.

 

“Stiles?”

 

“You were fishing for information,” Stiles said getting up and locking the door.

 

He could hear his dad sigh. “I'm sorry. It sounded like he wasn't listening too closely. I took a risk.

 

“That's not your decision to make dad. I get to decide when it's worth the risk, not you,” Stiles breathed a heavy sigh and moved through to the bathroom, locking that door as well. “I know you're worried about how long this is taking, okay. I know everything you know about kidnapping cases, remember when I got obsessed with them when I was little?”

 

The Sheriff let out a dry chuckle. “You freaked your mom out more than once.”

 

“I miss her.”

 

“I miss you.”

 

Stiles turned around and looked at the bathroom. Tiny little thing. A shower stall. Sink. Toilet.

 

Stiles took a deep breath in and braced himself for the urge that usually swept his body. The blank denial that filled his mind, the feeling of his skin being too tight, of everything being too much, the overwhelming need to just get it out of his system…

 

It never came.

 

“We're in a motel ten miles from a town called Warland or Windland or something. We've been heading North East. He definitely has a destination in mind. It's a silver car.  Ford. Licence plate -”

 

Peter tore the door off its hinges. Stiles froze.

 

“Five, Alpha, Tango -”

 

Peter grabbed the phone from Stiles' hand and hung up. Then threw the phone against the wall, smashing it into pieces, Stiles flinched and tried to back away but the bathroom was too small.

 

“Why did you do that?” Peter asked calmly, red eyes blazing.

 

“Peter, please -”

 

“No,” Peter said taking Stiles thighs and pushing him up onto the sink, pushing inbetween his spread legs. “You don't get to say 'please' or 'sorry' or 'I couldn't help it' or whatever other excuse you have rolling around in that head of yours.”

 

Stiles' fingers clung to the edge of the sink. “I wasn't going to say sorry,” Stiles ground out not looking at Peter. Peter ran his claws over Stiles lips and Stiles’ heart lurched.

 

“You know for such a clever boy, you are so damn mouthy,” Peter said yanking his chin down and covering Stiles' mouth with his own. Stiles opened his mouth and kissed him back, furiously trying to appease Peter’s anger. Peter pulled him off the sink and shoved him into the shower unit.

 

“Wait! What -”

 

Peter picked up the door he tore off the bathroom hinges and wedged it between the shower door and the wall. Stiles put his hand against the shower door and pushed. It didn't budge. Stiles stared at Peter through the glass.

 

“I wonder what would happen if I bit you and left you here,” Peter started. “It would take them a day or so to actually find you, the full moon would be up by then. You might even rip your father apart when he came to 'rescue' you.”

 

“Come on, we both know that's not how it works,” Stiles replied a little shaky. “Besides, after you bit me you wouldn't want to leave me behind. Pack building, you said that.”

 

“So eager to accompany me now?” Peter asked eyebrow raised.

 

“I want to be human, Peter. Please let me be human,” Stiles whispered, clawing half-heartedly at the plexi-glass.

 

“There's no chance of that any more. Now that I know I can't trust you. I’ll need to bite you to keep you.”

 

Stiles' heart dropped as he saw crazy red bleed back into Peter’s irises. “I'm going to a car dealership. Don’t do anything foolish.”

 

- - - - - - - -

 

It wasn’t much later when Stiles woke up to the sound of the car pulling up outside, but it was still after midnight. He held his breath as Peter opened the door up, bracing himself for the worse, but then he heard laughing.

 

Peter had someone with him.

 

Stiles uncurled from where he had wound himself up in the corner of the shower unit after exhausting all possible options of escape. He strained his ears to hear what was going on but could only make out muffled noises. Who was Peter with? Why was he here? Was Peter making pack? Why now? What about him? Were both of them going to hurt him?

 

The laughing and talking noises soon changed into moans and Stiles rolled his eyes. Sex. Peter brought home a rent boy. Or just picked him up from a bar or something. Stiles slumped back down onto the shower floor and rested his head against the glass, closing his eyes. He would be alright for a short while now, he could afford to rest.

 

The bed creaked in the familiar way and Stiles tried to sleep through it. Until the screaming started.

 

Stiles shot up to his feet, terrified. “Peter?” Stiles called. He banged on the wall of the shower. “Peter! What the hell are you doing? Peter!”

 

Stiles didn't know how long the screaming went on for, or the whimpers of pain after that, but he could tell when whomever it was had died. When Peter came through, what seemed an age later, he was naked, and soaked in blood and... were those pieces of flesh?

 

Stiles felt himself going numb as Peter lifted the door away from the cubicle and opened up the shower. Stiles backed into the corner as Peter stared at Stiles intently. Peter lifted a hand and pressed it against Stiles’ cheek. Stiles closed his eyes and tried to hold back the impending panic attack. Peter dropped his thumb over Stiles’ lip pulling it down and smearing blood along his mouth. Stiles started shaking but couldn’t open his eyes.

 

“When your dad shows up here, he’s going to think that’s you,” Peter said softly. Stiles could feel his tears as they rolled down his cheeks. Peter leaned forward and practically bit the tears from his face, Stiles flinched, pressing himself further into the corner. “He’s going to blame himself, be in complete turmoil, utter grief, at least until he gets the blood report back and finds out it’s not you I’ve pulverised and cut up into little pieces.” Peter nudged his nose under Stiles’ chin and tilted his head back. “He’ll be so relieved, and unbearably guilty. You’re never going to see him, or speak to him, again. He’ll forever wonder…”

 

Peter stepped away and left the room. Stiles opened his eyes slowly, the words sinking in. His dad. His dad was going to think that he was dead, ripped apart. Even after the blood works came back dad would always think the worst, always think –

 

Peter was standing in front of him now, fully dressed, all trace of blood gone, with rope in hand, tying his wrists together lightly.

 

“You can’t.”

 

Peter continued to wind the rope along his arms.

 

“Peter please,” Stiles sobbed. “He’ll kill himself. He will he…” Stiles felt more than saw the black spots starting to obscure his vision as the oxygen supply to his brain was cut off. He couldn’t breathe. Why should he breathe? If he was dead there was no reason to breathe. No need to breathe. If dad thought he was dead why shouldn’t he be dead?

 

Peter roared in Stiles’ face, making the shower unit rattle. He startled Stiles into breathing normally once more, then began pulling him out of the shower unit by the rope. Stiles dug his feet in.

 

“I will never forgive you,” Stiles spat, pulling on an anger he hadn’t felt in such a long time. “Never.

 

Peter stopped and turned to look at Stiles.

 

“What would you give me?”

 

Stiles blinked. “What?”

 

“What would you give me, for the chance to say goodbye?”

 

“What do I have? Peter, I’ve got nothing. Please my dad,” Stiles sobbed sinking to the floor.

 

Peter slowly crouched down and gathered Stiles up into his arms, gently shushing him as Stiles snortled and sniffled into Peter’s chest.

 

“If I give you one last message for you father, will you promise me to never ask to contact him again?”

 

Stiles took a deep breath in.

 

“I promise.”

Chapter Text

John stepped hollowly past the field officers who were securing the scene, flashing his badge at the man at the door. Technically John Stilinski should be nowhere near the joint task force that had been set up – but the FBI had a hard time keeping him away. The phone calls had sealed the deal, keeping the old sheriff of Beacon Hills with them was better than trying to investigate without him. John was exceedingly relieved by that fact.

 

Even if it did mean he had to work with an asshole.

 

“John. It’s not pretty.”

 

John blinked at Agent McCall. “Nothing ever is.”

 

Agent McCall nodded and stepped aside, letting John step into the motel room.

 

Blood.

 

Blood up the walls. Blood on the floor.

 

John took a step back reeling. The focus point seemed to be the bed. John stepped forwards. A body.

 

“Is it…” John couldn’t get the words out. “Stiles. Is it -”

 

“We don’t know yet. We can’t… we haven’t been able to identify the body yet.”

 

John forced himself to look. The body had been pulverised, beaten until the bone had mashed up with the skin. Bits of flesh were torn and lay strewn across the bedspread and the floor. John turned away. He couldn’t tell who it was either. Couldn’t recognise anything about the body, but he doubted that meant much. Not when it was so disfigured.

 

It could still be someone else. It could still -

 

“Sir?”

 

“Yes, agent?” McCall replied.

 

“We’ve found something.”

 

John’s heart went into overdrive as he followed the agent outside to the van. A phone was plugged in to a laptop, Stiles’ face was on the screen.

 

“Stiles,” John breathed out, unable to conceal his distress.

 

The field agent on the laptop looked up. “Uh yeah,” she said. “We found the phone in the bathroom sink. Completely empty – probably a factory restore or reset on the dead victim’s phone. This is the only thing on it. The video is addressed to his dad. He says -”

 

“Play the video.”

 

The agent blinked. “Uhm, yeah.”

 

“And clear out as well. Give the man some privacy,” Agent McCall said.

 

“Uh, I -”

 

“This is Sheriff Stilinski. He’s the father.”

 

“Oh. Um. Right,” the woman said typing at the laptop. “Okay, just press the space bar.”

 

The agents cleared out of the van and the sheriff settled himself down in front of the screen. Stiles’ face was taking up the majority of it. The Sheriff sat for a few moments looking at Stiles for the first time in weeks. For the first time that wasn’t from CCTV and surveillance in… six months.

 

His hair was longer. Face looked… gaunt? Sunken? Lips were chapped. Spots on his chin. Bruise on his cheek. Blood on his face.

 

But he was there. He was right there. He still looked like his Stiles. He was there. Whole. In one piece. His baby.

 

The Sheriff took a deep breath to stave off his panic. Stiles wasn’t dead.

 

He wasn’t.

 

The Sheriff clicked play.

 

Dad, it’s not me. Okay? The body in the bedroom isn’t me.” The Sheriff let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, he nearly laughed in relief. “It’s not me. I’m okay... Well…” Stiles rolled his eyes and shifted. “I’m probably really far from okay. I’m sorry.” Stiles swallowed and looked away, John’s eyes were glued to the screen – drinking in every movement Stiles made, every expression that crossed his face. “I’m sorry I butted my way into the investigation. I’m sorry that he took me and I’m not home with you. I’m sorry I didn’t listen. I’m sorry if I’ve ever been a pain.” Stiles looked directly into the camera lens. John felt his heart contract staring into the eyes his wife had. “I need you to do something for me, dad. Something important, and I’m sorry to ask this from you as well but…” Stiles shifted again and the sheriff noticed there was something weird about it, he was sitting in an odd position. “I need you to go home. I need you to go home and stop looking.” Tears started to run down Stiles’ face, but Stiles paid them no attention. “I think we both know that if you haven’t caught up to us yet, you won’t. The phone calls are going to stop. He says he can’t trust me. He’s not going to let me… I mean this might be the last you hear from me. This might be it.

 

The silence held on for a few minutes. John could see the wheels in Stiles’ head turning, could practically feel the way Stiles was only just realising the implications of what he’s said. This was goodbye. And they had only both just realised it.

 

I need to be able to picture you at the grill when it’s your turn for the annual barbeque. I need to be able to imagine you double parking my jeep in the driveway or trying to fix the washer. I need you to keep living your life and… I need to know if I call you’ll pick up the phone. I’m sorry to put that burden on you. I’m sorry I can’t just say I’m dead it’s over, here have some closure. I’m sorry that I’m asking you to live with a ghost but I don’t know what else to say.

 

Stiles bit at his lips. “Peter says that I’m not allowed to contact you. I’m not allowed to ask to contact you. He’s… uh, he’s been making noises. About settling down,” Stiles snorts and shakes his head a little, a small smile creeping at the corners of his mouth. “I’m going to be on one of those reality tv shows. Sixteen and settling down with my homicidal boyfriend.” Stiles fidgeted, sighing. “I think I’m much better now. With like, the eating thing. I’ve been hitting my targets. Keeping my meals down. Actually focusing on what I’m eating and stuff so…” Tears are running down Stiles’ face again now. “I’m trying to say I’ll be okay, dad. Peter loves me. And yeah, it’s not healthy or whatever, but we both know the danger in these kinds of relationships happen after you leave, or try to leave. And Peter…” Stiles looks off to his right. “Peter’s already punished us for that,” he whispered. “I’m going to be fine. I’m going to be alive and well and… I think sometimes I’ll even be happy.

 

Stiles was distracted. His head turned away, staring at something – someone off camera. Stiles said something, it was distorted.

 

Do you remember watching movies on Saturday nights? It’s the one thing we kept doing even after mom… Robin Williams was always my favourite. Genie from Aladdin. Mrs. Doubtfire. Bicentennial Man. Toys. Flubber… I’m sure you remember better than me. Peter doesn’t watch movies. I watch them by myself and then he complains when he doesn’t understand my references. I… I’m going to miss you. I love you. I love you so much dad. We didn’t say that last time, and it’s not anyone’s fault because we both know, but if it’s my last chance to get to say it - I love you. I love you dad and I know we both wish things could be different but they’re not so. I love you. I love you. I’m sorry, I love you.

 

The Sheriff sat staring at the computer screen for a long time, watching the small video over and over again. Soaking in the way Stiles sounded, the quirk in his mouth, the fear in his eyes.

 

He was aware of other people around him, moving back and forth in the van, watching the video, discussing roadblocks and press conferences and cars. The Sheriff just sat, unable to really process. He’d been moving from place to place clinging onto a thin strand of hope that he’d find Stiles and now he was being told – being asked – to stop.

 

The last time he stopped he lost himself at the bottom of a whiskey bottle.

 

“Stilinski?”

 

“Hook.”

 

“Excuse me?” Agent McCall replied, with a slight twinge of snark.

 

“It’s a Robin Williams movie. He didn’t mention it. He listed all the others but… we were talking about it. The other week. He’s telling me that he’s not forgotten. He’s going to try and come home.”

 

Agent McCall stared at him for a moment in the patronising way he does, but for once John didn’t care. He had reached the end of his tether. He was used up. Stiles had given him a message that only he would understand, a promise. A promise contingent on Stiles being able to find him.

 

John Stilinski had to go home.