Work Text:
Stiles and Scott stumbled through the woods, the trees in the Preserve looming as the faint moonlight shone through the gaps in their canopies. Scott was already complaining: "Why did I even agree to this? C'mon, Stiles, you know I have to sleep before lacrosse tryouts tomorrow—"
"It's a dead body!" Stiles insisted. "Who can say they've seen a dead body—let alone half of one?"
"I don't even know if I want to see a dead body," Scott said, sounding much less enthusiastic. "What if it's…" He trailed off, glancing into the depths of the forest. "Stiles, do you see that? Is there something—"
Honk.
Stiles and Scott both froze.
"Uh," Scott said, "did you hear that?"
"Did you hear that?" Stiles echoed, looking at Scott, and then they both turned in concert.
Honk.
It was pretty late and pretty dark, and Stiles' cellphone light was doing a lot of the heavy lifting. But even under the faint moonlight there was no mistaking what was standing right in front of them: a shining white, completely incongruous goose.
If it were anywhere else, maybe Stiles could fool himself. But there was absolutely zero reason for there to be a goose in the Preserve, which had one river running through it far, far away on the other side from where they were currently searching.
Well, there was one reason for a goose to be here in the Preserve. One very concerning, very unexpected reason.
"Oh my god," Scott said, "is that what I think it is?"
"That depends on what you think it is," Stiles said, "but I think—I think that's a goose."
"A goose," Scott repeated, "as in," and he looked at Stiles as Stiles looked at him in shared disbelief. "Is that for one of us? Is that our—"
"Okay," Stiles said quickly, as the goose started to approach them with palpable menace, "let's not jump to any conclusions. Easy now, goosey goosey"—but the moment he finished the second syllable the goose reared up, its wings spread wide, flapping them furiously as it dove between Stiles and Scott. They each leapt in different directions.
"Oh god. It's huge!" Scott exclaimed, panting and patting his pockets for his inhaler.
"Oh god, it's coming after me," Stiles managed weakly, gingerly inching backward as the goose slowly approached him, its wings still canted wide. "Holy crap, okay, goose, it's not that I don't want to see you, but, um…" He glanced up at Scott who shook his inhaler and took a puff from it. "You okay, Scotty?"
Scott took a few slow, steadying breaths. "Yeah, I'm okay. Um. I think, I think I might… leave you to it?"
"Oh my god, dude!" Stiles exclaimed. "Are you serious?"
"This is your goose! I can't be here! It's important!" Scott started edging away. "Um, good luck? I'll see you tomorrow?"
"You traitor!" Stiles protested as Scott backed away, then disappeared into the darkness. The goose was undeniably herding him backward as Stiles waved his arms at it uselessly and tried not to trip on anything. "I can't believe him. What a dick move. Just because—just because you're my goose doesn't mean… I mean, don't you realize this is an extremely weird time? An extremely suspicious location? Definitely a very concerning moment to have a goose appear? Like, this is the sort of thing that happens in horror movies—well, maybe not straight horror, gothic horror? Gothic romance? Gothic horror romance, is that a thing?"
The goose didn't seem to be concerned with Stiles' fruitless babbling; its wings spread a little further when Stiles tried to edge around it and it honked at him threateningly. "Okay, okay, I'm going, I'm going," Stiles said, "but maybe we can do this without me walking backward this whole time? I really need to see where I'm going and you're not gonna be happy if I fall over and hurt myself, are you? No, what am I kidding, geese don't have empathy."
The goose honked as if in agreement and Stiles winced as he kept an eye on it while glancing behind himself to where he was putting his feet. "But still, you have to see how this is incredibly ominous, right? Goose, woods, dead body… I mean, I'm pretty sure you don't work with dead people but like, who else is out here? It's a murderer, isn't it? It's definitely a murderer. Oh, man. Can I opt out? Run away? Convince you we don't have to do this right now?"
Stiles only received a disdainful look for that—if birds could even look disdainful. Stiles thought his goose was managing it.
"Well, Stiles, this is it," he said to himself, instead. "One innocent Stiles, one cutting-people-in-half murderer. Maybe they had a reason? No, don't be stupid, you don't cut someone in half unless you're a psycho. Maybe they're not a murderer, just an amateur detective? Maybe they're a random hiker… hiking at night, in these creepy body-containing woods?"
Stiles couldn't even make himself believe it. His next few steps ended up placing him at the edge of a clearing—and the goose spread its wings and honked, incredibly loudly, as it dove right past Stiles to—
Stiles spun around and gaped.
That was… not a person.
"Holy shit," Stiles blurted, "is that a—is that a werewolf?!"
It certainly hit all the normal horror-movie werewolf characteristics—a huge, creepy, bent-over man-shaped creature covered entirely in patchy fur. It had weird bat ears and red eyes and sharp fangs and appeared to be fighting a losing battle as it growled and vaguely swiped its claws at the goose, who was honking incessantly and flapping it back toward the middle of the clearing.
Flapping it… toward Stiles?
"…What the fuck? Is my soulmate a werewolf?"
The werewolf stopped fighting the goose to turn to look at Stiles, then. Stiles' first impression seemed about right—a misshapen body, a long face, and glowing red eyes. Then the werewolf hung its head and for a moment it looked more like a forlorn dog than a monster—at least, until the goose honked at it again. It spun back and snapped its teeth at the goose's wings.
"Um, hi?" Stiles ventured, tentatively taking a step forward. He realized the clearing was huge now that he was paying attention, with a giant tree stump in the middle large enough to fit a dozen people laying side-by-side. The werewolf had been backed up onto it. "So, werewolves, huh. Is this, uh, new for you? Do any hopefully accidental murder lately?"
The werewolf let out a strange sound, halfway between a growl and a whine. Stiles took another step closer and eyed both it and the stubbornly lingering goose. "Okay, goose, you've brought us here, you don't have to attack us anymore. I think."
The werewolf looked at Stiles. Stiles gave it raised eyebrows right back.
"Dude, you don't get to talk. If you can talk. Can you talk?" The werewolf stared at him like he was an idiot. "Okay, I guess not. Hey, I don't know, I don't know anything about werewolves. Well, I know some things, but obviously I haven't done any research or anything—it's not a full moon, for one thing. Does that just not count? How about wolfsbane? Or silver?"
The werewolf let out a low rumble of a growl, but tilted its head as it watched Stiles clamber up onto the tree stump. Stiles spread his hands in the universal gesture of peace.
"Look, I'm guessing neither of us want to be here right now, right? But that goose isn't going away, so do you wanna, like… touch? Sniff me or something? I don't know what werewolves do—"
Stiles' back hit the tree trunk as the werewolf leapt at him, its paws on his shoulders and wet nose pressed to his neck. He was immediately extremely conscious of those sharp teeth so close to his vulnerable throat, but as he shifted his head a little the werewolf just… snuffled him, like a huge, mutant dog. "…All right," Stiles said, "I guess you did want to smell me? Is that a werewolf thing?"
The werewolf huffed a puff of air that sent a shiver down Stiles' spine, then started rubbing its face against Stiles' chin. Stiles tentatively reached a hand to its head, his fingers winding into that bristly fur as he tried to pet it like he might a dog.
"You know, I asked my dad for a dog when I was younger," Stiles said, "he never agreed though. I guess this sort of counts?"
The werewolf pulled back to give Stiles a condescending look. Stiles huffed a laugh.
"Yeah, I know, you're technically a person. Probably. Look, dude, I'm working with what I've got here and what I've got is a werewolf." Curiosity struck him and his gaze traveled down to—wow. Stiles could now never unsee that. "A male werewolf. Who may have killed someone, by the way, don't think I've forgotten about that."
The werewolf made a short, rumbling sound, briefly baring his teeth.
"Okay, okay, maybe you didn't mean to, I don't know. You… you're not going to bite me, are you?"
The werewolf's head tilted and he gave Stiles a considering look. Stiles wet his lips. "I mean, I'm not saying no, but I'm not saying yes either, yeah? I need to know way more about it first. Like, do you actually turn into a slavering hungry beast on the full moon? Can you shift back if you want to? Do you get stuck like that? Do all werewolves look like…" He gestured at the werewolf. "And what about, like, poisons and stuff? I don't think we have a lot of silverware in the house but it's not that rare. And is there anything else? I really need to know before I decide, you know?"
The werewolf huffed and pressed his face back into Stiles' neck, then nudged Stiles' hand with his paw. Stiles sighed and started petting him again as he rumbled happily.
"I'm just saying," Stiles said finally, "this is—this is important. I do kinda need to talk to you. Or else we might get a reprise of the goose."
The werewolf lifted his head slightly to look at where the goose had been. It was gone now, disappeared to wherever geese disappeared to. He nudged its nose against Stiles' chin again, which Stiles took to mean… something. Maybe he was trying to be reassuring.
Maybe Stiles was just projecting wildly all over him.
Stiles wasn't sure how long he'd spent lying on a surprisingly comfortable tree stump, cuddling with a warm, heavy werewolf, but he woke up with his phone alarm blaring and the sun shining directly into his face.
"Ah!" Stiles exclaimed, "No! Bad dog!"
He flailed and grabbed at the werewolf whose claws were poised to take out Stiles' poor cellphone; when he made contact the werewolf's head slowly turned towards him and then, after a long moment, it lowered its paw back to the tree stump they were both still lying on.
Stiles quickly scooped up his phone and turned the alarm off. Then, heaving a sigh of relief, he was forced to remember exactly what had happened just then—and the entire night previous—and slowly looked up at the werewolf.
Yeah. That really had happened. Stiles was soulmates with a werewolf.
In the unforgiving light of day the werewolf looked a little less scary than it had last night. Oh, sure, it was still a horror movie creature come to life, but its fur was more bristly than patchy and its strange elongated ears and nose did vaguely resemble a wolf.
But still. How the fuck was Stiles supposed to explain his soulmate being a werewolf?
And he couldn't believe he literally just slept in the woods last night. He felt gross all over.
On the plus side, neither Scott nor his dad had tried to contact him again last night. Well, his dad was a plus—he was probably still out on shift—but Scott Stiles was a little surprised by, considering last Scott knew he'd left Stiles to his doom in the middle of the woods at night, while searching for a dead body.
Well, he'd left Stiles to his soulmate goose. But geese were scary! And Stiles was still pretty sure his soulmate had killed that woman, so, uh…
Stiles pushed himself to his feet, stretching his arms and grimacing at the taste in his mouth. Then he eyed his soulmate. The werewolf. It eyed him right back.
"Dude," Stiles said, "we have got to get you transformed back to a person. Are you stuck? Or are you doing this on purpose? I can't have this conversation by myself, you know that, right? And I really need to get to school. Ah, shit." Stiles looked around him, at the huge clearing that was apparently somewhere in the Preserve. "You don't know how to get back to the car park, do you? What time is it? I'm not even gonna have time to shower."
The werewolf visibly rolled its eyes and nudged Stiles' hip with its nose. "Hey!" Stiles protested, but it ignored him and started off in one direction, then turned its head to look back at him in a clear directive: aren't you coming?
"Okay, okay, I'll follow the werewolf into the woods, why not? I guess I can't be any more lost."
The werewolf huffed in derision, but led Stiles on a meandering path until his Jeep came into view. When Stiles turned back to say something, though, it had already disappeared back into the woods.
"Great," Stiles said to himself, "just great." He adjusted the mirror and brushed a leaf off his head as he coaxed Roscoe's engine into starting, then reached round the back to grab his gym bag—with his emergency change of clothes and even a little travel-sized toothpaste. "Okay, all set, I guess. Let's hope Scotty doesn't have too many questions. 'What do you mean, your soulmate's a werewolf?' Dude, I don't know, I'm as surprised as you are! 'What about the dead body?' Yeah, I don't know anything about that, either. 'What's his name?' No fucking idea. 'Why don't you know anything, Stiles?' Oh, because my soulmate is apparently either stuck as a creature—which I have no idea how to fix—or is just an uncommunicative asshole. And I'm never gonna know one way or the other unless we get goose-attacked again, which I cannot believe I'm actually kinda hoping will happen."
Stiles sighed as he grabbed the bottle of water from the drinks holder and drained it. "Well, maybe he won't ask." Though Stiles didn't know what to think about that idea, either.
He'd managed to get into school fifteen minutes early, enough to take a quick shower in the locker rooms and brush his teeth before class. He slid into the seat behind Scott, but before they could share more than a greeting the entire class's attention was drawn by someone saying, "There's a goose!"
Stiles wasn't the only one jumping to his feet as everyone crowded around the windows looking out to the courtyard. There was a girl coming in—she must be new—being gently harassed into the school by a goose. It was much smaller and less aggressive than Stiles' had been, and he let out a relieved sigh and slid back into his seat as their teacher tried to restore the class to order.
The girl, though, made it all the way to their classroom—and then, by the whims of fate embodied by a large, annoying bird—stopped right by Scott's desk.
Their goose honked and nudged her a little closer. Scott smiled at her, visibly entranced, and she smiled back. "Hi! I'm Allison. Allison Argent."
"Hi, Allison," Scott said dreamily, not getting any further, and Stiles kicked him under the table. Scott flinched and quickly recovered. "Hi! I'm Scott. McCall."
"Yeah," she said, tucking her hair behind her ear, "so I think we're soulmates?"
"Yeah," Scott breathed, "yeah, I think we are."
So in the end, Stiles didn't have to deal with any prying questions from Scott about the nature of his own soulmate, because after that morning, Scott couldn't think about anything other than Allison. Not that Stiles really blamed him—he had to admit his own thoughts were also obsessed with the problem of his own soulmate, though that was definitely more to do with the circumstances than the person, who he didn't know at all.
But Scott deserved a cute, sweet soulmate and an easy, straightforward soulmate bond. Scott who pulled Stiles to lacrosse tryouts and actually made a decent showing despite his asthma, while Stiles admittedly didn't do very well and got stuck on the bench. Scott who looked at his soulmate with stars in his eyes and had zero other thoughts about the body in the woods Stiles had tried to drag him to find last night.
Stiles, though, was definitely sort to poke the bear, and maybe that was why it got him here: embroiled in a supernatural murder mystery with his soulmate as the prime suspect.
Stiles really should check the station records to see if they'd found anything more about the body—the other half, or its identity. Stiles had the distinct feeling it'd give him a direction to search for information about his mysterious werewolf soulmate.
"Did you see that?!" Scott bounded up to him, beaming. "I scored against Jackson!"
"Yeah, great job, buddy," Stiles said, his smile genuinely boosted with Scott's clear enthusiasm. "You really showed him! All that training paid off, huh?"
"Yeah," Scott said, then turned a bit as Allison came closer. Somewhere in the day she'd caught up with Lydia, which Stiles would have been more invested in he hadn't… met his soulmate already. Sort of.
So yeah, maybe Stiles had come on a little strong with her. Lydia still deserved better than Jackson, though.
Scott glanced at Stiles and then back at Allison, who was smiling at him. "Hey," Stiles said, shoving him gently, "go get your girl. I'll talk to you later, yeah?"
"Yeah," Scott said, "yeah." His smile brightened even further as he headed over to Alison and Lydia. Stiles watched him go with some amusement, then turned away to head back to the locker room.
The house was empty when he got home, and since his dad was on night shift again, Stiles decided to make dinner first at home before visiting him at work. He frowned over the ingredients in the fridge and decided on baked chicken and a salad, and had just taken out all the ingredients when the doorbell rang.
That was… unusual. Stiles put down the lettuce and headed for the front door, not quite sure who would be stopping by.
He really wasn't expecting who it actually was: a man in a red shirt and dark pants, his hands tightly clamped around a dark coat that was tightly wrapped around a violently struggling goose.
The goose was making strangled noises in his arms as Stiles gaped at him. The man raised his eyebrows at Stiles. "Can I come in?"
"Uh," Stiles said. "I—I guess? Sure?"
He belatedly remembered to step aside as the man started forward, not releasing his death-grip on the goose until he was safely inside with the door shut behind him. Then, in an instant, he dropped the goose and clamped a hand around Stiles' wrist.
"Hey!" Stiles protested, his immediate tug to retrieve his arm entirely futile against the man's iron grip.
"Don't move," the man said, his gaze fixed on the goose as it made a furious noise and flapped its way free of the coat.
The man stared down the goose as the goose stared back at them, its beady eyes fixed on where they were touching. It honked again, clearly dissatisfied, and then headed straight for the back door; Stiles quickly hurried to let it out, the man following along.
Then, finally goose-free, the man dropped his grip on Stiles and they looked at each other.
"Uh," Stiles said, "so you're…?"
"Peter Hale," said the man, and held out his hand. Stiles shook it, still reeling. "And yes, as you've deduced, I am a werewolf."
"Hale," Stiles repeated, his brain starting to come back online. "Wait, you mean—but the fire—"
Peter Hale watched him with a curious tilt to his mouth as Stiles struggled to collect his thoughts. "Oh?"
"The fire," Stiles repeated, his memory finally starting to connect the dots. "You were… in the hospital, right? After the fire. But… were you always a werewolf?"
"Yes, I was," Peter said. "And so was our entire family."
"So it actually was…"
"Murder," Peter finished, his eyes cold as he smiled. "Yes. Clever boy."
"So, the person who died… who you murdered—"
"'Murdered'? As if she didn't bring it on herself—!" Peter's eyes were glowing red and his teeth were shifting into fangs; Stiles watched with some trepidation as Peter took a few deep breaths and collected himself. "…it wasn't intentional."
"You—what?"
"I didn't mean to," Peter repeated, looking irritated. "It was a mistake. I don't regret it—I can't regret it, not when it allowed me to heal, not after she left me there, trapped in my own body, burning endlessly as I healed cell by cell—"
Stiles couldn't stop his eyebrows climbing up his forehead. It seemed like his soulmate wasn't rising too far above Stiles' first thoughts about his sanity: the crazed psycho vibes were strong with this guy.
"So you… knew her?" Stiles ventured, and Peter looked at him sharply.
"…They haven't identified her yet?"
"No, I mean, she was kinda… in halves."
Peter's eyebrows drew together. "In halves? But… hunters. Of course," he bit out, shaking his head. "That's an Argent special. If they're here already…" His gaze landed on Stiles and a strange expression came over his face that Stiles couldn't read. "What's your name?"
"Stiles," Stiles said, "Stiles Stilinski. Wait, go back a sec—"
"Your parents named you 'Stiles Stilinski'?" Peter said over him.
"No, it's a nickname," Stiles said, rolling his eyes, "and dude, I think I deserve an explanation. So someone burnt down your house on purpose. Because you're werewolves?"
"Yes," Peter said, watching Stiles calculatingly. "It was unquestionably hunters. They trapped us in the house, blocked our exits—none of the reports found it suspicious we were trapped in the basement?"
"I haven't looked yet," Stiles admitted, "but it was ruled an accident."
"Hunters," Peter spat. "That's what they do—they bribe and threaten and kill to get what they want, and they don't care who stands in their way."
"And you mentioned—Argents."
"A hunter family," Peter said. "Supposedly they follow a 'code' that forbids then from hurting innocents, but in practice…" A low growl of a sound rumbled in his chest. "They've attacked without provocation before."
"And the person you killed…"
Peter narrowed his eyes at Stiles as he clearly came to a decision to tell the truth. "My niece. Laura. She inherited the Alpha spark from Talia and instead of caring for our pack—instead of taking on the responsibility she was trained for—she left me! Alone and burning, without pack, without bonds—" Peter's teeth were clenched and his eyes were flickering red. "She didn't deserve that power. She didn't deserve it."
"So," Stiles said, carefully, "you… killed her?"
"I told you," Peter said, visibly restraining himself, "I didn't mean to. She was an intruder on my territory—she was nothing to me and my wolf."
"Right," Stiles said doubtfully. "And that's… that's better now? You're not going to… accidentally kill anyone else?"
"Accidentally?" Peter repeated. "No."
"…And purposefully?"
"My family was burnt alive," Peter said, looking at him with a ferocious intensity. "All of us—my siblings, their spouses and children—we were trapped and exterminated like rats by hunters who won't even think what they did was wrong. I won't rest until everyone involved meets death for what they've done—until they've felt what it's like to be hunted, until they know exactly what sort of monsters we are."
He spoke with such fervor Stiles couldn't help but empathize with three circumstances that had brought him to such a state, and perhaps Stiles always would have a place for revenge in his conception of justice. Stiles' mother had been taken by a disease, not a person; but Stiles could only imagine what he'd do if someone hurt his dad, the only person he had left.
And maybe that was the commonality that made them soulmates, Stiles and this fully-grown, traumatized and murderous werewolf.
Stiles didn't really want to think about what that said about him; whether he, too, was just one tragedy away from turning into a psychotic killer. But no, that was ungenerous of him; Peter did still seem pretty unstable, but he had a plan, he had a goal. As long as his revenge didn't spill over and hurt anyone else…
"Only the people involved?" Stiles said, finally. "You mean it?"
"Yes," Peter said, "only the responsible ones."
"Keep my dad out of it," Stiles said, after a moment. "And you—they know about you."
"Yes," Peter said, raising his eyebrows, "and I would have left you out of it, but…"
Stiles thought back to last night—the werewolf who didn't shift back—and today, Peter appearing on his doorstep largely against his will. "Well, stop leaving bodies in the woods," Stiles said, "and don't get caught."
"Oh, don't worry, sweetheart," Peter said, "I'm much better than that."
"And," Stiles said, testing, "I have a lot of questions about werewolves."
"You do, do you?"
"Yeah. So. I'm gonna make dinner and you're gonna stay—unless you want to bring the goose back again."
"You drive a hard bargain," Peter said, sounding more amused than annoyed, and Stiles let out a short breath of relief. "…Do you want the bite, Stiles?"
"We'll see," Stiles said, wetting his lips as he glanced at Peter before turning back to the kitchen. "You haven't exactly sold me on the werewolf thing yet."
"…I'll convince you," Peter said, following him over to lean against the kitchen counter as Stiles started collecting his ingredients. "You'd make an excellent werewolf."
"Yeah," Stiles said, "so, you're obviously just saying that because we're soulmates. How about you actually get to know me first."
Peter raised his eyebrows and approached him, crowding Stiles against the counter. Stiles lifted his chin and stared Peter in the eye as Peter's nostrils flared and he inhaled.
"You're afraid of me," Peter said, definitively.
"Uh," Stiles said, "no?"
"You are." Peter's smile was a little crooked. "Of course you are. I'm stronger than you, faster, a complete unknown who you know has already killed one person. You would be an idiot not to be."
"Okay," Stiles said, his eyes narrowing, and he shoved at Peter's shoulders; Peter obligingly took a step back. "Look, you're right, I don't know much about you. You're obviously a violent murderer and I don't trust your mental stability, like, at all. But if you were going to hurt me you would have hurt me already, and dude, I can't imagine you've lost everything and then, what, you'd kill your soulmate too? You're a survivor, Peter. Are you saying you don't want to live after you've gotten your revenge?"
A smile grew on Peter's face. "You could help me, you know. Werewolves hunt in packs."
"Okay," Stiles said, rolling his eyes, "still not seeing the benefits here. Now get out of my way and let me cook."
Stiles did manage to get dinner finished eventually, quizzing Peter on every werewolf quirk he could think of. Peter indulged him, and Stiles could see the way he seemed to settle more as they bantered back and forth. Maybe that had been half the problem—the isolation from his coma, and then waking to, well, having killed his niece—Stiles could see how that might have fucked him up.
Stiles had cooked enough for Peter, too, and they ate together at the dining table, Peter looking surprisingly uncertain for a moment as he started on the food. It did give Stiles' understanding a little more weight; that for all Peter spoke about violence and murder, there was a person underneath it all: someone who'd spent years without anyone who cared at all.
Stiles couldn't say he loved Peter. Theirs wasn't going to be a love at first sight. But he could see the vague shape of where they might fit together, where their lives might intersect. And with the way Peter watched him, his gaze considering as he finished his meal and Stiles took his plate, he was seeing it too.
"Don't get caught," Stiles repeated, leaning his hip against the counter as Peter rose to his feet. "And maybe stop by again before the goose comes back."
Peter stepped forward, close enough to bite. But all he did was lean in, his face brushing Stiles' as he briefly pressed his nose to the space behind Stiles' ear. Peter breathed him in, silent, and Stiles held stock still.
"Yes," Peter said, pulling back, "I think I will."
Stiles did end up stopping by the station that evening, though it was late enough he'd left the leftovers at home; his dad would have already gotten food. "You didn't get a burger, did you?" Stiles accused, peering over the Sheriff's shoulder as he worked through his paperwork.
"…I got a salad instead of fries," Noah assured him. "Okay, what are you looking for?"
"Hey, can't I just be here to check up on you? How can I know you're keeping to your diet if I don't?"
Noah raised his eyebrows. "I know you've been bribing my deputies."
"Okay, okay," Stiles said, "so I heard you were looking for half a body last night…"
"Stiles, have you been listening to my phone calls?"
"Only the interesting ones," Stiles said. "Come on, did you find anything?"
"You weren't out last night, were you? Stiles…"
"I plead the fifth," Stiles said, innocently. "You didn't find it?"
"…We didn't find it." Noah sighed. "I'll be heading out again tonight—and I expect you to be home, sleeping, in bed, capiche?"
"Yeah, yeah," Stiles said, "I've got school tomorrow!"
"You had school today," Noah reminded him as he waved him off. "Don't get in any trouble."
"You'll never catch me," Stiles promised as he eeled out the door. Instead of heading straight out of the station, though, he stopped by the records room—he was such a fixture in the station no one cared where he wandered—and took a look through everything they had on the Hale fire and the likely conspiracy of the cover-up: an insurance investigator, some barely-questioned witnesses. He took photos of all the important stuff and checked the digital records for current details and priors, then took photos of that, too.
Did this make Stiles an accomplice to murder? Or did he pass that point last night, when Peter had admitted to murder and Stiles hadn't turned him in?
But Stiles didn't think he'd lose sleep over it. Peter would get this information with or without him; Stiles didn't know him that well, but he knew that much. And if Stiles could make his hunt easier, his investigation simpler—it would just keep Peter out of his dad's way.
And maybe, too, Stiles wanted Peter to know he didn't fault him for wanting to avenge his family. Maybe Stiles wanted to see what would come of their relationship once Peter was done.
Stiles didn't exactly forget the problem of Allison's last name, but it didn't take much prodding to see she had no idea about werewolves. She seemed to be fairly bemused by Stiles, and very busy with her own relationship with Scott—who, in return, was completely smitten with her. Scott invited Stiles to Lydia's party on Friday, but Stiles begged off with the excuse of not wanting to be a third wheel.
"Hey, wait!" Scott said, suddenly. "Didn't you meet your soulmate?"
Now, two days after the whole ordeal, Stiles had run through the entire gamut of emotions about everything and it was easy to lie: "Nah, I think it was a mistake, the goose just ran off after you left."
"Oh," Scott said, giving him a sympathetic look. "That sucks. Don't worry, if you saw your goose once you'll definitely see it again."
"Yeah," Stiles said, wryly. "I'm sure it'll show up again sometime."
Peter only showed up in Stiles' room sporadically, having taken to climbing in through the window at odd hours when the Sheriff wasn't home. Stiles only heard of his actions through the police radio and his dad's comments: a wild animal attack here, a fire gone out of control there. Stiles mentioned Allison, that she hadn't been inducted into the family business—and later, the news of her aunt coming to town.
"Stay away from them," Peter told him firmly, his eyes burning red. "Keep your head down. They won't hesitate to hurt you to get to me."
"Don't get caught," Stiles repeated. Peter's smile was faint but genuine.
"I won't."
"Still want to bite me?"
"Sweetheart, I'll always want to bite you. But… you're right. I won't risk you running into them as a new wolf, not now."
And Stiles had been thinking about it. The question had been on his mind every time he saw Peter, every time he thought about Peter hunting alone. Maybe Stiles was a decent substitute for a pack as Peter's soulmate—but he could be more.
He was starting to think he might want to be more.
Because Peter was improving. Maybe it was the progress he was making in hunting down those who killed his pack; maybe it was Stiles and their warming relationship. Or maybe it was just having someone to talk to who knew him and didn't want him dead, having a soulmate and a promise for the future.
Because Peter had lost that wild madness behind his eyes, the trigger-edge of rage he'd held; his gaze turned soft on Stiles and when he scented him it was lacking the desperation that had undercut the first few times he tried.
It made him think that maybe Peter would be a good Alpha. Or at least, he would be, if his Beta was Stiles.
"We're gonna have to find a way to bring the goose back," Stiles said. "I need to meet you properly."
"Yes," Peter agreed, "once I'm not a missing coma patient anymore."
Stiles rolled onto his back to look up at his bedroom ceiling. "I just realized, my dad's definitely gonna freak."
"You know I won't let him keep us apart."
"No," Stiles said, "he wouldn't, he and my mom were soulmates." He fell quiet for a moment. "It's just, you know. The age thing. The werewolf thing."
"You want to tell him about werewolves?"
"I assumed you would want to tell him," Stiles said, rolling back over to look at Peter's face. Peter's gaze was on him, warm and covetous. "You want to establish your pack here, right?"
"Our pack," Peter corrected him. "And yes. Though if he's as intelligent as you say, we might want to leave some space before that reveal."
"…Yeah, okay," Stiles said. "Soulmates first, werewolves later. And then, maybe…"
He didn't voice it. But Peter smiled at him anyway.
"You know I think you'd make an excellent wolf," Peter said, "but it's you as you are who is meant for me, Stiles."
Stiles could feel the blood rise to his face. "…Yeah. I know. You sap."
"Good," Peter said. When he scented Stiles, he lingered until Stiles started to flush. "It'll always be your choice."
"I know," Stiles repeated, smiling despite himself. "So you'd better finish cleaning up, dude."
It didn't take that long, in the end. Kate Argent died in an animal attack after illegally imprisoning Derek Hale in his own house, rescued by his uncle Peter, who had just come back from getting plastic surgery out of state and was very surprised his transfer paperwork from the long-term care ward had been so messed up. Stiles only heard the news second-hand at the Sheriff's station, the day after all of it had gone down; Tara freely shared what details she knew as she updated the most recent reports and ate Stiles' bribery cookies.
"Wait, Derek Hale? Why was he here?"
"Well, you remember we identified his sister—that poor boy," Tara said, frowning. "He came back when he hadn't heard from her. That Argent woman…"
Stiles knew it hadn't been Kate Argent who killed Laura, but he had no idea how Peter and Derek's confrontation had shaken out. At least they were both still alive. "And Peter Hale?"
"His nurse was faking his paperwork," Tara said, "Noah thinks it might not be the first time."
"More paperwork?"
"More paperwork," she agreed wryly. "Kiddo, don't fall for the propaganda and forget how much of this job is just paperwork." She glanced up and looked at the station doors. "Wait, did you hear—"
"Oh my god," Stiles said, his shock genuine as he saw what she did: an extremely large, extremely aggressive, and extremely violent goose. But Stiles' shock was, admittedly, at Peter: visibly harried and clutching at his sleeve, covered in blood, as he quickly sidestepped away from the force of the loudly honking goose herding him through the station doors. Compared to the man who'd carried it to Stiles' house, trapped in his coat and strangled mute, it felt like the goose was now getting its well-founded revenge.
The entire entrance cleared a path as Peter—forced along by his goose—headed inside. Tara's eyes widened as they approached her desk, and Stiles hopped down the moment before the goose shoved Peter right into him.
Peter reacted quickly; he got a hand on Stiles' hip and twisted them both out of the way of the goose and its sharp beak and wildly flapping wings. The goose honked sharply and stared at them with its dark, beady eyes, obviously not trusting them in the slightest.
Stiles looked at Peter. Peter looked back.
"Um, hi?" Stiles said, barely repressing his smile. "That's… some goose, huh?"
"Obviously it thinks I can't live another moment without you," Peter said, incredibly smoothly. "It's lovely to meet you, sweetheart. Peter Hale."
"…Stiles Stilinski," Stiles introduced himself, then eyed their still-lingering goose. Whatever Peter had done to bring it back seemed to have made it even more angry at them than it had been in the first place. "That's not gonna stay there, is it?"
"We should keep touching," Peter suggested, raising his eyebrows, "just in case."
Stiles rolled his eyes, grinning despite himself. "You creep."
"Only for you," Peter said, smirking.
Behind them, Tara cleared her throat. "Um, congratulations," she said, "but would you mind… moving a bit? Oh, and Stiles…"
Stiles finally remembered to look around and take in just how much of a commotion they'd caused. Yep, he really had just met his soulmate in the middle of the station bullpen, with literally every officer who'd seen him grow up standing around and watching them with surprise. And… yep, there he was, walking towards them with a purposeful glint in his eyes: the Sheriff, Noah Stilinski. Stiles' dad.
"Hope you have your arguments planned," Stiles said under his breath, low enough only Peter's werewolf ears could pick up, and then gave his dad a bright smile. "Hey, daddio! Great to see you! Guess what, I just found my soulmate!"
"Peter Hale," Peter introduced himself, holding out the hand that wasn't attached to Stiles. Noah gave Peter's hand on Stiles' hip a sharp look. "It's good to meet you."
"I wish I could say the same," Noah said, looking between them and gesturing at Stiles. "Stiles?"
"Yeah, um, I think we've got a very enthusiastic goose. How long is that gonna be there, exactly?"
Peter met his gaze with a half-shrug. "I don't know."
"You don't know?" Noah echoed.
"I don't know," Peter repeated. "Hopefully not more than a few hours. If we're disturbing work here—perhaps we could make use of your office?"
Stiles gaped at Peter's sudden boldness. "Dude. Seriously?"
Peter gave him a pointed look back. "We seem to be attracting attention."
"Yeah, but…" Stiles looked at Noah. "Dad?"
Noah looked between them both, then at their very present goose, and heaved a sigh. "We're really doing this," he said, sounding resigned. "Fine. I'll be supervising you, of course."
"Oh, great," Stiles said, rolling his eyes. "C'mon, he's my soulmate."
"And you're in high school," Noah said, giving Peter a narrow-eyed look. "Though I'm sure Mr. Hale won't overstep."
"Call me Peter," Peter said warmly. "We'll be family, after all."
The audacity of him. Stiles couldn't help his choked laugh and smile as Peter winked at him, and Noah gave him a despairing look as he led them to his office. Peter dragged the guest chairs close enough for them to touch before they took their seats, and Stiles exchanged a wry look with him.
Stiles was sure Noah would start by insisting on any number of conditions to their relationship, but in the end, under Stiles' urging, he'd give in; he knew what it was like to have a soulmate, and he wouldn't begrudge Stiles his own. And there were dozens of things they still needed to sort out: Derek, the Argents, Peter settling in as Beacon Hills' Alpha.
And maybe, once all of it was over, Stiles would ask Peter for the bite.
The future was still up in the air. But for now, Stiles had Peter, and Peter had Stiles. They'd work it out.