As a squirrel Stiles was always on the lookout for the safest, warmest place in a room; and right now what looked to be the safest, warmest place was a long, black, coat, belonging to Peter Hale. It was a nice, expensive coat, with a fuzzy lining, and deep pockets that he would like to burrow himself inside of. The only problem being that Peter was still wearing it – not that he really minded, many times he'd wedged himself up into one of Scotts sleeves and nestled himself down onto the crook of his elbow – but Peter was the one wearing it, and Peter certainly wasn't safe. He was warm though, and attractive. If the threat of death weren't eminent he might have tried cuddling up to him anyways.
Stiles lifted his head when it looked like Peter might be about to shrug off said coat, leaving it for him to nestle inside of. The wolf only adjusted his position on the sofa, kicking his legs up onto the table. He let out a pitiful noise that was too high pitched for anyone else to hear. Hopefully the pack meeting would be over soon, and Stiles could sulk away in the pocket of Scotts hoodie.
“What do you want, rodent?” Peter asked, looking up from his texting just long enough to shoot the whiskey-eyed boy a suspicious glance. Stiles furrowed his brows and ducked a little bit more behind the arm of the sofa. He'd been peering at Peter for well over five minutes now, and had only just been noticed. That, or Peter had just been ignoring him. The rodent comment didn't bother him; he'd been called worse, and he was a rodent.
“Your coat looks soft,” he admitted. “What's it made of?” He couldn't resist asking. He wished he could find out for himself. Peter scoffed.
“Hell if I know. Don't you have some acorns you should be burying?”
“No, they aren't in season yet,” Stiles said with a roll of his eyes, one that would make the elder Hale proud. Peter flicked his eyes back up to catch the end of it.
“Oh, well forgive me for not knowing the proper acorn season. Please, enlighten me,”
“It's not so much a season, you have to wait until the green ones start to darken, otherwise they build up in tannin which is good for energy but bad because-” he shut his mouth when Peter started to rub his temples.
“I was kidding, Stiles. I don't really care.”
“Whatever,” he mumbled, cursing the hands of fate for bestowing such a lovely, warm, jacket to such a cold, uncharitable, werewolf. If it had been Erica, Boyd, or even Isaac he'd be half asleep in layers of cloth by now. He looked longingly at the cuff of his sleeve, wondering how far up he could make it before Peter swallowed him whole. “When you die of tannin toxicity don't blame me.” Peter grunted out an acknowledgement and continued typing at his phone.
The weres in the other room continued their argument over territory, or strategy, or whatever it was they were arguing about. Stiles normally would have joined them in their squabble, bickering and chittering, and hiding behind Scott when one of them started to snarl, but then Peter had to come in wearing that stupid, stupid, coat and-
“Stiles,” Peters voice interrupted his thoughts again, he hadn't realized he'd still been starring. “If I give you my coat, will you stop looking at me like that?” Peters blue eyes met his brown ones, and Stiles face broke into a happy grin. Safe, warm, safe, warm, safe, warm, his mind chanted and he let out a happy chitter.
“Fine; then just come here and– Stiles!” Stiles didn't need to be told twice, he was already shifted into a little ball of russet-colored fur. He leapt from the table onto the floor and clambered up Peters leg, and onto the outstretched palm. He wriggled, kicked, and crawled, until he was completely enveloped in black, fluffy fabric, next to the warm skin of a very surly wolf.
“You start chewing, and I'll eat you,” Peter threatened, bending his arm carefully to rest on his chest. Stiles didn't care, he was happy, warm, and safe. He tucked his tail around himself and settled his head on top of it. The wolves skin was smooth and just a little hairy. His last thoughts before drifting off into slumber were, this feels safe.
When the meeting concluded, and still nothing had been resolved, Scott searched the room in a frenzy. Peter watched him from his peripheries with a small smile.
“Has anyone seen Stiles?” Scott asked, a tinge of panic in his voice as he checked underneath the sofa. He patted the floor like he was calling a dog. He was constantly worried his tiny beast would be stepped on, trampled, or caught in the springs of a recliner. It wasn't an unwarranted fear, Stiles was a prey animal conversing with predators. Erica always tugged on his tail, and Isaac squeezed him too tightly around the middle. Boyd was gentle with him but Peter still didn't like it. He wanted to grab him out of their hands every time and tuck him somewhere safe.
“Seen him? No,” said squirrel wiggled a little against his arm. He'd been still and sleeping since he'd nested himself down in his sleeve. “But I can feel him squirming around in my coat.”
“What? Stiles! Get out of there!” Scott snapped, eyes wide with fear, like he thought Peter might actually snack on his friend right there in front of him. Peter made no move, but Stiles, the little beast, uncurled himself and crawled out onto Peters chest. He blinked sleepy eyes, his tail bristling. He brought new meaning the the phrase 'bright eyed and bushy tailed.' Peter stroked one hand lazily from the top of his head down to the base of his tail. Stiles stretched reflexively underneath his hand, arching his back into the touch.
He yawned and stretched, blinking his black eyes up at Peter before leaping off the sofa. He shifted mid jump and hit the ground as a brown-eyed teenager. Stiles stumbled a little as his feet hit the floor, but he righted himself before he fell. Whoever said squirrels were graceful had not yet met Stiles.
“Stiles, what the hell were you doing?” Scott hissed into his ear, as if Peter couldn't hear him perfectly. Stiles blinked the sleep from his eyes.
“S'fine, Peter doesn't care,” he stretched his arms, now long and gangly, over his head. “I was sleepy. Peters warm.”
“You could have come to me, I would've gotten my hoodie from the car,” Peter smirked at the jealousy seeping into his voice. “Come to me next time, okay? Peter might eat you.”
“Nonsense, I would never eat Stiles. He's too small. Ooooh maybe I'll boil him into a broth, and use him to make stew.” Stiles was unfazed, but Scott abruptly grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him out of the loft without another word. Peter chuckled.
At the next meeting only a few days later, Peter wasn't surprised when Stiles, already shifted, jumped from Scotts shoulder to his, demanding entrance back into his coat, which he only wore to tempt the rodent back to his side. Peter smirked, looking pointedly at Scott, who pouted from across the room.