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When Stiles goes back in time to save Paige and stop Gerard, he doesn't expect Peter Hale. Young Peter's smooth and sneaky and just as creepy as ever, and even more straightforward about what he wants. It's not comforting.


Stiles is oh so subtly trying to spy on Paige and Derek when someone yanks him into an empty classroom. "Hey-" Stiles starts to whisper-shout, but then the door shuts and Stiles's face is slammed down against a desk.


"What do you think you're doing?" Peter's voice hisses in his ear -which, really, fantastic; the first time Stiles had seen him, Peter had already been watching him, and Stiles has spent the last few days avoiding him like the plague.


"Jeez," Stiles complains, ignoring the still-human fingernails digging into his scalp. "I transfer to a new school and I'm already being assaulted. Really?"


The pressure on the back of his head and neck lessens, and Stiles jerks upward. He dusts himself off with a scowl and looks up.


Peter's leaning against one of the desks, his fingertips tracing aimlessly across the surface. He looks up through his eyelashes at Stiles. "You're not a transfer student." He lifts his chin, nostrils flaring, and takes a step forward. Stiles holds his ground. "Your name isn't even Scott, is it?" Peter says, crowding into Stiles's space.


Stiles blinks and tries to take a step back, only to nearly trip over the desk. He scratches the back of his neck, saying "I don't -you have no idea what you're talking about."


Peter's fingers wrap around Stiles wrist. Stiles's pulse leaps, and Peter grins. The werewolf leans in. "You smell like me."


Stiles swallows and starts to shake his head, but Peter just leans in even closer, breath hot on Stiles's face. "I like it," he murmurs, and then he's pulling Stiles into a kiss. It's hot and dirty, and before Stiles realizes it Peter's tongue is exploring his mouth.


Peter pulls back, Stiles's lips chasing after his. He smirks. "What's your name?"


Stiles's mouth snaps shut, and he pulls back, gaze hard and determined. Peter just smirks, one hand sliding down to cup Stiles's tented jeans while the other fists Stiles's hair and tugs his head back. Peter licks a stripe up Stiles's throat. "Tell me," he demands, pressing down on Stiles's pants.


Stiles's jaw tightens, and Peter presses down harder, making him gasp.


The hand in Stiles's hair slips to the back of his neck, claws biting into Stiles's skin, just shy of drawing blood. "Come on," Peter whispers, lips brushing against the other boy's cheek.


Stiles's eyes flutter shut, and he takes a deep breath, and Peter can practically taste the way the name's going to fall from those lips, soft and reluctant and hungry-


But then the boy's shoving Peter away and tripping to the door, desks scraping loudly against the floor. "I don't know what you're talking about," he says one last time, breathless and furious, and God, how Peter wants. And then the boy's gone, slamming the door shut behind him.


Peter smiles.






Peter's outside the distillery spying on the adults when movement flickers out of the corner of his eye. He turns his head to the side and stares into the darkness, and there, at the other end of the distillery crouching in the shadows, is his boy. Peter sniffs the air, but all he can smell is forest and dust and the long faded scent of alcohol. He cocks his head to the side. This mystery just keeps getting better and better.






Stiles waits for the packs to leave before he dares to move. He starts to stand up and freezes, wincing. "Jesus," he groans, flexing his calves and rolling his ankles.


"That's what happens when you lurk for hours on end," a voice drawls from behind him.


"Holy shit!" Stiles jumps up, whipping out a knife and settling into a fighting stance, knees slightly bent, one foot shifted forward. He eases slightly at the sight of Peter. "What the hell are you doing here?"


Peter raises his eyebrows. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours."


Stiles's face flattens, and his stance eases further. "You did not just say that."


Peter grins. "Too cheesy?" He asks, sounding genuinely concerned.


A grin tugs at Stiles's lips in response. He's missed this. "Too cheesy," he confirms. Peter takes a step forward, opening his mouth to speak, but Stiles cuts him off, looking pointedly between Peter's feet and his face. "I have a knife," he tells the werewolf.


Peter looks unimpressed. "I have fangs," he says, canines elongating. He takes another step forward, and Stiles steps back, back bumping into the wall of the distillery. "But you already knew that, didn't you?"


Stiles holds the knife threateningly, but he knows he won't use it. Not unless this Peter actually does something dangerous. And after everything the older Peter's done back in his time, Stiles knows this Peter won't do anything. Not unless he thinks Stiles is a threat. And not while Stiles has so much of his attention.


Peter reaches out carefully, slowly, and his fingertips ghost up the blade of the knife. "Wolfsbane infused.... Interesting." Stiles inhales, and he wonders.... This Peter's so much younger than the one he knows; they're basically the same age now, and Stiles can't help but think about how the two Peters are different. Stiles's is older, broken, burnt and hardened inside in more ways than one. This one is younger, obviously, but he's just as manipulative, it seems, and his curiosity now is so much more, so much purer, and he's suspicious, but not so suspicious as to murder in the name of 'just in case'. Is it wrong that Stiles misses the older one?


Peter's fingers slide down the blade to rest on Stiles's pulse. "Penny for your thoughts?"


"How about no," Stiles snaps, tugging the knife back and slipping it back into its sheath. He pushes past Peter, pointedly avoiding eye contact.


Peter walks with him. "You never did tell me your name."


Stiles glances at him from the corner of his eye. "You didn't tell me why you were at the distillery. Or at the high school."


Peter shrugs. "I was checking in on my investments."


"Your investments?" Stiles can't help but ask before mentally beating himself over the head for not keeping his mouth shut.


Peter shrugs, smirking. "So what were you doing?"


Stiles grins, spying his car in the forest preserve parking lot. "Same as you. Checking in on my investments."


Peter drops his head to the side to pointedly side-eye Stiles. "Really?"


Stiles grins, returning the look. "Really, really." He reaches his car, an old Impala, and unlocks it, but before he can open it he's being whirled around and slammed up against the door, Peter's hand wrapped around his throat.


"I like you," Peter says, voice lowered and eyes burning yellow, "But from now on you're going to stay away from my family, or I'm going to tear you apart."


"I can't promise you that," Stiles says, unfazed. This isn't the first time he's been slammed up against something by a werewolf trying to make a point, and it definitely won't be the last.


Peter's fingers tighten around his throat, but Stiles doesn't react. The werewolf pulls his face away, eyeing Stiles calculatingly. "And why is that?"


"Because your family's the reason I'm here."


Peter's fingers tighten again, and Stiles whispers hoarsely, angrily, "I'm here to save them."


His heart rate's even, unchanging.


Peter pulls back and loosens his grip until his hand is just resting on Stiles's neck. "What's your name?" he asks again, his voice soft and curious.


Stiles side-steps him and opens the car door, smiling softly. He slips into the driver's seat, looking up at Peter. "I can't tell you that."






Stiles knocks out Deucalion and his pack with a weak wolfsbane gas and goes to the distillery when Deucalion promised to meet Gerard.


Stiles hides in the rafters, an old video-recorder in his hands, and he films Gerard as he kills his own men.


Stiles hadn't taken the gas into consideration.


Stiles wakes up in a chair, his leg screaming in pain, his veins on fire, and the gas spraying on his face. His eyes burn and he scrunches them shut.


"Finally, you're awake," Gerard says over the hiss of the gas, and Stiles groans. Not again.






Peter leaves Argent on the floor unconscious and frantically drags the boy out, trying to block out his screams. He leans the boy against the distillery wall. "I'm sorry," Peter says as he pulls off the cloth wrapped around his mouth. It was a horrible gas mask; he's already feeling light-headed, but at least it gave him time to knock Argent out and save the boy. At least, he hopes he's saved the boy. The blood, moaning, and erratic heartbeat are all pretty bad signs. He pulls out his flip phone and speed-dials Talia.


The boy coughs hoarsely, eyes fluttering. "Peter?" he moans. "What-" he breaks out into a coughing fit.


Peter smiles. "You know my name."


Somehow, throughout all the coughing, the boy manages to roll his eyes.






Stiles wakes up to the feeling of fingers brushing through his hair. He feels like he's been hit by a tsunami. He groans.


The fingers pause, and the pain fades away.


Stiles lets himself sink into the bed, warm and comfortable, and the fingers brushing through his hair lull him back to sleep.






Next time Stiles wakes up, he's interrogated by Talia Hale.


She is terrifying.


She also gives the best hugs.


Stiles worships the very ground she walks on.






Peter's asleep at his bedside. Frankly, it's adorable. But not adorable enough to keep Stiles from getting up and using the bathroom.


When he slips back into bed and he's just on the verge of falling asleep once more, he hears Peter say, "You never did tell me your name."


Stiles smiles. "It's Stiles," he mumbles, and then he's out.






Peter's in the living room working on Calculus homework when Stiles walks in and swipes his Reese's cup. "Hey!" Peter shouts and promptly tackles him to the couch.


Stiles blinks up at him. "Woah," he says around a mouthful of chocolate, peanut buttery goodness.


Peter glares down at him. "Those are my favorite."


Stiles swallows and smacks his lips cheekily. "So?"


Peter's lips twitch upward. "I don't think you understand, Stiles. Those are my favorite." He leans in, mouth brushing against Stiles's. "I want it back."


And then his lips are attacking Stiles's, and his tongue is thrusting into Stiles's mouth, sweeping every corner of it, and Stiles's hands are buried in his hair, pulling him closer, and Peter's grinding down, and-




Peter pauses and pulls away, looking up. Derek's standing in the doorway, the whites of his eyes showing, and Laura's grinning like a shark. "Go away," Peter tells them.


Derek bolts up the staircase without a second thought, and Laura eyes Stiles before looking up at Peter. She nods at him in approval. "Nice one."


Peter growls. "Go. Away."


Laura smirks and saunters into the kitchen, leaving her bag by the door.


Peter sighs and looks back down at Stiles. "Sorry about that."


Stiles's smile is practically glowing. "It's no problem."






"Do you miss him?" Peter asks, forehead pressed against Stiles's.


Stiles's eyes dart away. "...Sometimes. But..."


Peter waits patiently.


Stiles breathes in deeply and meets Peter's gaze, pressing against him more closely, his hand resting against the werewolf's chest. "We were never... anything. And he was... he wasn't sane."


"I'm not sane," Peter can't help but say.


Stiles grins like they share a secret. "Yeah, I know," he says, laughter in his voice. He sobers quickly. "But you're.... There was something inside of him that was dead, always dead, even when he came back, and you...." Stiles kisses him, soft and close-mouthed. "You're alive." He stares at Peter in wonder, almost as if he's still in disbelief.


Peter closes the gap between them and kisses him, soft and achingly slow, thorough and exact.


When the kiss ends, Stiles pulls back and looks Peter in the eyes. "If I had to do it all over again, I would," he promises, voice warm and firm, heart rate steady.


Peter smiles. "I know."