Archive of Our Own

Mornings are terrible things. They bring to light the shenanigans one can get up to the night before. Stiles can still feel the effects of the alcohol burning in his gut. His mouth is dry, his head is pounding something awful, and there’s something hard sticking into his left side. It isn’t Peter, but Stiles can’t help but snort at the brief dirty thought. 

Grumbling, Stiles reaches down and pulls whatever it is out from under him, only to discover that it’s a tire iron. “What-”

There’s a door closing outside the room, the sound of shuffling feet that are undeniably Peter moving about the apartment. He won’t come in to check on Stiles; it’s his fault for staying out so late to drink after all. He won’t be getting any pity points today. 

Stiles groans and sits up, untangling his limbs from the duvet and dropping the tire iron on the bed. He waits for the room to stop spinning before dragging himself from the safety of the mattress to the bathroom. He makes it, leaving the light off, but the door cracked, and does his business, patting himself on the back for not vomiting. He still makes sure to brush his teeth, though. 

Peter’s cooking something that smells delicious, and Stiles can’t help but smile as he pulls on a pair of gym shorts, grabs the tire iron, and heads on out towards the kitchen. Peter turns from his spot at the stove, whatever it is he’s about to say, dying on his tongue as he notes the tool in Stiles’ hand. 

“Dear, what have I said about drinking and murdering?” He asks, raising a brow as Stiles places the tire iron down on the couch nearby. 

It’s almost automatic, the monotonous response and snark, “Never while drunk, because what’s the point if you can’t remember.” He replies as if speaking a mantra he didn’t just come up with on the fly. Peter smirks, and when Stiles finally makes his way over to him, Peter grabs his chin and directs his face towards him for a kiss. 

“Mm - minty.” 

“Didn’t think you’d like the taste of inebriated regret,” Stiles mumbles against Peter’s lips. It earns him a tight grip on his jaw and a smile before Peter turns back around to resume cooking. Moving around him, Stiles starts a batch of coffee and yawns. “That’s a pretty intense breakfast,” he comments, watching Peter do what he does best. 

Peter smirks at the stove, adding ingredients he’s just finished chopping. “It’s one in the afternoon.” He replies, and Stiles groans as he leans forward on the counter, the water in the coffee machine starting to bubble up. 

He didn’t think it was that late. “I guess I’ll head on in to work then,” Stiles mumbles, leaving the coffee machine going as he trudges back towards the bedroom. It’s going to be a late-night, that’s for sure, so he takes a quick but well-deserved, hot shower to prepare for it. 

It’s hard not to linger afterward, though, wiping away the condensation on the mirror as he steps out from behind the glass shower door. He means to dry his hair and fix it up a bit before getting dressed, but Stiles stops short at his reflection. The night before really had done a number on him — if the bruise forming around his right eye was any indication. He really needed to stop getting into fistfights with guys a lot bigger than him. 

Stiles moves his head from side to side, checking out the bruises and bite marks on his neck that Peter had left behind a few nights ago. Some were starting to turn yellow, and he’d have to fix that. Maybe tonight with some Chinese food and a movie. Peter was always a sucker for a nice black and white oldie. 

Luckily, there was never any damage done to the parts of himself that had been tattooed, the most recent and largest one spanning down his throat and across his chest. 

It helps cover scars Stiles got tired of seeing. 

One quick check on the small rings in his bottom lip and the one in his left eyebrow, and Stiles is good to go. He gives his hair a once over, not really styling it, just ruffling it enough to manage the mess. He misses his buzz some days, but he likes the shaggy look too. 

~~

The perks of running one’s own business means Stiles can technically be late at any time, or at least he used to be able to. A few years back, when it was just him, the shop, a small new-age storefront that sells everything needed under the sun for the supernatural community – and those who aren’t who stumble in from time to time to buy incense and browse – had been easier to handle. 

It was new; not a lot of people were aware of it. So most of Stiles’ days were spent idling around inside. But after a bit of time, word started to spread locally that he was there to help those who needed wards of protection, copies of the bestiary he knew by heart, or ingredients for potions or a special tea. Stiles eventually needed some help.

“Afternoon, Ramona,” Stiles calls out upon entering through the back door of the shop. It leads to the trash bins in the alley where Stiles parks his car.

Ramona – blessed, sacred Ramona – pops her curly head up from the book she’s nose deep in to smile at Stiles as he comes up behind the counter. “Busy morning, boss?” She replies, and Stiles huffs a sigh. “Ooh, busy night?” She corrects, catching sight of Stiles’ bruising eye. 

He smiles because Ramona is great. She’s the only employee he has, and even then, he’d lucked out with hiring her. She spent most of her days in the shop as a customer or a frequent guest for the library in the back –the room not privy to people who weren’t in the know of the supernatural. Stiles had been struggling with running the shop by himself and decided on a whim to offer her a job. 

Safe to say, she happily accepted. 

“Yeah,” Stiles gruffs out. He doesn’t mean to sound so tired, but Ramona hops up from her stool to pour him a cup of hot tea. It’ll be the lemony kind he likes so much, a hint of mint, and just the extra boost he needs to get through his hangover. Ramona made sure to catalog Stiles’ various drink habits on her second day of work. “Thanks,” he grins as she slides the cup over to him on the counter with a wink. 

He sets a bag down on a shelf nearby and sips his tea. “Anyone been in today?”

“Just a few,” She mentions, already grabbing her stuff to pack up for the day. Her shift ended like three hours ago. Stiles makes a mental note to pay her double for her trouble and then tries really hard not to laugh at his own joke. “Oh, so I can pick up Saturday’s evening shift if you’d like.” She’s already heading towards the front door, ready to dip without the explanation Stiles is already assuming.  

He sighs and sets his cup down. “She canceled again?” 

Ramona shuffles awkwardly at the door, gripping the handle of the bag she has lying across her body. “She’s busy,” She replies, peering back over her shoulder. 

Stiles wants to say things, but he’s been there before, making excuses for people he’s cared about. The truth may be what she needs to hear, but he understands it’s not always wanted. “I can still take it if you want to go out and do something. It’s Saturday, isn’t that what you youngins do on Saturday nights?” 

There’s light laughter shared between them because while Ramona may be young, she’s older than Stiles by a few years. It’s hard to remember that sometimes, by both of them. Stiles has a bad habit of seeming older than twenty-five, even on his best days. The drinking doesn’t help; the smoking definitely doesn’t. 

“I’d rather be here,” She replies, and together they work it out before Ramona leaves. Stiles settles in and unpacks a few powdered ingredients needed for a particular order. 

~~

“Shit,” Stiles picks up the keys he’s dropped, trying to lock up the shop for the night. He’s running a bit late, having lost track of time while cataloging a shipment of yarrow they received the other day. It hadn’t been a busy day, so he managed to spend most of it in the back, dusting the shelves of the small library and taking breaks out front, leaning up in front of the doors, smoking. 

It wasn’t the best habit to have; it’s probably one of the worst, but it helps pass the time. 

Locking up the front and then the back as he leaves, Stiles takes a minute to light up again before climbing into his car. Peter wasn’t too happy with the smell stinking up his own car, so he bought Stiles his own. Peter rarely rides in it, but when he does, Stiles gives it a deep clean beforehand. 

Food? Check. Movie? Also check. 

Stiles smiles as he enters the apartment, grateful that it’s so late Mrs. Carter, their neighbor, isn’t out to ask him questions or deter him from his romantic evening. It's quiet inside, the television set on a low hum as Peter lounges on the couch in gray sweatpants and a tee.

Just as quietly, or at least he hopes so, Stiles sets down his keys in the key-bowl, toes his shoes off and stuffs them in their own tiny shoe cubby, and removes his hoodie to hang it on the coat hanger hanging on the back of the door. He rounds the couch and sets the take-out on the coffee table before flopping himself down next to Peter. 

There doesn’t seem to be anything of interest tonight, what with the way Peter is channel surfing. Stiles looks over at him, sees that he’s not really even watching it, and scooches up next to him. “Peter?” It’s rare, but nights, or even days like these, happen. Peter will get quiet, won’t exchange snarky comments or witty rhetoric. He’ll just be around Stiles, with whatever he’s doing in the apartment, be it laundry or doing the dishes; hell, even when he falls asleep on the couch, Peter will just be in the same room, reading a book or lost in his thoughts, a hand on his leg or arm. 

At first, Stiles worried it was something more than what it was, but after a while, Stiles understood. There were days when he just wanted to be near Peter too. 

Peter sighs and looks at him, smiling and shuffling closer. Stiles leans up to kiss him, and Peter pulls on him until he’s up and straddling his lap. “I brought food and a movie home….” Stiles mumbles into their shared space. Peter doesn’t waste time shutting him up, though, leaning up to kiss him, to pull him back down against him. Guess food will have to wait. 

Stiles melts against him because Peter still makes his bones soft like putty and his dick hard as a rock, even after five years. It doesn’t take too long for both to simultaneously happen, not when Peter is nipping at Stiles’ bottom lip or tucking his hands in the back of his jeans to grab at his ass. 

Peter flips them over on the couch, pinning Stiles to the cushions and slotting himself between his thighs. “I need to shower,” Stiles says between Peter peppering kisses along his jaw, down his neck. He can’t help the groan he makes when Peter starts sucking a bruise along his shoulder as he pulls on the collar of his shirt.

“I don’t care,” Peter mumbles, and he must mean it. Stiles is usually a bundle of offense to Peter’s sense of smell when he gets home. Working all day around plants and herbs that could be harmful to him or simply stink tends to stick to him, but he was pawing at Stiles' clothes now, mouth and nose pressing against his skin as if he can’t get enough of the way he tastes. Luckily he hadn’t worked with any wolfsbane today. It’s always locked up tight in the back and only sold to those Stiles can trust aren’t using it in nefarious ways. It’s a small list. 

Stiles scoots up just enough to pull his shirt off, tossing it somewhere unimportant. All that matters is Peter’s hands are on him, touching him, prying at Stiles like he wants to climb inside. He’d let him if he could, but all Stiles can manage is a roll of his hips, gifted with a groan of approval from Peter as he reciprocates, grinding down against him. “Did something happen today?” He exhales on a moan.

Sometimes it’s something, sometimes nothing, but when Peter wants him, Stiles gives, will always give, give, give. 

Peter blankets himself over Stiles, kisses him with lazy lips, fingers wandering down his sides until they find a home on his hips. Peter’s mapped his entire body with his hands, teeth, and tongue over the years, but he never seems to get enough, always searching for new spots to touch and taste. Stiles moans softly against Peter’s lips, lets his knees fall apart until there’s no space left between them, brings a hand up to run his fingers through Peter’s hair. It smells like lavender today. 

“It’s nothing,” Peter sighs against his jaw, and Stiles almost wants to stop, to ask what’s wrong, but that isn’t them. Kissing and biting and fucking until both are just on the side of okay is them, so Stiles reaches down with his free hand and slips it inside of Peter’s sweats. The groan he gets in response sounds like music to his ears. Stiles kisses it away, Peter’s tongue hot against his own. 

He slides his other hand down to Peter’s shoulder, nudging him until Peter gets with the program and pulls back to sit on the opposite end of the couch. Stiles follows, tucking his knees beneath him, half crawling, mostly pawing at Peter’s pants until they come sliding off. He dumps them on the floor and plants a kiss on the inside of Peter’s calf, earning him high praise and Peter’s fingers in his hair, nails scratching at his scalp. He shivers and ascends to the inside of Peter’s knee, teeth nipping at the sensitive flesh until he reaches his thigh. 

Peter huffs above him, fingers pulling taut on his hair, just enough to sting, not enough to pull him away. Peter doesn’t want him going far, that much Stiles knows, as he inches forward, as he buries his face in the crook of his pelvis. The skin there is sensitive too, and Stiles lavishes it with his tongue, inhales deeply as he noses his way over to the patch of hair at the base of Peter’s cock. It all smells of lavender. Lavender and Peter. 

Stiles mouths at Peter’s length, pressing soft kisses from base to tip. Peter’s already leaking, dick twitching beneath Stiles’ lips. Peter huffs and tugs on Stiles’ hair, and Stiles laughs, low and grumbly, as he takes the head of Peter’s cock into his mouth, long fingers trailing upward over his stomach, his chest. Stiles loves the way Peter’s chest hair feels beneath his hands. Peter replies with a growl of his own, deep within, purring in agreement with the way Stiles’ lips wrap around him, with the way his tongue lays flat against him, the way his mouth takes the whole of him inch by inch. 

He’s noisy, messy, teasing between quick and slow, all while Peter’s fingers are pulling on his hair. Stiles can’t help the moan that leaves his lips when he feels those fingers twist, tiny, sharp pinpricks of pain washing over him literally from head to toe. He shivers against Peter’s thighs, hands coming down to settle on his hips, and pulls off just long enough to say, “Do you want to hurt me, baby?” 

Peter grunts and sits up, pulling Stiles up by his hair to kiss him. He hisses and groans into Peter’s mouth as he climbs his body, caging Peter in with his arms. “Fucking hurt me, then.” He mumbles, voice rough and breathy behind his own panting. Peter doesn’t waste a second to comply. He flips them off the couch, Stiles landing on the floor on his back. Pain flares through him, through his shoulders, his sides, the backside of his head as it bounces roughly on the thin carpet. His knee knocks against the coffee table, “Shit, watch the food, Peter-” He grunts, letting out a small gasp as one of Peter’s hands finds its way around his throat. 

Fingers squeeze, pressing into Stiles’ skin with sharp-tipped claws, all while Peter quietly and carefully scooches the take-out boxes towards the middle of the table with his other hand. Stiles can’t help but look up at him through heavy lashes. He can feel those claws pricking his skin, just beneath his jaw, and bares his throat for Peter, for the sting and wash of pain. “Fuck,” he groans, and Peter growls again and squeezes harder. 

It’s unfair that he’s still wearing pants, but Peter isn’t climbing off his lap any time soon. If anything, he’s staying put just to tease Stiles on purpose. The pressure on his throat makes it hard to breathe, clouds his mind, and makes everything seem foggy, but he’s achingly hard, and it hurts just a little when Peter ruts his bare ass down against his lap. 

Just as it reaches its peak and Stiles’ eyes begin to roll into the back of his head, Peter releases his hold, trails those claws lightly down his neck enough to tickle him into awareness. Stiles sucks in hair, his lungs rattling around in his chest. Peter pulls him up until they’re both flush together again, and Stiles takes this opportunity to grasp Peter’s backside, squeezing hard, parting cheeks with wandering fingers. Peter groans, leans forward, and laps at the tiny pricks his claws made under Stiles’ jaw. 

When Peter kisses him again, Stiles can taste his own blood, and he can’t help the shiver that runs through his body, nor the moan that punches through him. 

“Would you be a dear and get your pants off?” Peter growls, pulling up on his knees just enough for Stiles to pop the button of his jeans, tug the zipper down and shimmy out of them. There’s a moment’s pause on Peter’s end as he stares downward. “Well, somebody sure was assuming a lot,” Peter huffs, and Stiles smirks because he isn’t wearing anything underneath. 

“I came prepared to woo you with food,” Stiles chuckles, slotting his newly freed erection nicely in the crack of Peter’s ass. 

Peter rolls back against him, smirking in delight as Stiles grips his hips, pressing fingers deep enough to bruise, if only temporarily. “Have I become so easily seduced?” He drawls, reaching back behind himself to trail and tease the tips of his fingers along the head of Stiles’ cock.

Stiles shivers, pressing his face against Peter’s belly and chest, skin hot against his lips and tongue as he bites at the flesh. “That depends on how easy you are,” he breathes, chuckling when Peter yanks a bit on his hair with his other hand before promptly standing. He leaves Stiles on the floor, trailing a foot lightly but dangerously over Stiles’ dick as he turns and walks off towards the bedroom. 

Stiles wastes no time in hopping up from the floor to catch up. 

~~

The food’s cold by the time they make it back to the living room, so they reheat it and settle back in on the couch to watch the movie. Stiles leans back against an arm of the couch, long legs taking up most of its space, feet propped up in Peter’s lap. Before the movie ends, Peter’s giving him one hell of a good foot massage. It’s late, and Stiles has just about nodded off when Peter runs a hand up to his leg, fingers dipping just underneath the bottom end of the shorts he’d changed into earlier. 

“Hmmm?” Stiles asks, eyes fluttering open, smiling at the sight of Peter looking at him. He blinks, and suddenly Peter is standing and holding out a hand. 

“It’s time for bed, dear.” 

~~

Morning. Again, but this time, clearer. Stiles’ head isn’t foggy or his vision dizzy. He wakes slowly to the sounds of his alarm clock blasting from his phone and rolls over to find Peter peeking at him from the dip in his pillow. “Good morning,” He croaks as Peter shuffles over and drapes an arm across his stomach, then a leg over one of his own. They had to buy a king-size mattress because, funnily enough, Peter is just as much a spazzy sleeper as Stiles is, limbs cocked every which way, body lodged against and on top of one another on occasion. 

It’s always very warm in the bed. 

“Morning,” Peter replies, nuzzling close to Stiles’ shoulder. “Work?” He gruffs out, voice gravelly with sleep. Stiles nods and yawns, getting up and using the flashlight off his phone to navigate to the bathroom. The lights stay off, the curtains remain shut, and when Stiles exits the bathroom sometime later, Peter is fast asleep again and softly snoring into Stiles’s pillow. 

~~

Stiles doesn’t mind working the morning shift. Hell, if he wanted to, he could easily rearrange the hours the shop is open — seeing as how he owns it and all — but on mornings that feel bright and promising, Stiles doesn’t mind waking up so early. He manages to snag a few donuts and a coffee from the food truck down the street before heading on into work. All in all, it’s looking to be a pretty good day. 

It’s not long after opening that the tiny bell above the front door chimes as it opens. Stiles comes rushing around the corner from stocking some items onto a shelf in the back. “Good morning,” he calls out, heading behind the counter to wipe his hands off on a towel he keeps back there. 

It’s only when he gets no response that Stiles actually looks up to see who's entered, but he stops cold when he sees who it is. 

It’s unmistakable, and no, Stiles isn’t seeing things or having a delayed-black-eye-concussion-based hallucination. It’s almost instantaneous, the feeling of his blood freezing in his veins, the heaviness in his limbs as if they’re turning to stone. It’s all for the person standing right before him, a face he didn’t think he’d ever see again; not those soft eyes, that wispy brown hair, that crooked jaw. 

It can’t be Scott fucking McCall standing in his shop on a Tuesday morning, can it? It can’t; they tried so hard to -

“How the fuck did you find me?” He blurts out because Stiles can’t believe his luck and can’t imagine saying anything else. 

Scott looks taken aback by the question. Good, Stiles thinks. Let him be offended; Stiles certainly is. There is a bit of foot shuffling happening on Scott’s end, but Stiles thinks his own legs will never move again. “It was difficult,” —much like how this conversation is going.

Sighing, Stiles feels himself deflate against the counter, leaning against it for support. “What are you doing here, Scott?”

“Didn’t Peter tell you?” 

Four simple words, and Stiles’ heart stutters, his stomach flips. He thinks he can literally feel the color drain from his face, lips buzzing, tongue dry. “What?” Scott catches it all, and Stiles can see it on his face, though it’s not as if Scott is doing much to hide his surprise and concern. “What are you talking about?” He asks, finding the tiniest bit of resolve to stand and make his way around the counter. 

Scott looks around the shop before settling his gaze back on Stiles. “Derek got in contact with Peter a few days ago - Stiles?” 

Stiles stops listening. He thinks back to the night before, at Peter’s odd behavior. He should have known it was something and not nothing. It was out of the norm, even for Peter. It was guilt. Stiles can see that now. It takes everything in him not to freak out and have a panic attack right in the middle of the shop. Instead, Stiles turns and grabs his keys from underneath the counter. He bolts past Scott and locks the front door before heading to the back.

He doesn’t say a word to Scott, but he’s pretty sure Scott’s caught on to follow as he exits through the back with him. Stiles tries to lock that door up too, but his keys shake in his hand, and it takes a couple of tries before he hears the click of the lock. 

“Get in,” He barks, unlocking the car a few feet away. Scott still doesn’t say anything as he climbs inside the passenger seat, nor does he say anything on the drive back to Stiles’ apartment. Good, because if Scott so much as mumbles anything -sighs, rolls his eyes- Stiles is going to throw him out of the car.

It doesn’t take long to get back home, and once he does, Stiles bypasses the elevator to take the stairs two at a time. Scott’s following close behind, but honestly, Stiles doesn’t care so much if he gets lost along the way. Stiles is on a mission, and he won’t be deterred.

“Oh, Stiles, dear,” Mrs. Carter calls from her doorway as Stiles bounds into the hallway. He tries not to grumble or huff or roll his eyes, but it’s proving difficult.

“Afternoon, Mrs. Carter. I’m sorry, I can’t really talk-”

“Did you get my order, by any chance?” She interrupts, and it takes everything in Stiles not to ignore her or blow up at her. She doesn’t deserve it. She may be a bit trying sometimes, but Stiles' anger, which should only be directed at a choice few, feels like it's spreading like a disease, unable to contain. 

He shakes his head, fumbling with his keys. “No, I’m sorry. I have it at the store. I’ll grab it tomorrow,” Key in hand, Stiles turns to walk away. He thinks he hears her say something else, but Stiles can’t seem to pay attention to much of anything else. All he can hear is the sound of the keys sliding into the lock, the sound of blood rushing in his ears. The door opens and lands with a slam on the wall behind it. It, not surprisingly, doesn't even startle the wolves inside. Peter merely turns in his chair at the small dining table, eyes flickering once to take in Scott before they land on Stiles’ face. 

Derek sits across from him, gaze fixed on Stiles a little too intensely, those brows just as harsh as Stiles remembers. 

“Dea-”

“Don’t.” Peter’s already in response mode, shoulders tense, even while belying a calm and stoic facade. Stiles wants to punch it right off, but then he remembers who he’s actually angry with. “Just, not yet.” He huffs, shutting the door behind him one Scott’s inside. “Nobody say anything for like a minute.” They don’t, thankfully. Derek just sits there, arms folded across his chest. Scott buzzes next to him, unsure of where to be, and Peter – Peter looks like he wants to get up from the table, but he won’t. 

Slowly, Stiles looks between all of them and sighs again as he tries to calm down. “What the fuck is going on?” He feels tired now, if anything, tired and betrayed. “How did you find us?”

Scott clears his throat. “We didn’t, uh, Argent - Chris did.”

“It took him five years to track us down?” Stiles snorts because if he couldn’t find any of this a bit funny, he’d find it extremely sad. “Guy’s getting rusty in his old age.”

“No, no, he found you in four.”

Stiles huffs and shakes his head. “So what – someone in danger? In need of rescuing?” He can feel all eyes on him. It makes him feel itchy, so he fiddles with his clothes, tugging at the collar, debating if he should push his sleeves up or not. 

Scott takes a second to look back at Derek, does a weird thing with his face as his gaze slides over to Peter, and then settles back on Stiles. “It’s your dad, we -”

“Oh! Well, that’s great. I can tell you already that he doesn’t need rescuing because he’s already dead.”

The silence that fills the room is loud. It seems as if no one knows what to say next. Scott’s face flushes, but he doesn’t look away from Stiles. He takes a step forward and winces the tiniest bit when Stiles steps backward. “We hold a memorial for him every year,” He begins, voice shaking with emotion. “We – I want you to be there.”

It’s been five years, five long years since Stiles has seen anyone from Beacon Hills, apart from Peter, who he sees every day. Scott rides high on the list of people Stiles never wanted to see again, and yet here he is, standing in front of him, asking him to come back.

“If I didn’t go to the last four memorial gatherings, what makes you think I’ll go to this one?” Stiles looks to Peter, then to Derek —who still hasn’t said a word to him. Scott clears his throat and pulls his attention back to him. 

“Everyone will be coming this year. We had problems in the past, conflicting schedules, but this time everyone’s coming, and I just couldn’t leave you out.” Now that we know where you are. Stiles can practically hear it wrapped around Scott’s tongue.

Stiles already feels done with this conversation. He wants to leave and get out and do something because standing here and listening to Scott, looking at him, is killing him. “Well-”

“You don’t have to decide right away,” Scott blurts out. “It’s a few weeks from now, but I just wanted to make sure there was no rush.” It’s considerate and thoughtful, but Stiles can’t imagine Scott being that anymore, and he’s not sure if Scott ever was. He could have just called, it would have been easier to refuse, to ignore if he’d just called, but maybe that’s precisely why he and Derek are here now. Maybe they knew Stiles would do exactly that.

He can’t think of anything more to say, so he takes another step back, catching sight of Peter rising from his chair. He knows, hell, even Derek and Scott probably know what he’s going to do. He probably smells of shame, embarrassment, anger, and the thought of fleeing is bouncing around in his head so much that Stiles can’t think of much else.

“I have to go,” He mumbles, turning to leave, ready to fly out of the apartment with no destination in mind. Peter’s by him in an instant, fingers grasped around his wrist. It’s not tight because it’s not commanding; it’s almost pleading. 

Stiles sighs, and Peter comes close. “No. You don’t have to leave. They can g–”

Slipping his hand out from Peter’s fingers, Stiles turns and looks at him. Peter looks sorry, but he won’t say it, and Stiles isn’t asking him to. “No, I really should,” He whispers, and he hopes Peter understands, much like how he seems to understand everything else about Stiles. Peter takes a long look at him before stepping back. He tries not to slam the door on the way out, but it shuts harshly enough to bang the door knocker against it anyway.

~~

The fist that collides with his jaw is big enough to send Stiles backward a few steps. He also manages to get in a few hits, but he's not looking to win this fight. His teeth hurt, his nose is already bleeding, and if he angles himself just right, the fist that comes back to deal another blow lands just in the right spot, right in the middle of his stomach. 

He reels, falls to the ground, and breathes deeply, trying to avoid vomiting. The man, the stranger –the guy Stiles picked a fight with at the bar they’re standing out back at, kicks him in the side and sends him over on his back. He yells something to Stiles, but he can’t hear what he’s saying. It’s all a garbled mess and ultimately unimportant. 

Eventually, the hits stop coming, and the guy leaves, and Stiles is all alone in a back alley, lying on the ground battered and bleeding. He lets loose a sigh of relief and shuts his eyes, revels in the release of pressure as he sinks into the cold asphalt. The anger is still there, but Stiles can deal with that later. Right now, it’s all about the pain he can cause himself because he can't cause it in others. Not again.

~~

Coming back to the apartment feels more complicated the second time around. Stiles feels better, but he also feels embarrassed for leaving in such a way, for leaving Peter with Scott and Derek. He wonders if they’re still there or if they’ve left because of how late it’s gotten, but he gets his answer the moment he opens the door and sees them all sitting around the table.

They’re looking at him quietly, probably having heard him dragging his feet up the steps in the stairwell and the hallway outside. They look as if they’ve been talking but stop when they hear him. It doesn’t matter; Stiles stopped feeling so offended by the nature of wolves a long time ago. It takes a matter of seconds for each of them to exude some form of emotion on their face at the sight of him. He can’t blame them for it; Stiles doesn’t exactly look picture perfect at the moment.

His clothes are rumpled, his beanie –lost to the wind somewhere back in the alleyway, his face –all sorts of purple and red. His nose is still bleeding, but it's not the gusher it was earlier. 

Peter rises from his chair and silently walks over to him. Stiles has to resist the urge to step back and away. He learned long ago he’d get no sympathy from Peter for stupid things like this. Peter would merely leave him alone, let him deal with the fall out until he was ready to talk or not talk. Peter coming this close, reaching out a hand towards him, felt more like an offense towards Peter than anything else, purely because Stiles didn’t deserve any kindness from him. Not while acting like an idiot.

He doesn’t want Peter’s pity, but he lets Peter gently take his hand and lead him down the hall anyway. “Help yourselves to the kitchen, boys.” He calls over his shoulder back at Scott and Derek, tugging Stiles along into their bedroom, into their bathroom.

They say nothing as Peter starts the shower, as he helps Stiles out of his clothes, as he helps clean him up. He may let the antiseptic wipe linger a bit too long on the cut on Stiles’ bottom lip, letting it sting a little and force a hiss from between Stiles’ lips, but then Peter tosses it away in the bin nearby and presses a kiss to them.

Peter sighs and takes Stiles’ face in both of his hands. “Did it help?” He asks, even though Stiles is pretty sure Peter would rather be anywhere else, doing anything else than helping him like this. Well, almost sure. Sometimes Peter still surprises him. 

It takes him a minute to answer, and even then, it’s just to shake his head. Peter’s hands feel warm against him, and he can’t help melting into the touch. The tears start shortly after, and then Peter moves back to remove his own clothes, to climb into the shower, and pull Stiles in to join him.

“I forgot,” Stiles mumbles as the spray of the water rains down on them from the showerhead in the ceiling. Peter watches him, runs his fingers through Stiles’ hair. “I forgot the day he died, the anniversary, whatever it’s called. I forgot the date.” He hiccups, sniffling, eyes burning behind wet lashes. 

Peter kisses him, soft and light, and it bursts the floodgates. Stiles pulls Peter against him, buries his face in the crook of Peter’s neck, and lets loose all the anger he’d been holding onto, sobbing into his skin. Peter’s arms wrap around him, holding him, anchoring him to the ground and to the one place he feels safe, has always felt safe. No matter where they’d gone or what stupid things Stiles had done in a drunken stupor, Peter always felt like home.

He’s not drunk now, though. He wanted to feel every hit, every kick that came his way, and now that he’s unloading everything against Peter, the pain flares in him, in the bruising on his side, in the cuts on his face. Even the pull of the rings in his bottom lip sting with every tug of movement. He wants to rip the metal out because they make him feel sick, but Stiles refrains because he can’t imagine letting go of Peter any time soon to do so. 

“I’m sorry,” He whispers against Peter’s skin when the worst of it passes. 

Peter buries a hand in his hair, scratching blunt nails along his scalp. “I said they could stay the night,” He mumbles into Stiles’ ear, his other hand pressing on the small of his back. Stiles stills a moment, leaning back just enough to look at Peter.

“Why did you even pick up the phone?”

Shrugging, Peter maneuvers them until Stiles’ back is up against the cool tile of the wall. “At first, mild curiosity. I’ll admit to missing my nephew, but when they told me why – well,” He slides his hands down to grip Stiles’ sides, watching as Stiles winces from the slight brush of fingers along the newly bruised skin. 

Stiles lets loose a shaky breath. His skin already feels on fire from being roughed up, but it burns now with arousal because he can’t ever be this close and this naked around Peter without feeling this way about him. “But why agree to have them come down? We don’t need them here. I don’t need to go back, I-” But the words die on his lips as his throat closes up, as emotion tugs at his chest again. 

Peter kisses it all away, pressing himself flush against Stiles, earning a groan against his lips as fingers press into bruises, as his lips press against the swelling of Stiles’ bottom lip. “Because, darling,” Peter gruffs, “-you’d forgotten.”

~~

It’s some time before they make it back to the table in their kitchen. The apartment isn’t that big, but Stiles is pretty sure that even if it were a penthouse suite, Scott and Derek would still be able to hear what all had gone on in the shower. Stiles’ face is flush with color, and if he’s asked, he’ll say it’s from the heat of the shower, no matter if they know it’s a lie. 

They’re both still sitting at the table, but there are cups of tea in front of them now. Scott’s taking a sip, but Derek’s just got a hand wrapped around his, a few fingers tucked in through the handle. 

“I apologize for the lack of anything edible,” Peter says, sweeping into the chair he’d been occupying earlier. Stiles strays past the table and heads over to the fridge, listening as he grabs a soda from inside. “I’m afraid with all of this I forgot to go shopping.”

Stiles shuts the fridge and pops the can open, leaning against the counter. “Pizza?” He mumbles around the opening before taking a gurgled sip. Scott seems to light up at the idea, but Derek is floundering, eyebrows still stuck in disgruntled mode. Peter opens his mouth to say something, probably to agree, but Stiles interrupts, blurts out, “-but only what Derek wants.”

The whole room shifts its gaze to Stiles then. Now Scott looks bothered, Peter seems confused, and Derek, well -his eyebrows rise a fraction on his face. Stiles will testify to catching it. 

“What? Why?” Peter asks, and Stiles shrugs. 

He shuffles over to the table, standing nearby Derek, and places his soda down gently in front of him. “Because I’m worried he’s lost the ability to speak, and I’m wondering if he can sign ‘pepperoni’ with his eyebrows.” He’s also a little worried that Peter will want to order on the side of pretentious and healthy, not that Stiles minds most of the time. 

He’s come around to liking chicken pesto pizza and slices with peas on them, but tonight Stiles wants to pig out, and he’s hoping Derek will pick the correct answer; the answer being what Stiles remembers as his favorite topping, pepperoni. 

Scott snorts, and Stiles can practically hear Peter roll his eyes. Derek’s merely looking up at Stiles, eyes roaming his face, zipping down to his throat before swiping up to his hair. They settle back on his eyes for a moment, and Stiles realizes just then how much he’s missed those hazel orbs. 

“Pepperoni is fine.” It isn’t much, and it definitely wasn’t what Derek wanted to say; Stiles doesn’t have to be supernatural to notice that, nor to catch the tightness in his voice, the words spoken behind thin lips. There’s something to unpack there, but Stiles will deal with it later. 

~~

After his delightfully satisfying fifth piece of pizza, Stiles is still a little unsatisfied that Derek and Scott are still in his home. The conversation can’t seem to move past small talk, and Stiles won’t say much of anything at all. 

It’s only when his phone rings that Stiles speaks up, reaching into his pocket to pull it out. 

“I wondered if you changed phones,” Scott comments, and Stiles takes a minute to look at the cell in his hands. He’s had it for a few years now, his old one long-buried in a box somewhere in the apartment. 

“Yeah,” is all he says in reply before getting up from the table to answer the call. “Hey, Ramona -I, yup. Sorry, I know it’s last minute.” He walks off into the bedroom to continue the conversation, even though he knows there’s no such thing as privacy with wolves. “Thanks for understanding; we just had some,” the word seems to fizzle on his lips, but he pushes through it, “-some friends stop by unexpectedly, and I- yeah, I’ll try to stop by tomorrow. Thanks again.”

Stiles sits on the edge of his bed and debates going back out to the rest of them. It feels like a bubble has popped, and maybe that’s just it. It wasn’t perfect, still isn’t, but the lives Peter and Stiles live now are their own. Derek and Scott and all the rest of them are waiting back in Beacon Hills for him —Stiles can’t say he’s never missed them because he did at first. Maybe even still does, but the anger won’t leave him, won’t let him forgive. 

He’d already forgotten, so maybe he’s already halfway there. 

~~

Stiles gasps awake, bolting upright in bed, in the dark, every breath he takes choked off by the weighted feeling of something stuck in his throat. It feels like it’s on fire, straining to pull air in and push the fear out. Somewhere next to him, Peter’s sitting up in a mild panic, settling against Stiles’ arm when he realizes what’s going on, claws out and gently pressing into his skin. 

“Breathe, Stiles. With me, breathe.” He gruffs around fangs, still half asleep.

It’s the memory those words provoke that sends Stiles further into his spiral, the memory of the first time Peter had spoken those words to him all those years ago. He dreamt of things he hadn't in years, of people, of faces he no longer wished to see. It makes him want to sob, but he’s too busy struggling to breathe to cry. 

Peter moves around on the bed until he’s in front of him, pulling Stiles to his knees with him. His hands grip Stiles’ shoulders, blunt nails now digging into flesh. “Stiles.” Peter tries again, voice more stern, more demanding. “You need to breathe, or you’re going to pass out.”

He tries, he really does, but his chest aches something awful, and the lump in his throat is growing, and the room is getting too small, and the sheets are -

Peter smacks him hard. One good, swift, open-handed palm whacks him in the face. It's the sting that makes Stiles’ breath hitch as Peter pulls Stiles against him, embracing him with both arms. “Breathe with me.” He mumbles against his shoulder, inhaling with his chest, exhaling with his shoulders until Stiles can’t help but fall into rhythm with him. 

It takes a few minutes, and when Stiles can feel that his head isn't about to explode, he sighs against Peter, lazily wrapping both arms around him. He’s sweating, skin cold, and clammy, and it takes a second for his heart to catch up with the rest of him, to slow to a much less rabbit’s thundering pace. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, but Peter clicks his tongue and buries his nose in the crook of Stiles’ neck. 

He breathes him in there, deeply, and nuzzles against Stiles for a moment. “Was it a bad one?” 

“Yeah,” but that’s all Stiles is willing to say. He hasn’t had one this bad in a long time, and he’s still shaking from the effects of it when he pulls away to press a soft kiss to Peter’s temple. He doesn’t get too far when Peter pulls him in for a proper one; lips smooth against his rough, chapped ones. Stiles moves to crawl off the bed, but Peter grabs his wrist. “I’m just going to the kitchen,” he whispers because he knows Peter’s worried he might run again. 

Peter hesitantly lets him go, and he strolls through the hall until he reaches the kitchen. He forgets for a minute that either Derek or Scott could be sleeping on the couch, one of them in the guest bedroom, but as he shuffles into the living space, Derek stirs and rolls over, peeking out over his shoulder at him.

Stiles doesn’t say anything as he makes his way to the counter, grabbing a glass from the sink strainer and a bottle of Jack Daniels that sits behind the toaster. He can hear Derek come up behind him as he pours himself half a glass, turning to face him as he takes a sip. “Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you,” He mumbles into his drink. 

Derek watches him for a moment, gaze flicking from the bottle of alcohol then back to him. “It’s fine,” He gruffs. Stiles moves to grab a glass for Derek, “Uh, no thanks.” Derek shakes his head. “Plus, it doesn’t really-”

“Work for you, yeah. You’re just not looking for the right ingredient to add to make it work.” Stiles took another sip and put the extra glass away. “It’s nutmeg, by the way. Like a pinch, amplifies the alcohol.” He mumbles, taking a large swig of his drink, ending on a loud, obnoxious, “-aaahh.” Derek’s watching him, not saying much, like always, but the staring is starting to get Stiles now, and he folds in on himself, moving away from the counter. “What?” He asks, feeling Derek’s on him.

“Didn’t think you’d ever get so many tattoos.” Derek gruffs, and when Stiles peers over his shoulder at him, his gaze flies up from where they’d been roaming on Stiles’ bare back to his eyes. There are a few things Stiles doesn’t mind about himself anymore, one being that he doesn’t care who he’s shirtless in front of. He may not be as shredded as Derek and Peter will forever be, but Stiles hasn’t felt the need to be so self-conscious about his body anymore. It just didn’t seem worth worrying about.

So, of course, walking around in just his red boxer-briefs, he was subjecting what tattoos he usually kept under his clothes to Derek’s gaze. There aren’t many, really. Beyond the one on his neck that runs down to a point on his chest, he has one on his left side - a random but intricate design of lines and dots that run vertically; a simple set of letters that spell out the word ‘wilk’ –wolf in the polish language– up on his right shoulder, and a partial piece of a purple spider web that's peeking out from the top edge of the band of his briefs, just above his right butt cheek. 

Maybe not as many as Stiles actually wanted to have, but most of them had been acquired when he was drunk anyway, and he likes to think he’s mellowed out over the years. Who knows, maybe he’ll get one to commemorate this special occasion, a bomb dropping or something.

Stiles takes another sip of his drink and sighs. “Needles don’t scare me anymore, Der.” He leaves Derek standing there in the living room and makes his way back to Peter, who is sitting up on his side of the bed, light on the bedside table on low. He looks comfortable here in the dim glow of the lamp, hair tousled, duvet pooled around his bare hips, dark, icy blues watching Stiles the moment he enters the room.

“I happen to like your tattoos,” Peter mumbles, watching and waiting for Stiles to put the glass down on his own matching nightstand. When he does, Peter wastes no time pulling Stiles down into his lap, where he takes both of Stiles’ hands and kisses his knuckles. It’s another spot Stiles has stamped permanently with ink, simple designs of lines and dots, and geometric shapes on each of his ten digits. Peter kisses each one, and Stiles sighs against him. 

“I’m sorry for waking you, really,” Stiles whispers as Peter peppers kisses up one hand, on the sensitive skin of his wrist, on his arm. He shivers, goosebumps rising on his skin, heat pooling in the bottom of his belly.

Peter nips at the bend in his elbow and chuckles when Stiles gasps softly. “Nonsense. If you need me, I’m right here.” He presses his words into Stiles’ skin as if he’s tattooing those into him as well. He’d let him if he could. Stiles would let Peter crawl inside of him, carve him out into someone new.

Stiles bites his bottom lip and moves his arm out of the way, capturing Peter’s lips with a soft kiss. “I do need you,” He mumbles, fingers curling up into Peter’s hair, tongue swiping along his bottom lip. “Right now.” 

~~

It’s not always pain that drives them or the willingness to dominate. Sometimes Peter likes to take his time to tell Stiles how much he means to him. “So beautiful, my darling.” He purrs these words into the shell of Stiles’ ear, tongue hot and driving downward to lavish at the pulse point beneath it. He shuffles downward, teasing teeth against pert nipples, digging fingers into thighs that shake around him. Peter buries his nose in the dark, coarse hair below Stiles’ belly button. He follows it, licks at it, drools into it before pressing his nose into the patch above Stiles rigid erection. “God, the smell of you,” He growls, kissing the reddened tip of Stiles’ dick.

Stiles shakes beneath him, little whimpers and tiny moans pushing past his lips. It drives him mad when Peter does this, when he focuses on him, but mad in the best of ways. Ways that make his cock drip onto his stomach and his toes curl.

“Fuck, Peter -” Stiles’ long fingers tangle themselves in Peter’s hair, his back arching high off the bed, his ass grinding back down against the mattress. Peter’s lips are sinful, his mouth a blaze of heat as he takes Stiles’ dick further in, as his tongue flattens itself on the underside of his length. Stiles tries his hardest not to be loud, but Peter growls when he bites his lip or covers his mouth with his hand. It’s a warning and a reassurance at the same time. This is his house, their house, and Stiles doesn’t have to hide here. “Please - please.” He begs, unsure of what he’s really asking for. 

Peter seems to know, though; he always seems to know, pulling off of Stiles with an obscene pop and a low growl deep in his chest. He teases Stiles a bit more, licks a long stripe from base to tip, tongues at the slit where precum is leaking, chuckles when Stiles whines and grips his hair like it's absolute torture. He crawls up Stiles’ body, kisses him like he means it, eats up the whimpers and groans that fall from Stiles’ lips. 

Stiles rolls up against him, tastes himself in Peter’s mouth with his tongue, presses fingers into the flesh of Peter’s shoulders hard enough to bruise even though they never will. “Tell me what you want, darling.” Peter groans against Stiles’ lips as he slots himself between Stiles’ legs, hoisting them up and around his own waist. 

Stiles locks his ankles together, keeping Peter right where he is. He grinds down against him and groans at the solid weight of Peter’s dick between his ass cheeks. “You - I want you, Peter-” 

Peter huffs a chuckle and reels back, pulling Stiles up on top as he falls back on the mattress. Stiles sits up on his lap, rearranging his legs to gain more leverage to rock back against Peter’s cock. “Show me, then.” Peter grunts, his hands resting up on Stiles’ hips as he ruts up against him. 

Stiles twists a moment, reaching back to grab the bottle of lube they keep in his nightstand and rights himself only to reach behind himself to coat Peter generously. The slick slide of the lube sounds absolutely too loud in the quiet of their heavy breathing, but Stiles is too far gone to care if Derek and Scott can hear them. He’s got Peter right where he wants him. 

He tosses the bottle of lube off to the side and kneels up just a bit to guide Peter against him, wasting no time in lowering himself down onto him. The sting is nothing, not when Peter reaches up to take it away, hand hot against his belly as black lines snake up Peter’s arm. Stiles sighs at the slight relief. He rolls his hips and smiles when Peter groans and runs his other hand over the sensitive part of Stiles’ inner thighs. Stiles shakes above him, moves against him, and watches as Peter can’t seem to look at anything else. 

“So beautiful,” Peter repeats around a sigh, promptly moving to wrap an arm about Stiles’ waist. He pulls him off and flips them over, only to dive right back in. He’s relentless and burning hot against Stiles because now that they’re at this point, Peter can’t hold back, too impatient to encompass all of Stiles. He cages Stiles in, drapes across him, buries his face in the crook of his neck, and when Stiles comes between them, choking on a half-sob, Peter growls into that space and bites down, hard. 

~~

“You should probably get up.”

Stiles wakes abruptly, jerking on his side at the ghost of a memory. A time when fingers ran lazily across wounds long since healed on his back. He groans, turning in bed to find Peter already gone, his side of the mattress cool to the touch. He can hear them, the wolves, rummaging around in the kitchen. They’re talking, but all Stiles can hear is distant murmurings. For a moment, as he sits up and breathes in deep, it sparks another memory. 

He almost expects to walk out into the kitchen and be back in Peter’s old apartment, listening to Derek and Scott talk about him as if he didn’t have a say in his own life. Stiles shakes it off, runs a hand through his hair, and sighs. His glass is still on the nightstand, and before he stands to put on some pants, Stiles finishes off whatever’s left in it and carries the newly empty glass with him to the kitchen.

“Morning,” He mumbles to the entire room, still half asleep. Derek’s sitting at the table, and Scott’s busy pouring himself a cup of coffee at the counter. Peter’s cooking, like he always is, but Stiles goes for a cold pop tart instead, dumping his empty glass in the sink before sitting in the chair across from Derek. 

Scott’s smiling at him, but it's small, barely there, just wanting to be polite, and Stiles nods and gives one of his own. “Coffee?” He asks, holding up the hot pot and pouring a cup when Stiles nods again. “Oh, I don’t know where you keep the sugar and-”

Stiles quietly points to a tin in the cupboard behind him. “I don’t need any, though,” He replies, raising a curious brow when Scott shoots him an incredulous look and slowly hands over the black mug full of coffee.

“Really?” He asks, taking a seat in the chair next to him, briefly glancing back at Derek.

Stiles shrugs. “Yup,” He takes a sip and looks between the two. “What?” It’s not lost on Stiles, the way they’re looking at him like he’s grown a second head. “It’s just coffee, guys.” And neither say anything more about it after that.

Peter starts humming at the stove, and Stiles can’t help but smile as he looks down at his mug, getting lost in the moment of listening to him. However, it doesn’t last long, not when Stiles can feel two sets of eyes on him, reminding him that they aren’t alone. He looks back up at Derek and Scott, both of whom seem to be looking at Stiles, transfixed by something.

He almost forgets that he’s angry with them and blinks away the feeling of tears starting to form. Clearing his throat, Stiles stands and brushes up against Peter, leaning over to kiss his shoulder. “Ramona’s watching the shop today, but I have to run by for Mrs. Carter’s shipment.”

“Bring them with you,” Peter suggests, turning to see Stiles staring at him like a deer in headlights. He smirks, and Stiles rolls his eyes and sighs. Peter huffs a chuckle and pats Stiles on the arm. “Good boy,” He purrs, and Stiles can’t help the flush that rises on his cheeks.

Scott clears his throat from the table, and that’s it for the flirting. “Alright,” Stiles sighs again, not bothering to show his annoyance. “But I call the shower first.” 

~~

The tiny bell over the front door of the shop dings as Stiles opens it. He makes half a step inside before Ramona calls out from the counter, “Welcome to- Oh Boss!” She smiles, and Stiles can’t help but smile back. It falls a moment later when Derek and Scott file in behind him, when Ramona looks at them with questioning, arching brows. “Oh! Are these the visiting friends?

“Y-yeah,” Stiles stutters, resisting the urge to look back over his shoulder at the both of them. He’s pretty sure they picked up on the uptick of his pulse anyway. “I need to grab my neighbor’s stuff. Can you keep them busy for a minute while I grab it?” He’s already halfway to the back when Ramona nods and comes out behind the counter. She’s babbling away about something, showing Scott some of the crystals they sell when Stiles feels a large, looming, familiar presence behind him as he steps into the back room. “Non-employees are not allowed back here, big guy.”

“Stiles.” It might sound like just his name, but there’s a question in there; Stiles can practically feel it. He turns to face Derek, to stare at him until he speaks again, fully prepared to wait there a good minute until he does. Again, it looks like Derek wants to say something and chooses to say something else. He looks around the back room at the boxes and containers of stuff not yet itemized and shelved. He sighs, “This is all yours?” He asks.

Stiles shrugs. “Yeah, I mean Peter’s a partner because I couldn’t exactly do all this by myself, but it’s been open for a few years now.” He catches Derek’s eye a moment before turning to rifle through a crate. “What, did you think my life would be in shambles when you found me?” He huffed a chuckle, pulling out a package wrapped in brown paper. There’s a moment where Derek doesn’t answer, so Stiles looks up at him because he’d only been half-joking, but Derek was looking at him like it wasn’t.

“Honestly? Yeah.” 

Shoulders dropping, Stiles rolls his eyes and shuts the crate, moving it aside to rummage through another one. “You’re a few years too late for that, big guy. Pretty much worked through my destructive phase already.”

Another bout of silence passes between them again, but Stiles keeps on staring at the bottom of the crate until Derek decides to speak again. “You left last night to get into a fistfight.” 

“Okay, so,” Stiles sighs and shuts the crate, turning to look at Derek before maneuvering around him. “A work in progress. Still not as bad as it used to be.” He mumbles, making his way out of the back room. Derek hums behind him as they walk in on a conversation Ramona’s having with Scott about some of the incense they’re looking at. “So, you wanna tell me what the stick up your ass is for? Or should I just assume it’s meant to encompass the whole of me?”

He says it quietly enough, but if Scott hears him, he doesn’t give any indication, seemingly too busy with listening to Ramona. Derek follows him to the counter and leans against it as Stiles finds a bag to put the package in.

“Lay it on me, dude. You can’t exactly hurt my feelings here.” 

Derek sighs. “You have a… nice life here.”

It catches Stiles off guard a bit, but beyond the blip in his pulse, he’s sure he’s not giving much else away as he focuses on the register for a moment. “Yeah, I do.” There’s pride there, maybe even a little bit of offense too, because it may be a bit messed up, and he may fuck up a lot of the time, but it’s the life Stiles chose. 

Ramona and Scott laugh softly in the corner of the shop, filtering in as a lovely background ambiance in stark contrast to the icy front Stiles is putting on for Derek. “You know he’s only trying to help, to fix things.” Stiles looks up at him then, gaze unwavering. He can’t seem to stop the heat rushing to his face as Derek stares back. 

“Then why are you here?” He asks, brows rising high on his head. “Hm? Last I checked, there was nothing broken between us.”

Derek’s quiet again for some time, “You’re angry with me.” He says. 

Stiles sighs because this is heading into dangerous territory, and he’d rather not have this conversation in the middle of his shop, let alone anywhere else. Ever. “I’m angry with the both of you.” He opens the register to grab a slip of paper and shuts it again. “And quite frankly, still a little confused as to why you guys are here.”

Derek’s brow furrow as he moves to stand a bit straighter. “Scott told you-”

“Yeah, I get it.” He snaps because he can’t take it anymore. It feels like his whole life has been upended in a matter of seconds, and he can’t do anything about it, not now that he’s been exposed. 

“He wants me to come back and sit around campfires and sing kumbaya and enjoy a week of torturous hell, being asked by everyone, and anyone, why I left while giving me looks of pity when I eventually tell them it’s because it hurt too much to stay.

Then, to top it off, I’ll have to sit around at the end and listen to everyone talk about how much they loved my dad. I’ll be expected to say something, and if I find the courage to, I’ll be just as disappointing as I’ve always been, and then I’ll leave like a bad storm blowing through town, and then I’ll be here. Stuck with more memories I’d rather not have and possibly a few more bruises too.” 

He’s unsure if he took a breath through any of that, but he inhales deeply all the same. Ramona and Scott have long since stopped talking, Stiles’ voice having risen louder than he meant it to, and joined them at the register, much to Stiles' chagrin. Derek just quietly looks at him, and Stiles sighs. 

“Boss?” Ramona asks, sidling up next to him. 

Stiles’ neck works as he swallows hard, his Adam's apple bouncing. He grabs the bag with the package inside it and looks at her. “I’m fine, really. Close the shop early today after lunch, okay?” 

Ramona nods and smiles weakly as Stiles moves around her and the counter. Scott and Derek follow quietly behind as they exit the shop, but Scott speaks up when they bypass Stiles’ car. “Where are we going?” He asks, catching up to walk next to Stiles.

“Farmer’s market down the road here. That’s where Peter does his shopping.” Scott looks a bit confused, but Derek doesn’t, as if that’s where he’d expect Peter to be. Stiles pulls out a cigarette and lights it, careful to blow the smoke away from the both of them, but Scott wrinkles his nose all the same. “Sorry, just figured I’d get one out before we got there.”

“Does Peter know you smoke?” Scott asks, but then immediately stutters as if to correct himself, “I mean, I know he probably does, I just-” He seems to be floundering for small talk, for an insider piece to Stiles’ life, and Stiles can’t begrudge him for it. They used to be as thick as thieves, brothers even, and now they just feel like strangers. 

Stiles takes a drag and sidesteps a light pole, flicking ash onto the ground nearby. “Yeah, but he makes me take a shower right when I get home if I do.” Derek snorts behind him as they round a corner, and for a moment, Stiles gets lost in the fantasy that they’re just friends out enjoying the nice weather for the day, hitting up the farmer’s market as a thing to do around town.

He’s not showing them around, and they’re not visiting. It’s almost normal until the facade is busted and Stiles reigns it back into reality. Thankfully, he doesn’t have to say much more because once they round another corner, they reach the farmer’s market and find Peter standing at a vegetable stand, looking over carrots. 

Peter looks up as they approach, his gaze taking in Scott first, then Derek, before settling on Stiles. It accompanies a smile, which Stiles immediately swoops into to steal with a kiss. Peter hums and catches Stiles around the waist. “Afternoon, dear.” He gruffs behind a low growl.

“Hi,” Stiles says with a flushed grin. “Lunch?” 

A few people are staring now because Peter hasn’t pulled away from Stiles, nor has Stiles made any move to dislodge himself. If anything, he wraps his arms around Peter’s neck to lock in for another kiss. He catches Scott from the corner of his eye, catches a look thrown his way, but he doesn’t say anything. Peter’s just evened out his mood, and he’s not going to lose it because Scott can’t seem to believe what’s right before his eyes. 

“I’ll get the sandwiches. You get the salads. Meet me at the tables.” Peter mumbles against Stiles’ lips. 

Stiles chuckles, “Baby, you know I love it when you talk dirty to me.” It earns him an eye roll and a swift smack on his booty as he breaks away from Peter, but Peter’s smirking all the same, and Stiles loves it. 

“Good boy,” He purrs. 

~~

Curly fries or die is something Stiles found himself saying often, but he still absolutely loves it when Peter cooks for him. The kitchen smells like heaven as Stiles moves about the apartment, cleaning up what little mess there is. Derek and Scott were invited to stay another night, but it seems as if they’d rather be anywhere else. 

Stiles wouldn’t mind so much if they decided to leave early, but Scott seems intent on getting an answer from Stiles. The tv is playing in the background, some general sitcom no one is really paying attention to, and Peter’s humming at the stove again with Derek by his side, helping. 

Scott’s on the couch, tapping away for what seems like a good while, and Stiles can’t help but lean over the back end of it to pry. “Writing a novel there?” He asks, smirking as Scott hits send and turns the screen off. 

“Sorry, I was just keeping the pack up to date.” Scott offers a smile, but Stiles has a hard time reciprocating. He may have been angry with Scott and Derek, but he hadn’t just left them all those years ago; he’d left the rest of the pack as well. No explanation, no goodbyes, just up and split with no looking back. Stiles moves back away from the couch, and Scott seems to pick up on the sudden change, turning to face Stiles a bit better. “I don’t want to guilt-trip you, but they miss you too. And they’ll be there. We all meet at Lydia’s lake house for the week leading up to the memorial.”

“The lake house her mother sold?” Stiles turns to sit against the backrest, folding his arms across his chest. 

Scott shakes his head. “No, she bought one close by, though. A lot bigger and closer to another, larger lake. She uses it when she’s in town, visiting.” 

It hasn’t occurred to Stiles until just now to ask about the others. Maybe it’s because he’s been so angry at having to deal with just these two bursting his bubble, or perhaps it’s because he didn’t think they would stay long enough to catch him up. 

Stiles sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “What was that about not guilt-tripping me?” He mutters, shooting a glance at Scott just in time to see him bunch his lips up in a thin line. He sighs again. “I don’t think it would be a good idea,” He answers because it's true. Too much time has passed, and Stiles feels as if he’d do more hurt than good by returning now.

“Well, I do,” Peter says as he sets the table behind them. Stiles looks over at him, watches him place the silverware down on either side of the plates. When he looks up at Stiles, he’s met with a deadpan stare, and it takes an insane amount of self-control for Stiles not to roll his eyes in frustration. 

“I’m starting to feel ganged up on here.” He says flatly.

Peter comes around the table and leans in to kiss Stiles, chaste, simple, a reminder of whose side Peter is on. “Good,” He smirks. Stiles is unsure if he wants to kiss Peter again or punch him in the face. 

He could easily just up and walk out; he’s done it before. Hell, Stiles had perfected the art of just walking out when he didn’t want to deal with something. So much so that he’s surprised Peter still puts up with it at all. He’s even more surprised that Peter’s willing to put up with going back for a week, let alone seeing everyone again. Stiles looks to Scott, who seems to be fighting to speak up, to Derek, who’s busy lounging against the counter by the stove and looking unbothered. He wonders for a moment if Scott dragged him along.

Stiles sighs and leans his head against Peter’s shoulder. It’s firm and warm and unwavering in support, just as much as Peter always is. He makes a slight, frustrated noise in the back of his throat before he lifts his head and looks Peter straight in his beautiful, blue orbs. “Fuck it, fine.”

~~

Dinner ends well enough, and soon the evening moves them to the living room. Some movie is playing on the tv, but Stiles isn’t really paying attention to it. Not while he has so much on his mind already. He’s agreed to go back, and that alone makes him itch for a fist to the face. He ends up rubbing his nose for the tiny blip of pain it offers to tie him over. However, it doesn’t go unnoticed by the wolves, with Peter turning towards him the moment his pulse blips. Scott’s shoulders are tense; hell, even Derek, who’s sitting across the way, shifts minutely in the chair enough to make it creak.

Stiles sighs and stands, exaggerating a long stretch. “Whelp, I’m tired.” He lies and doesn’t really care if they can tell or not. “Night, boys.” He doesn’t waste any time making his way down the hall and into the safety of his room. It’s only a few minutes more until Peter joins him, shutting the door behind with a soft click of the lock as he turns it.

“I have a distinct feeling that something’s wrong,” Peter says as he leans against the door. Stiles is halfway across the room, making his way towards the bathroom as he glances briefly at Peter.

“Nothing gets past you.” 

Stiles doesn’t mean to snap at Peter, but he can’t help it. He’s tired of the other kind, tired of Scott and Derek in his home, tired of feeling strung out, tired of discussing his emotions. The light comes on in the bathroom, and Stiles shuts the door behind him a second later. It takes him no time at all to get ready for bed, to brush his teeth, and undress down to his briefs, but when he exits the bathroom, Peter is no longer in the room.

The door is still shut, but Stiles can hear muffled murmurings on the other side. Sighing, Stiles debates going to apologize, but he’d rather just go to sleep instead and be done with the day. He climbs under the sheets and shuts any remaining lights off, fixes his pillow to the way he likes it, stares up at the ceiling, and waits for sleep to take him. 

~~

It’s several hours later, and Stiles can’t seem to trick his brain into slumberland. He’s tried turning on his sides, shutting his eyes, thinking of things that would typically put him to sleep, but he just can’t seem to get there. Peter comes back at some point and wordlessly climbs into bed. There’s a moment of hesitation where Stiles feels the space between them and wonders if Peter will wrap him up in his arms, but he doesn’t and is out like a log before long. 

Eventually, when Stiles concedes to the fact that he’s just not going to get any sleep, he gets up and heads back into the bathroom to put his clothes on from the day before. He quietly slips out of the room, heading for the front door and his shoes. 

Scott startles him, but Stiles manages not to yelp as he whips around. His heart is pounding in his chest, and thank god he hadn’t grabbed his keys yet, or they’d be halfway into Scott’s face by now. “Sorry,” Scott mumbles, coming out from around the couch. Apparently, he and Derek switched who took the spare room that night. “Everything okay?” He whispers. 

Stiles takes a deep breath, tries to calm down before he toes on the rest of his shoes. “Yeah, can’t sleep. Just going for a walk.” Scott takes a few steps closer, and Stiles can practically hear the question before Scott asks. 

“Want some company?” 

He doesn’t, not really. “Sure,” He shrugs, slipping on his yellow hoodie and grabbing his keys. Scott takes no time at all slipping on his shoes, and then they’re out in the hallway, shutting the door quietly behind them. 

It’s dark when they make it out outside, late with a cool chill in the wind. Stiles burrows his hands in the shared pocket of his hoodie and walks with no distinct direction. They’re quiet for a while, Scott walking next to him. There’s enough space between them, but Stiles still feels a little crowded. He pulls out his pack of cigarettes, and Scott pulls another face. “Sorry,” Stiles mumbles.

Scott sighs and runs a hand through his hair as Stiles lights one up. “No, I’m sorry. I’ve totally disrupted your life, man.”

Stiles doesn't mean to make the face he does, but he scrunches up his lips, eyebrows shooting high on his head, smoke billowing from his nose as he nods. He’s not going to tell Scott he’s wrong, but he’s not going to be an ass and rub it in. Too much. 

They walk together in silence for a few blocks before Stiles comes to a stop at a small bridge. There are no cars on the road at this hour, so it’s peaceful and quiet. He leans against the railing and watches Scott do the same. “Look,” He sighs because he might as well do this now while he has Scott alone. “I don’t know what it is you’re - well, looking for here.” Starting strong like a champ, Stiles pulls a drag on his cigarette. “Going back doesn’t mean I’m admitting fault here.” He exhales, smoke pluming outwards and disappearing into the night sky. 

Scott’s quiet as he watches the smoke. Stiles almost gives up, but Scott clears his throat and turns to him. “I didn’t come looking for an apology.” He shuffles his feet as if he’s looking for the right thing to say. “Argent found you last year, and I mean, like, found you , found you. Your address, your new phone number, even your business-”

“Wow,” Stiles flicks a bit of ash away from them. “What an incredibly disrespectful misuse of my private information.” He comments, because wow indeed, but then Scott’s making a noise in the back of his throat, and Stiles is shutting up to listen.

“Do you know how many times I wanted to call you or text you and didn’t?” Stiles turns to look at him now, watches as the muscles in Scott’s face twitch, as his jaw clenches around certain words. “I was afraid that if I did, you’d run again. Change your number, find a new place to live, and then I’d be back to square one looking for you again.”

Stiles wasn’t aware Scott had been so adamant about finding him. He thought Argent had merely found him on a whim. A car passes by, illuminating both of them for a moment. Stiles flicks ash again. “Scott, I-” Words lodge in his throat, and it's suddenly difficult to speak. He clears his throat and starts again, “I’m not sorry for - for what I did.”

Scott nods and turns to lean forward on the railing, hiking up a foot on a lower rail. “I know.” A cold burst of wind passes by, and while Scott doesn’t seem to acknowledge it, Stiles shivers a bit under his hoodie. He pulls the hood up and stamps out the finished cigarette on the ground, unsure if he should say anything more. “It took me two days to realize you were right.”

There’s a tiny shudder in Stiles’ chest, a quick flutter of his heart. “What?” He copies Scott, turns, and leans forward on the railing, but while Scott looks out at the water flowing beneath them, Stiles looks at Scott’s face. 

“I was so angry with you,” Scott starts, “-but then I thought, ‘what would I do if it were my mom’? What would I have done if I had just lost everything?” He sighs. “I went to Peter’s to apologize, but you weren’t there. I thought maybe you went home, but then you weren’t answering your phone and, I don’t know. A week went by, and Derek hadn’t heard from Peter, and we just knew too late that you’d left.”

It’s true; they had literally left the morning after Peter had asked him, taking only one of Peter’s cars and whatever money he had in the bank. They’d left everything behind, even the jeep—one of the few things Stiles always regretted. “Yeah,” It’s all Stiles can think of anything else to say. 

~~

Stiles slips out of his clothes and back under the covers, greeted by a grumpy, sleepy Peter who rolls over to meet him behind a squint. “I’m sorry,” Stiles sighs, a little worried Peter might still be angry with him. He deserves it after all, but then Peter’s pulling Stiles up against him, wrapping an arm around his waist, and pressing his lips on his temple in quiet forgiveness. Stiles can feel himself relax in his arms. 

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Peter whispers against his skin, but Stiles merely shakes his head and buries his face in the crook of Peter’s neck. He can’t. There’s a moment where neither move nor say anything, but then Peter’s rubbing circles on the small of Stiles’ back, and Stiles is hooking a leg over Peter’s hip, and before long, there’s absolutely no talking, only warm sleep.