Chapter Text
Peter was about as happy with this plan as he was with the prospect of having his tongue removed with a pliers. He was sat in the loft with a scowl on his face, arms crossed angrily over his chest while the girls all fussed around Stiles’ hair.
“Is this really necessary?” Stiles asked, referring to their petting rather than the primary objective of their scheme. Peter knew that Stiles wouldn’t complain about the plan, not now – the boy was too certain that it would work to abandon it now.
“We’re just trying to make you look pretty,” Lydia answered, tucking a small spike to the left and then, deciding that that wasn’t quite right, back to the right.
“But I’m always pretty,” Stiles replied, after a beat. “Aren’t I?”
“Of course you are, sweetie,” Allison interjected, squeezing Stiles’ cheeks between her hands. “But we’re going to make you even prettier, okay?”
Stiles rolled his eyes, clearly enjoying the attention, albeit secretly, and Peter had to excuse himself before he saw any more. He wasn’t interested in watching Stiles get ready, he wasn’t remotely in agreement with the plan, and he didn’t want to sit around and watch while Stiles got himself mauled by some other wolf.
The beast in Peter couldn’t allow it.
.
Three hours later and the plan had gone off without a hitch. Deucalion was dead, as were what remained of his pack of Alphas, and the team was positively glowing. Even Derek – moody, guilty, perpetually-frowning Derek – was almost looking pleased with the outcome.
And it was all because of Stiles.
Stiles, who with his pretty face and slender frame was exactly the right bait for the Alpha. Stiles, who with an innocent scent and a curious smile was the first person Deucalion picked out of the crowd.
Stiles smells like him, Peter thought. It was driving the wolf in him insane. Stiles smelled like Deucalion smelled, like Deucalion’s interest, like Deucalion’s arousal. Peter had noticed it as soon as Scott’s strange little pack had returned, and he couldn’t understand how it wasn’t driving all of them crazy as well.
Peter wished that Stiles would have a shower. He wished that he could grab Stiles by the arm and throw him under the water himself. He wanted to scrub every trace of Deucalion away from Stiles’ skin, and replace the Alpha’s scent with his own.
Peter clenched his fists where he sat on the staircase. I can’t do that, he thought, as his wolf howled in protest. His instincts were there, begging him to claim what was his, but the man in him had to resist. There was no way to claim Stiles, just as there was no way to claim anyone else without their permission.
Once, Peter may have ignored the man. Once, he may have marched up to Stiles right then and there, in front of everyone, and bitten his wrist. Once, he might have claimed Stiles as his own in front of an audience, for Stiles’ embarrassment as well as for everyone else’s understanding.
But now? Now, looking at Stiles, Peter couldn’t ignore the man. He couldn't ruin his chances, not before they were even truly there, and so, for the second time that night, Peter removed himself from the room before he could do something he would regret.
.
No one else noticed when Peter walked away. Stiles couldn’t blame them. Even without a werewolf’s senses, he could smell their victory, and he knew like he knew his own name that there would be no distracting them tonight.
Setting down his drink, Stiles stood, not needing to excuse himself as he headed for the stairs. He didn’t know why Peter had left – why he wasn’t as pleased as the rest of them – and it was something that his curious nature was not ready to leave a lonely mystery.
Stiles didn’t have to guess where Peter would be. There was a room in Derek’s loft that was, in Stiles’ mind at least, entirely theirs. It was the library, stacked to burst with books that both Peter and Stiles had collected over the years. Every time they found something of interested, be it supernatural or otherwise, they brought it here and studied it together. It was one of Stiles’ favourite thing to do – talking about the supernatural in such an intellectual sense was something that Stiles could only ever do with Peter – and as such, this room was one of Stiles’ favourites in the whole house.
Tapping his knuckles gently at the door, Stiles wandered in. Peter’s spine straightened immediately, his shoulders stiffening, and Stiles wondered what was wrong.
He said, “I didn’t peg you as the kind to avoid a celebration.”
“Alas,” Peter replied, “there must be more of my nephew in me than I had hoped.”
“No,” Stiles said, “you’re not the type to punish yourself. I would have expected you to live on the intoxicated states of your acquaintances. People are always so willing to tell you their weaknesses when their blood alcohol percentage is climbing.”
“So you’re assuming that my heart has grown too soft for such manipulations in my old age?”
“Old age?” Stiles asked. “What are you, thirty four? People older than that have played high-schoolers, dude.” He paused, then, remembering all of the times that he’d had to tell his father the same thing, and said, “It’s not your birthday, is it?”
Peter snorted, flicking his book shut, and turned. “No, Stiles,” he said. “It’s not my birthday. But thank you for panicking at the notion of forgetting it.”
“You’re very welcome,” Stiles replied. Moving further into the room, his fingers gliding over the finger-worn spines of the books, he took a seat in the armchair opposite Peter’s. “So,” he said, “if it’s not your tender heart or your imputed sin, then what is it? Why are you up here all by yourself?”
“Why are you?”
“I followed you, man,” Stiles said, leaning back in his chair. “I’m not the one being questioned here.”
“So why am I?” Peter asked. He looked like he was dodging the question, and only appeared more at fault from the fact that he couldn’t meet Stiles’ eyes. “Perhaps I simply wanted some quiet.”
“Oh,” Stiles said. And suddenly, he felt too warm. He was always shoving his nose in, asking questions where they weren’t wanted or warranted. He suddenly remembered that Peter and Deucalion had been friends, once, and that today, Peter had had to watch him die.
Standing, Stiles said. “Okay. I’ll leave you alone, then.” He didn’t look at Peter as he made to leave the room, and had taken only one step past the werewolf’s chair before a hand was clamping around his wrist.
Stiles spun, instantly on edge, and gasped when all he saw in front of him were Peter’s glowing eyes. His fingers were on Stiles’ wrist, his claws digging in, and Stiles clenched his fist but couldn’t bring himself to look away from Peter’s face.
“I couldn’t stay downstairs,” Peter said, “because you smell like him.”
Stiles’ throat bobbed. He glanced down, at where his skin was dimpling beneath Peter’s claws, and back up, at where Peter’s eyes were focused on his neck.
Forcing himself to breathe steadily, Stiles paused, and considered his options. He knew enough about werewolves to know what Peter was thinking, what he was feeling, but it was up to Stiles to reciprocate the thought. He could either turn away from Peter, renouncing his claim on him for good, or he could turn his throat to the sky, and accept Peter’s claim as the truth.
Meeting Peter’s glowing eyes head-on, Stiles slowly turned, and offered his throat to the wolf.
Peter’s reaction was instantaneous. He leaned forwards, the hand that wasn’t gripping Stiles’ wrist rising to the back of his neck, and buried his nose in Stiles’ throat. He breathed deeply, his eyes fluttering closed against Stiles’ skin, and Stiles stood stock-still as the wolf in Peter did its thing.
Minutes past, and Stiles endured them all. He didn’t get anything from the scenting, not in any real way, but it was enough to know that Peter did, and that the wolf did too. Stiles didn’t flinch when Peter’s head turned, when his teeth grazed Stiles’ skin, and he didn’t pull away when Peter drew him even closer and dropped his hand to Stiles’ waist.
After another minute, Peter sighed, and when he pulled away, his eyes were their usual, non-glowing shade of blue. He searched Stiles’ expression for a moment, looking for something that Stiles apparently didn’t have, because a second later, Peter let go of Stiles’ wrist and took a few steps back.
“You should shower when you get home,” Peter told him, his voice stiff and matter-of-fact. “Unless you want to smell like me and Duke for a week.” He turned away from Stiles then, picking up his book and flicking back to his page. Stiles understood his dismissal and left the room, though not before glancing back at Peter to check that he was okay.
Stiles left the party shortly after that, but not before interrogating Derek on how to remove one werewolf’s scent without disrupting another’s.