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The tweet of a nearby bird woke him and Stiles jerked up onto his hands and knees. Beneath him was dirt and fallen leaves, and a cold wind blew across his back.

Not again, he silently groaned and rolled into a seated position to glare at the Nemeton, his nemesis. His overactive mind processed the new shoots of green sprouting from the stump, more than the last time he'd found himself here on an early morning, while his stomach growled with hunger and his bones ached with the cold and from sleeping on the ground.

Finally Stiles pushed himself to his feet, brushed himself off and began the long walk home. The sun was just beginning to rise, but he was a long way into the Preserve. There was no way he would make his first class.

"Couldn't drag me out here on a weekend, huh?" he muttered angrily, wrapping his arms around himself, wishing he'd put on a hoodie before going to bed. After the first two times he'd sleepwalked, he'd learned to leave his clothes and shoes on, no matter how uncomfortable that was.

This was the fifth time in three weeks. Stiles knew he needed to tell Deaton about this, but, despite his help, he still didn't trust him completely, and he sure as hell wasn't talking to Morrell.

But, things were getting worse. The first couple weeks after they survived the Darach and Alpha Pack seemed pretty normal. Nothing supernatural jumping out of the bushes at them. Derek and Cora on a road trip. Peter lying low. Okay, Scott was now the Alpha which was just too bizarre, but there was school and gearing up for lacrosse and talking to his dad about everything he'd been hiding for six months.

And then the Nemeton drew him to its side for the first time.

Stiles did go to Deaton then and learned he was a future Emissary. The spark inside him of magic, the call of the Nemeton, his attachment to Scott, all signs. Eager to learn and help his friend, he'd dove into study.

But, then, he woke up next to the stump again and again and when he wasn't sleeping there, he was having weird dreams that more and more were haunting him during the day.

For the first time since Scott was bitten, Stiles' grades were slipping, his attention, already scattered was completely unfocused where school and normal stuff were concerned. He could focus on his Emissary studies, but, in doing so he forgot to eat and sleep and even sometimes go to school.

And for the last few days there'd been this constant buzzing in his head, interspersed with thoughts so dark they scared him.

Stiles knew that the darkness created by his sacrifice would affect him to some extent, but he also knew that, as recently as the past weekend, Scott and Allison barely felt it in themselves.

Trust him to do it wrong.

*****

Instead of his house, Stiles found himself outside Deaton's clinic, and he stared at the closed sign for a minute before pushing open the door. The place was never actually closed--he was pretty sure Deaton slept there most nights, if the guy slept at all.

The vet was in his office and he gave him a concerned look. "Stiles?"

He knew he looked like crap--dirty, too thin, too exhausted--and slumped down in a chair. "Something's wrong."

"You haven't been here in over a week. You haven't returned my calls. Scott said you've been distant."

Stiles stared in surprise. A week? "You...called me?"

Deaton frowned more and nodded. "Several times in the last few days. Only Scott's assurance that you were still alive kept me from going to look for you. I thought, perhaps you'd changed your mind about training. It can be daunting."

"I..." He patted his pockets but there was no phone and he tried to remember when he'd seen it last. As he did so, the buzzing in his head got louder and he rubbed his temples in distress. "I keep waking up at the Nemeton and I don't know how I got there. I keep having horrible dreams and thoughts and, the darkness, doc, it's getting bigger and bigger."

He saw the vet's mouth moving but couldn't hear what he was saying and then...everything went black.

*****

This time Stiles awakened on the couch in Deaton's back room, under a dog blanket. Snorting in amusement, he tried to push himself up, only to collapse weakly. Footsteps shuffled towards him and he blinked his eyes up to his best friend's concerned face.

As he crouched down, Scott held out an open bottle of water. "Deaton says you're dehydrated." Stiles proved that by draining the bottle and then licking his cracked lips. "Haven't been eating enough either." Frowning, Scott plucked Stiles' shirt away from his collar bones. "You've always been thin, but, Jesus, man, your bones are sticking out."

"I...I forget to eat." He tried to sit up again and this time managed it, but exhaustion swept over him. Stiles couldn't remember the last time he ate or slept more than a few hours at a time or took his medication.

"I'm sorry." Scott looked guilty and Stiles was genuinely confused.

"Why?"

"You're my best friend! I should have noticed something was wrong."

Stiles shrugged his shoulders. "I'm not your responsibility and, it's only gotten really bad in the last week." He brushed off Scott's look of shock and concern with another shrug. "I figured it was Emissary stuff but...I'm not sure anymore."

"It's not," Deaton said from the doorway before coming into the room and sitting on the lone chair as Scott dropped out of his crouch to the floor. "This is very concerning, Mr. Stilinski. While all Emissaries feel a connection to the few true Nemeta in the world, you have a unique connection to this one."

"Because of the sacrifice?" Scott asked and Deaton nodded.

"I was worried about that, but I also didn't see everything happening so quickly. Your becoming an Alpha sooner than I expected triggered the spark in Stiles. While there have been Emissaries trained at such a young age, it's unusual and none have done what he's done, made the sacrifice he made. The Nemeton should only be a conduit for power but I'm afraid it's consuming him because of it."

As Scott gasped in shock and started to question his boss, Stiles felt himself drifting. That made sense. The Nemeton was becoming everything to him. When he closed his eyes he could see it so clearly--not as a stump but as a tree, sparkling with all the colors of the rainbow--and it spoke to him, the buzzing that wasn't quite words always there...

"Stiles!" A smack to his cheek jerked Stiles out of his daze.

"Ow."

Scott was on his knees in front of him, shaking him, panic on his face.

"Let...go..Okay now."

As Scott sat back down, Stiles' eyes were drawn to Deaton and the look on his face was...

"Okay, that's not a good look. Am I dying?"

Deaton visibly swallowed. "It's not good. You're seriously out of balance. Being an Emissary is all about balance and you're tilted too far to magic, and, I'm afraid, to dark magic."

Stiles realized there was something in one of his hands and he frowned down at it. It was a smoky black crystal.

"That was...clear when he put it in your hand a minute ago," Scott choked out and Stiles saw his best friend was near tears.

"Hey, buddy..."

"I'm so sorry, Stiles. Jesus, I'm sorry. I was so happy when Doc said you were meant to be my Emissary. We'd be together, bros forever then and..."

"Scott," Stiles interrupted, emotion choking him a bit, too, but he could feel the desire to drift growing again. It was like, now that he admitted there was a problem and told others, it was getting exponentially worse. Trying to concentrate, he forced the haze away for a moment to ask, "Is there something that we can do?"

"Maybe. I did some research while you were asleep--which you obviously needed as you were out for nearly eight hours."

Stiles gaped at him then glanced at his watch. Jesus. "Dad?"

"He knows you're here and okay," Scott replied, frowning again. "He's not happy but we didn't...we didn't tell him how bad it was."

"Okay, deal with that later. Go on, Doc."

"You need an anchor to keep you in reality, to bring you back into balance between this world and the Nemeton."

Scott perked up and glanced over his shoulder. "Me?"

Deaton shook his head and Scott's face fell. "That wouldn't be a good idea. You're too young, too inexperienced, just getting used to your own power."

"My dad?"

"No, I'm sorry. Because of the Pack bond, it needs to be a werewolf and, Stiles, the anchor needs to be a physical bond first and emotional second."

"I don't understand." And he didn't understand why the older man looked uncomfortable.

"You're drifting from your physicality. I can tell you've lost weight. You're not eating enough or taking care of yourself. You're becoming all mind and that mind has darkness growing in it."

While Scott just looked confused and lost, Stiles understood. He'd known it was happening but he'd continually and purposefully ignored the implications. Looking back, he could see just how many times he'd faked being normal during the past month and how many blank spots there were in his memory. It scared him, but it also...

The buzzing increased again and he panted harshly, forcing himself back, trying so hard to focus on Deaton.

"It's like it's getting worse by the second all of a sudden."

"The Nemeton wants you to go down this path. On some level it knows we're trying to bring you back."

"It's just a tree," Scott protested, but the other two ignored him.

"You need to be bonded to a werewolf. One old enough and in control of himself or herself enough to anchor you and fight the pull of the Nemeton. The werewolf needs to be someone with certain experience and knowledge to help you and there are only two I can think of close enough to do this now."

Stiles' stomach started to churn because he was pretty sure who those two were. "They're not Pack," he whispered, licking his dry lips with an equally dry tongue because he was the researcher. He knew what bonding to a wolf meant.

"One is by blood. If you choose the other one, you won't be Scott's Emissary anymore. You'll be his."

"Who?" Scott demanded, frustrated.

"Deucalion," Stiles murmured, horrified at the very thought. The Alpha was still in Beacon Hills, quiet and not causing any problems, but bonding to him would just be...wrong. So wrong.

"No, no way, dude!"

"I agree." Stiles swallowed hard, and looked past his stricken best friend to Deaton. "Call Peter."

"What?"

"Peter, Scott, the only other option is Peter. He's not an Alpha. He's technically Pack since he bit you."

Scott looked sick. "There's got to be someone else."

"To keep Stiles bound to your Pack it needs to be someone in your Pack, Scott," Deaton explained quietly. "The rest of you are too young, even the twins would fail."

"Derek, we'll call him back."

"No." Stiles was the one to explain this time. "I wouldn't do that to him. He needs to be away right now, to heal."

"He's probably not strong enough for it to work either," Deaton added.

"Just what is this bond?" Looking between the two, Scott frowned deeply. "What aren't you telling me?"

"Do you understand, Stiles?" At Stiles' nod, Deaton rose. "I'll leave you two to talk and go call Peter."

"Will he agree?"

"I believe so. What he'll get from the bond should be enough of an incentive." He left and Scott rose to collapse in the vacated chair.

"Tell me," the Alpha demanded.

Staring down at his lap, Stiles sifted through all the information he had on bonding between werewolves, between werewolves and humans, and sighed softly. "You're not going to like it."

"Yeah, well, I don't like any of this."

Stiles sighed again and, as the exhaustion returned, rested his head on the back of the couch to stare blankly at the ceiling. "It's a mating bond." He could practically feel Scott's shock. "Yeah, with all that implies."

"No fucking way." Scott sounded like he was being strangled and Stiles lowered his head enough to see his face was as red as his eyes.

"...Scott, I don't want to die and that's where all of this is leading," he explains softly. "It's okay. Peter's not...Okay, he's a dick, but I can live with this if I get to live."

"It's another sacrifice. You shouldn't have to do this."

Stiles didn't have an answer to that nor to Scott's next complaint.

"He's too old for you. He's like dad age. It's gross, Stiles."

All he could do was shrug and stare at the ceiling again.

As Scott made strangled noises and protests, Deaton returned. "He's on his way. He wants to talk to you before he agrees."

"Fine," Stiles said tiredly as his eyes drifted shut. Behind the lids, colors exploded and the sound in his head drove away all else.

*****

"Stiles. Stiles!"

That wasn't Scott or Deaton. That was...

Slowly Stiles blinked blearily at Peter who sat on a chair in front of him, leaning forward, eyes narrowed and lips in a tight line.

"You're pretty far gone."

"I'm fucked." Out of the corner of his eye he saw a green-leafed branch reaching for him and stretched out his hand.

Peter grabbed it, squeezing until pain forced Stiles back to reality.

"Ow!" Jerking his hand free he glared at the older man then noticed they were alone in the room. "Where's Scott? Deaton?"

"Well, Scott is throwing a hissy fit in the kennel. Deaton's preparing the ritual." Leaning back, Peter tapped two fingers against his lips. "And you're willing?"

"Don't want to die."

"Some would say I'm a fate worse than death."

Stiles snorted and rubbed a hand over his tired face. "Yeah, no, pragmatist here. But...will this really work?"

"There's no guarantee, but it should. I'm old enough and strong enough and I've lived here my whole life in the shadow of the Nemeton. Until about ten years ago, it was still powerful enough that we all felt it. I can feel it again."

"Yeah, we brought it back. I'm thinking that wasn't a good thing."

"You're half right. It is a beacon to the supernatural, but it's also a necessity to the world. Balance is the key to everything and right now it's too overwhelming and you're being consumed by it." Reaching out Peter took Stiles' wrist. "Your pulse is sluggish and your mind is dull. Neither are normal."

"Will bonding with you stop it?" Stiles asked succinctly, wanting a yes or no answer, and getting only a shrug which frustrated him.

"I will tell you that if the bond doesn't happen soon, you're gone, probably not dead, but not you anymore. It's your only chance."

"And Deaton's right that the younger wolves can't handle it?"

"Life experience, Stiles, plus I have the bonus of having died and resurrected, much like the Nemeton itself. With your sacrifice to it binding you, we're both unique. The universe likes unique things."

"What do you get out of this?" Stiles had to know because, despite Peter's creepiness, he was pretty sure the older man wasn't physically attracted to him.

"Pack. Scott will accept me because of you."

Stiles frowned. "You've never seemed to care about that."

Peter frowned back. "Pride, Stiles. I won't beg for my place, not from my nephew nor my former Beta, but if it falls into my lap, I'll take advantage. As the Emissary's mate, as the Pack elder, whatever place I can get."

As he thought that over, Stiles realized something. "I don't feel like I'm drifting as much."

"Which proves I can be your anchor. We're not even bound yet."

Nodding in understanding, Stiles asked, "So, you'll do it?"

"Under a couple conditions. You tell your father and you keep him from shooting me."

Stiles paled but nodded. That was not a conversation he was looking forward to.

"And, because the bond will need to settle and the mating is for life, you'll need to live with me. I'm not moving in with the Sheriff, so my apartment."

Slowly he nodded again, not sure he liked all that implied, but not sure he disliked it either. "Okay."

"Then let's get started."

*****

Stiles didn't remember much about the ritual. Even though Peter kept their hands linked for most of it, the Nemeton fought back, making Stiles hazy and confused. The sting of the bite on his wrist brought him back for a moment, long enough for him take the knife Deaton handed him and cut a slit in Peter's wrist. The taste of blood lingered in his mouth, but everything else was jumbled and confused.

The next moment of awareness found him in an unfamiliar bedroom. Startled, he looked at the bed he was being lowered to then up at Peter who had a look of concern on his face.

"Try to stay with me, Stiles."

"I...It's pulling me," he whimpered, clutching at Peter's bare shoulders, and where had his shirt gone? Where had his own clothes gone?

"I know, but you should be able to feel the bond between us, too."

Trying to concentrate, he realized the bed beneath him was soft and Peter on top of him was warm and...aroused. Stiles flushed and felt an ache in his wrist. Glancing down at it, he saw gauze wrapped around it. Right, the bite. The first step, and now...

"Peter?" He wasn't sure what he was asking, but when their eyes met, he felt something, a tug in his stomach, and the constant buzzing faded a bit.

"Good. That's good, Stiles," Peter encouraged softly.

"I can feel it, but..."

"It's not complete," the older man finished with a resigned sigh as he reached over Stiles' head towards the bedside table. Eyes following the movement, Stiles blushed at the sight of the small bottle Peter picked up. "You're too young, but we have to do this to set the bond."

"I know. It's okay." Oddly enough, it was. While Peter wouldn't have been his first or any choice, he wasn't freaked out. Maybe it was the bond pulling him away from the Nemeton's power and into balance. Maybe it was that he was a horny teenager about to get laid. He felt a frisson of desire wash over him making his cock stir, and he hoped he could remember this.

"Have we kissed?"

Startled, Peter shook his head.

"Can we?"

"I...I'm not sure that's a good idea, Stiles."

Stiles whined, "Why?"

"It's not necessary."

"So you fuck me and that's it?"

"It's all the mating requires," Peter said through gritted teeth, pushing himself up to his knees to open the bottle.

The moment their whole bodies were no longer touching, Stiles felt the petulance disappear along with the grip of the mating bond. It was replaced by an all too familiar ennui. Closing his eyes, he smelled the fragrant leaves, heard them rustling...and was gone.

*****

Stiles heard himself crying out, felt his body bucking in orgasm, and reality hit him in a rush of pleasure and pain. Eyes going wide he stared up at Peter who was bowed over him, eyes closed, face twisted. He was coming, Stiles could feel him inside him, the heat, the hard pushes, too big, too overwhelming. As Peter stilled, pressing his forehead to Stiles' shoulder, the younger man clutched at him, panting harshly, everything so clear now.

He felt sticky from his own orgasm, and his ass ached in pain because this was all new, but overall he felt good.

For the first time in longer than he'd realized, he was in control of himself.

Tears spilled from his eyes and he cried softly as he shuddered.

"Damn," Peter muttered. "Stiles, I'm sorry. I know you weren't here, but I had to...I was losing you." As he spoke, getting it all wrong, Stiles felt him pull out and winced, because that hurt, too, and opening his teary eyes he saw the contrition on the wolf's face. It was a look he never would have expected.

"No, wrong. I mean..." Stiles took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. "I'm okay. I'm really okay."

And sticky, really sticky.

Peter frowned down at him, then rolled from the bed to walk into what Stiles assumed was a bathroom. Admiring the naked ass disappearing behind the closed door, Stiles flopped back on the pillows and found himself grinning at the ceiling.

He felt really good. He just wished he could remember more of the sex. Idly he let his hand wander over his stomach, making a face as he found the wet mess there, then wiped it on the already damp and sweaty sheet beneath him. Lifting it again, he examined the gauze wrapped around his wrist and poked at it, wincing at the pain from the bite marks, although, at least he didn't seem to be bleeding.

The door reopened and Peter returned wearing a pair of jeans and carrying a wet washcloth. Sitting down next to Stiles he wiped clean his stomach, then urged him onto his stomach and cleaned him there, too.

Stiles felt his cheeks burning, but considering the man had been inside him just a few minutes before, it didn't feel all that strange for him to be cleaning away the lube and other stuff.

"Scott fetched some clean clothes for you. They're in the bag over there." Stiles followed Peter's nod towards a chair on the other side of the room. "Get dressed while I make us something to eat."

"I don't feel it anymore," Stiles blurted out. "I mean, the Nemeton."

Peter stopped in the doorway but didn't look back, just murmured, "Good," before leaving the bedroom.

He was gone before Stiles could reply and, shrugging, he pushed himself up and off the bed. Wincing at the ache in his ass, but feeling so much better, so much more normal, Stiles dressed and followed Peter into the main part of the apartment. It was all modern furniture and art, but not cold. The kitchen was chrome and granite, but the wooden stools at the bar were comfortable and warm with red cushions.

As he took a seat there, he spied Peter cooking sausage and making an omelet with spinach and feta cheese.

"You can cook?"

Peter glanced over his shoulder. "One gets tired of takeout and cold sandwiches after a while." He nodded at the bottle of orange juice and glasses sitting on the counter. "You need sugar and protein."

Silently acknowledging that, because while his mind was clear, his body felt wobbly, Stiles poured a glass and drank half of it before Peter put a plate in front of him. Along with the eggs and sausages, there were two pieces of whole grain toast with peanut butter. "That's a lot of food."

"When was the last time you ate?"

"Um..."

"I thought so." As Peter went back to the stove to fix his own omelet, Stiles dug into his food, because he was starving. To his surprise he was nearly done, the plate almost empty, by the time Peter joined him.

"'s good."

"Don't talk with your mouth full."

Stiles grinned and shoveled in the last scoop of eggs before chomping on the remaining toast. Finishing his meal off with another glass of juice, he slumped a bit, full and warm and...okay, now the awkward was hitting.

"Um...thanks."

"The growl in your stomach was distracting."

"I meant for...y'know..." He felt himself blushing again and rolled his eyes at himself.

"It wasn't altruistic, Stiles, understand that. If the Nemeton had claimed you, the devastation you could have caused...Better not to even imagine it."

"So, you don't want the apocalypse?"

Peter sighed heavily. "No, I don't want the world to end."

"Do you want to rule it?" When Peter glared at him, Stiles held up his hands in surrender. "Hey, can you really blame me? Most of the time you pop up with some esoteric bit of knowledge and then slink away again. We have no clue what you're up to."

"Why do I have to be up to anything?"

"Well...duh?"

Peter sighed again and sipped his juice. "I have no idea what that means."

Stiles snorted and Peter smirked, then slid from his seat and gathered up the empty plates. As he rinsed them in the sink, Stiles grew solemn again. He wasn't sure he trusted Peter, but he had saved him.

"Yeah, okay, well, thanks again. I mean it. I'm not exactly sure what happens next, though."

"We go talk to your father."

Shoulders slumping, Stiles felt dread fill him.

*****

They drove in silence, Stiles not knowing what to say and Peter looking thoughtful. While he understood what Peter got out of this bond, he was still pretty sure he wasn't anything Peter truly wanted.

If he even liked guys.

As they got closer to his home, Stiles grew more and more nervous. He had no clue how he was going to explain this to his dad. He had a dim memory when he'd outlined the whole werewolf thing of skating over the whole truth about Peter, basically just saying that he was alive and whole again, leaving out the parts about him killing his niece, biting Scott, killing Kate and a whole bunch of other people, then dying and coming back.

Stiles felt bad about not telling the whole truth, but then his dad would have insisted on arresting Peter and that would have gotten them nowhere.

As he mulled over what to say, Peter pulled the car into the driveway and the next thing Stiles knew they were in the front door of the house and his dad was yanking him into a tight hug.

"Jesus, Stiles. You had me so worried."

"Sorry, dad." Awkwardly patting his dad's back, he kept repeating it over and over until John let him go to stare at his face.

"Are you okay?"

"Better, a lot better. Um..." He glanced over his shoulder. "This is Peter."

"Hale. Yes, I recognize him." His dad's obvious wariness made Stiles grimace and then nod towards the living room.

"We kind of need to talk." As he stepped back, he waved his arm and his father's eyes zoomed in on the bandage around his wrist.

"You're hurt." John caught his hand. "What happened?"

"Sheriff, perhaps we should sit down to discuss this. Stiles is nowhere near one hundred percent yet."

"Dr. Deaton tried to explain what was happening, but I'm pretty sure I didn't understand it all." They moved into the living room, John taking a seat in his recliner and Stiles joining Peter on the couch. To Stiles it was obvious his dad was confused as to Peter's presence, but he launched into as much of an explanation of what the Nemeton had been doing to him as he could.

After about ten minutes, John waved his son off. "Okay, I got that. It's hurting you, making you sleep walk and lose time, making the darkness--Jesus I can't believe I'm saying this--you got when you died for me, stronger." He rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. "Hell, son, I noticed you looked tired, but you always look tired."

"Dad, it's not your fault. Pretty much until today I didn't realize it was so bad either."

"So, how do we fix it?"

With a side glance at Peter, Stiles said, "It's been fixed." As his dad stared at him with his cop face, Stiles started to squirm until Peter reached out and placed one hand on his knee, which immediately drew John's attention.

"Sheriff, the only way to save your son from being consumed by the darkness within him was to bond him to a werewolf, a strong and experienced one."

"What do you mean 'bond'"? John asked through gritted teeth, glaring at the hand on Stiles' knee which made him cringe, but he didn't try to get away because the touch felt right. It made him feel...good, strong, healthy.

"A mating bond."

There was silence for a long moment as John's face got darker and harder. "Does that mean what I think it means?"

"Dad, calm down, your blood pressure."

"My blood pressure is fine, Stiles! If you've let this man touch you..." The threat was implicit and the Sheriff's gun hand was twitching, even though his guns were locked away in their safe, while his eyes were locked on Peter.

"He saved my life."

"What. Did. He. Do."

"Um...wehadtohavesextosetthebond," Stiles mumbled.

Out of his chair as if he'd been shot from a cannon, John grabbed Peter up as well and slammed him into the nearest wall. "You fucked my underage son?" he yelled, one arm cutting off Peter's air, the other hand raised in a fist to punch him in the head.

"Dad, dad, stop!" Stiles grabbed his father's raised arm, tried to pull him away, but the weakness returned and his head swam. As he started to fall, Peter easily freed himself and rounded John to grab his mate and guide him back to the couch.

"Perhaps you should have cushioned the blow just a bit," he murmured as he lowered Stiles to the couch, then reached for a throw to tuck around him.

"Whoa, dizzy."

"What did you do to him?" John bit out, pushing Peter out of the way to crouch in front of his son. "Stiles? You're white as a sheet."

"I told you. Haven't been eating, sleeping...meds, nothing, just..." Closing his eyes, he slumped down deeper on the couch, shivering. "I was feeling so much better."

He felt the couch dip beside him, a hand take his, and knew it was Peter. "Breathe, Stiles," he coaxed softly. "It'll take time to recover completely." His fingers stroked along the edge of the bandage around his wrist and Stiles shivered for another reason. The coffee table in front of him creaked and he forced his eyes open to see his dad seated on it, alternating between giving him concerned looks and glaring at Peter.

"Peter saved me, dad," he explained weakly.

"Sex is not a cure."

"Mating is. I needed...Peter, I can't...I don't know what to say," he whined, sinking against his mate's firm body.

Softly sighing, Peter explained it so much better than Stiles' blurting it out in the completely wrong way. "Only a mature werewolf has the strength to anchor an out of balance Emissary and the only way to do it is through mating. The rituals we used created an emotional and physical bond which will allow me to help Stiles control the darkness in him. None of his friends, not even my nephew, would have had the strength and the experience. And we couldn't wait any longer. As soon as it realized Stiles was fighting it, the Nemeton threw everything it had at him to drag him under. He might have died. More likely, he would have been driven to madness and wild, out of control, dark magic. The Nemeton isn't evil in and of itself, but the darkness that infected Stiles caused it to lose its own balance and try to turn them both darker. Now that he's anchored, Stiles and the Nemeton will return to a safer, calmer equilibrium."

Stiles watched the simple explanation sinking into his dad's mind and wasn't surprised when, without asking any questions, he rose and headed for the whiskey tucked away in the dining room cabinet. Stiles' heart sank, but then he frowned as his dad returned with the bottle and two glasses. He poured a shot in both, then handed one to Peter.

"Let me state for the record that I hate this, but, thank you for saving him."

Stiles gaped at both older men. Peter seemed surprised as well, but sipped his drink as his father drained his.

"His only other option was much worse than I. None of this should have happened, but his sacrifice, his magic, his innocence, the Nemeton latched onto too much of him. If we'd realized sooner, maybe something else could have been done, but..." Shrugging, Peter drank the rest of his whiskey and set down the glass. "I know this situation is untenable, Sheriff, but we really had no choice in order to save him and the world."

John just shook his head and rubbed his hands over his face.

"Dad, I'm okay with this, really I am."

"You're sixteen."

"Yeah, but so not a kid." Reaching out with his free hand, Stiles squeezed his dad's wrist. "I'm sorry."

"None of this is your fault." John sighed and looked over at Peter. "So...what does this mean? What happens next? And, believe me, I'm trying not to even think about what has already happened."

"Mating is for life," Peter said softly.

Stiles winced at the dismayed sound his father made.

"So, basically you're married?"

"Actually, we are. Alan has the license to marry and it's legal for two men now to wed in California."

"Wait. What?" Stiles gaped at him and Peter gave him a chagrined look.

"You were very out of it."

Sighing heavily, John poured himself another glass, then rose to walk across the room as he drank. Seeing where he was going, Stiles felt his heart thud heavily in his chest. His dad stopped in front of the framed wedding portrait of him and Stiles' mom. "This isn't what I wanted for you. Not what she would have wanted either," he added sadly, one finger stroking over her image.

Tears stung his eyes and Stiles blinked furiously. Peter's hand returned to his, squeezing it gently.

Finally, John turned around and his eyes were reddened. He took another sip, then set down his glass and retook his seat. "He's still a minor. I'll need to sign the license and marriage certificate for him, if it's really necessary."

"As I said, it's a life bond. There are certain benefits to legal marriage. I'm quite wealthy. Stiles is entitled to half of everything I have. Also, I wouldn't want any of your deputies to come after me, or the school or the government."

John scowled, but nodded. "What do you get out of this, Hale?"

Peter stiffened slightly and Stiles squeezed his hand back. Through the bond he could feel a wisp of his mate's discomfort. "Not what you think. Stiles literally could have destroyed the world. I happen to like the world. Also, we get along. He's extremely intelligent and has an insatiable desire for knowledge. I do as well. And, finally, he's Pack. While I'm tied by blood to Scott through the bite, I haven't been welcomed into his Pack. With Stiles as my mate, I have a place again. I don't know if he's told you what happens to Omegas..." The Sheriff nodded. "I fought too hard to live. Omegas, even if they don't go feral, die at hunters' hands or simply from loneliness."

"That sounds all good and on the up and up, but you left out the part where you get my underage son to fuck," John retorted crudely.

Turning bright red, Stiles protested, "Dad!"

Peter stiffened and his hand slipped from Stiles'. "I know the age disparity concerns you. It concerns me, too. We had to...be together once, and we'll have to touch--wolves are tactile creatures--and share a bed to fully establish the mating bond, but it'll be platonic, I promise."

"Wait, what?"

"Good," John said at the same time and both he and Peter ignored Stiles' squawking. "And I want him in school, his grades up. Lacrosse if he wants to play. Hanging out with his friends. College if he wants to go."

"Of course."

"And don't even try to keep me from him," the Sheriff threatened, his face still cold, but also resigned.

"I wouldn't," Peter replied sincerely.

"Gee, thanks for just planning my whole life, guys," Stiles snarled, then winced as two hard set of eyes turned on him. His dad softened first, rubbing his hand over his face.

"Do you get why I'm not thrilled?"

"Yeah." And, he did. He wasn't stupid, but he was still a bit thrown by Peter's declaration their marriage--marriage, really?--would be platonic.

Guess he wasn't into guys. Or maybe just not into him.

Although he wasn't sure why because it wasn't like he cared all that much for Peter, Stiles felt his heart sink, and then felt something soothing wash over him.

Peter was calming him through the bond. When he turned to look at him, he saw that, while there was a small frown on the older man's face, there was also concern. "Sheriff..."

"John, might as well call me John as apparently we're family."

"John, if you'd permit me to go pack some of Stiles' clothes, his laptop and his schoolbooks?"

"Yeah. Upstairs, first door on the right."

With a final squeeze of Stiles' hand, Peter headed upstairs, and John moved to the couch to wrap an arm around his shoulder.

"You okay with this kiddo?"

"I...I dunno, dad, honestly."

"Did he...hurt you?" A glance over showed him his dad's face was bright red again and his eyes shifty.

"No. I'm fine."

"Are you okay that he's a man?"

"Yeah, dad, that I'm really fine with. Um...pretty sure I'm at least bi."

"Oh."

"Yeah, probably a hundred better ways to come out," Stiles sighed and his father snorted in agreement. Slumping against him, he buried his face in the crook of John's shoulder. "Once I'm feeling better, I'll come over all the time. Gotta make sure you're eating right."

"Stiles..."

Stiles barrelled on. "And you can come visit anytime and we'll talk on the phone all the time and..."

"Son, it'll be okay, and I want you to promise me that if he ever hurts your or does something you don't want him to do, you'll come to me. Werewolf or not, I'll beat his ass and then arrest him."

"Dad, I...through the bond, I can feel some of his emotions. He's sincere in wanting this to work. I don't feel anything threatening from him."

"People change."

A door upstairs opened, and, wondering if Peter had listened to any of that, Stiles reluctantly pulled away from his dad.

This marriage wasn't starting off all that well.

And, marriage, really?

He was pretty sure no one had mentioned that to him.

Peter returned with Stiles' backpack, laptop case, and a small duffel. "When you're stronger, we'll fetch whatever else you want and I can go to the store if I missed any toiletries."

"He needs his medication. Especially since he's been skipping doses," John said as he stood to go to the kitchen.

"Didn't mean to," Stiles muttered, as he dragged himself off the couch and followed Peter towards the front door where his dad met them. Taking his pill bottle and stuffing it in the pocket of his hoodie, he wasn't surprised when his dad pulled him into a tight hug.

"Call me tomorrow."

"I promise."

"And let me know if you still aren't feeling well by Monday and I'll get you out of school. I..." John released him reluctantly and looked over at Peter. "Let me know when the license and certificate are ready for my signature and I'll talk to the school once the documents are registered."

"I'll apply for the license on Monday and bring it by the station."

"I'm on day shift, patrolling in the morning, but I'll be in my office over lunch unless there's a crisis."

A sudden worry hit Stiles. "Dad, if this is going to hurt your career at all..."

"I can take the heat. It's more likely people will feel sorry for me."

That hurt, but Stiles knew it was true. Over the years, he'd caused his dad a lot of well-known public headaches, not the least of which was Jackson's kidnapping.

"It'll be fine, kiddo." That comment, accompanied by a sad smile, softened the initial blow enough to elicit an answering smile from Stiles, then he and Peter headed out.

The drive back to Peter's apartment--home, he supposed--was as quiet as the initial drive. Stiles was tired and confused and feeling a bit lost. Once in the apartment, Peter led them to the master bedroom, putting Stiles' bags down at the foot of the bed.

"Um...I can sleep on the couch or something."

"We don't need to be intimate, but we need to touch, Stiles. The bond will strengthen more naturally while we sleep, when our minds can't fight it, and touch is essential. I...know you must be uncomfortable with that, but, it is necessary. In a month or two, you can move into the other bedroom. We can decorate it however you want."

"Oh. Um...okay." This was awkward and weird. Stiles rubbed the back of his neck, and they both looked at each other, then away.

"I'll change the bedding and you can get some sleep. I need to call Alan and do some work, but I'll join you soon." As he spoke, he turned towards a trunk along one wall and opened it to remove fresh sheets.

"Work?"

"I'm not a complete lay-about," Peter said with a slight smile before stripping the bed and starting to replace the soiled sheets with the clean ones. "I have a select clientele, including a couple museums, I find rare antiquities for. These days, I do a lot of my initial work online and don't even have to travel much as all auctions take phone and skype bids. I was looking into the provenance of an alleged Van Dyke portrait of Charles I that's recently appeared on the market. Luckily for us, it's in San Francisco so I won't have to go far if I need to examine its authenticity."

"How did you get into that?"

"Art history degree." Peter grinned and patted the made bed. "Sleep."

As the older man left the room, closing the door behind him, Stiles felt a bunch of soothing emotions roll over him. Stripping down to his boxers and t-shirt, he crawled into the bed, and realized he could get used to being comforted like that.

*****

The next two weeks were weird and normal at the same time. After sleeping most of the weekend, Stiles felt well enough to go back to school on Monday, and his friends were all supportive, if a bit freaked. Lydia was the most bothered by his mating to Peter and she promised to kill him for him if he got out of line. Totally believing her, Stiles had the smarts enough to thank her.

Scott grudgingly welcomed Peter into the Pack. Stiles returned to studying with Deaton. His equilibrium slowly returned and his head remained clear.

Peter baffled him, but in a good way. Stiles' previous experience with Hales was Derek living in burnt out ruins or abandoned, rusty train cars and then a nearly empty loft, wearing the same three shirts over and over--when he wore a shirt at all--and spending his time brooding.

Peter worked, shopped, cooked, and tidied--he was a bit OCD about keeping things clean. He liked mystery novels, scifi movies--which Stiles could easily get behind--Project Runway--which he couldn't-- and college basketball. Apparently he'd gone to Michigan for his degree and was a huge fan of their team.

On returning from school that first day, Stiles had found his mate in his study working on his laptop, wearing comfortable yet obviously expensive clothes, and listening to light jazz music. Stiles figured he'd stared for a good five minutes before Peter had smirked at him and gestured to a second desk that was clear of the many books, papers, photographs and CDs that littered the study, the one messy room in the apartment.

After that day, Stiles usually did his homework while Peter worked, their desks close enough that Peter could reach over and touch him.

And he touched him a lot. He'd been completely serious about the necessity for physical contact.

Stiles had slept through their first night together but awakened with his head on Peter's chest, the older man's arm around him, their legs entwined. And, weirdly enough, it hadn't been awkward. Peter had smiled at him, then gone off to make a hearty breakfast for them both.

Something that Stiles hadn't expected was how comfortable and welcomed Peter made him feel. He never felt like he was intruding and settled easily into what was now his home. While he was still snarky and did the occasional eye roll, Peter also revealed an intelligence Stiles had ignored before unless it was during a supernatural crisis, and he was friendly and helpful. He made sure Stiles went to school well fed, with his homework done, after a good night's sleep.

It didn't feel like he'd had a good night's sleep since Scott was bitten, but he slept well with Peter. Even if they didn't start out in each other's arms, they ended up there.

Which became a bit of a problem after Stiles recovered enough to get horny, but Peter just ignored his morning erections and the fact that Stiles dealt with them in the shower while he put the coffee on and watched Good Morning America.

If his mate ever got turned on by anything, Stiles had no clue. Except for the near constant touching, it was like they were just roommates.

The one person really happy about that was Stiles' dad. The three of them had dinner together three nights after Stiles moved in, and John stopped grilling Peter after the first hour. It helped that Peter bribed him with steak which Stiles frowned a lot at him for doing.

By the end of two weeks, Stiles felt completely normal, healthy, more rested than he'd been in months, and mentally stimulated, which was important for his ADHD and the darkness in him. To help with the latter, Peter taught him to meditate, doing it with him every evening after dinner.

He even lit candles.

It was just so...not what Stiles had expected.

It was...civilized. Peter was civilized. Looking at him as he sipped a glass of wine, a bouquet of flowers between them on the table, wearing a cashmere sweater and linen trousers, Stiles couldn't believe that eight or so months ago this man had been a psychotic killer.

He never felt that. The emotions Peter shared with him were always calm, nice, gentle. He had control over his side of the bond, could shut down the sharing, and he was teaching Stiles how to control it as well because sometimes he just spewed his emotions all over the place. Amazingly, Peter was patient with him.

Stiles just didn't get it.

*****

Nearly three weeks later, things came to a head.

"Hey, I'm home," he called as he hung up his coat in the closet--something he'd learned right off the bat; Peter didn't like a mess, except in his study where it was a controlled mess. Lugging his backpack, Stiles headed into that room and found his mate packing up a vase he'd purchased. It was really old and fragile and it made Stiles nervous just to be in the same room with it.

"How was school?"

"Dull. Pretty sure I aced the history test. I may have gone on a bit about my own theories on the Nazis and their obsession with arcane artifacts."

Peter huffed in amusement and, grinning, Stiles plopped down at his desk and opened his laptop.

"So, did you spend any other client's millions?"

"The vase is seventeenth century Delft and only cost just under a quarter of a million."

Stiles rolled his eyes. It was a blue and white piece of porcelain. Still made him nervous, though, and he was glad when Peter finished the careful packaging and set it aside for the courier to pick up in the morning.

"I made homemade ravioli for dinner. Do you have a lot of homework?"

"Got most of my calculus done at lunch, so just about twenty pages of Hamlet left. Dude was fucked up. Reminds me of Derek."

That elicited a laugh from the older man as he reached over and brushed his hand over the nape of Stiles' neck. The bond flared, warm and comforting, and Stiles smiled up at him, then reached for his book as Peter went to his own desk.

*****

An hour later, Stiles sat down at his usual place in the dining room, amused as always that they ate their dinners in the dining room, a room in his own house used as his dad's second office. Next to his plate was a fancy piece of paper and, picking it up, he saw that it was the marriage certificate, signed by Dr. Deaton, Peter, and Stiles' dad. He frowned at the sight of his real name. If it wouldn't bother his dad so much, he'd legally change it as soon as he could. And now Peter knew it. But, the document revealed something else much more important.

"Stilinski-Hale? Both of us?" He hadn't expected a last name change for either of them. Actually, he hadn't given it much thought, especially since he didn't feel married.

Though, come to think about it, with the complete lack of intimacy, he felt like they'd been married about forty years.

"It felt right. Your father seemed...well, not happy because I'm pretty sure he's not happy about any of this, but I think it made him feel a tiny bit better that I wasn't erasing him by taking your name from you." Peter placed a bowl of ravioli at each setting, then sat down next to him. He took the certificate and set it aside, then wrapped his fingers around Stiles' hand.

The first time he'd done that at the table, Stiles had thought they were about to pray, but instead it was a ritual of another kind. A moment of peace as the scents of the food reached their noses, a moment to gain balance after a hectic day. Stiles had learned to appreciate it.

And Peter's culinary talents. The ravioli was amazing with little bits of cheese and mushroom in them, the sauce light, more broth than normal pasta sauce.

Halfway through eating, he saw Peter reach for an open bottle of red wine and pour two glasses.

"We're officially married as of today," he said in explanation as he handed one glass to Stiles and raised his own. "I figured one glass wouldn't hurt. I'm certain it's not your first taste of alcohol."

Stiles grinned and raised his own glass. "So, are we toasting?"

"I think the moment calls for one." Peter thought for a moment and then smiled gently. "To a long and happy partnership."

They clinked glasses, but Stiles felt a bit...off at the terminology, even though it was accurate, as they had become partners in their work with the Nemeton and the Pack. Peter was the Pack Elder. Stiles the fledgling Emissary. Teacher and student. Peter was teaching him as much as Dr. Deaton, and didn't hold information back, like the retired Emissary did. They got along amazingly well, hardly ever even bickering, and Peter definitely didn't treat him like a kid.

But, then, he never had.

It was just...

Having a mate and a Pack stabilized Peter. Unless hunters killed him, he most likely would live a long life. Stiles wasn't planning on dying anytime soon either--one of the greatest benefits of the mating was he didn't feel like he was running on empty all the time. The terror, that hyper awareness, were gone. Even when it wasn't overt, Peter protected him, and the bond calmed his fears.

But, Stiles could never take a lover. Even with humans, the bond worked both ways. It made them both monogamous. He literally felt no arousal around anyone else, not even Lydia, and hadn't that been a kick in the pants when he'd first realized it.

Gradually, though, he'd become okay with only wanting Peter. He'd grown to like him a lot, and he was definitely attracted to him--especially since he never slept in a top and his abs were almost as insane as Derek's.

And Stiles was a horny nearly seventeen year old and really didn't want to be celibate for the rest of his life, especially since the one time he had sex, he could barely remember it.

But, it was pretty obvious that while Peter liked him, cared for him, enjoyed his company...he didn't want him.

Stiles figured he was lucky the older man had been able to get it up the one time they'd needed him to.

"What's wrong?" Stiles' eyes flicked up to Peter's concerned face. "I can feel your unease."

Frowning at himself, Stiles tried to rein it in. "No, I'm fine. I'm just..." Sighing, he set down his glass untouched and rubbed his hands over his face. "Okay, cards on the table?" At his mate's nod, he plunged into it. "I'm grateful, Peter, really. You saved me. You probably saved the world. You've been amazingly...I dunno, nice about everything. I didn't expect that. I mean, before all this we'd spent some time together researching and plotting because we're good at that, but we weren't friends or anything. I guess I figured that being married to you, you'd just be, y'know, you." At Peter's brow furrowing in confusion, he wanted to smack himself. "Sorry, that didn't make any sense."

"No, I think I understand. You expected me to live in some underground lair and lurk around brooding and plotting everyone's demise."

Since he didn't sound hurt or angry--instead, a bit amused--Stiles blundered on because he needed to know if this was it for his life. "Well, yeah, but, believe me, I prefer this you. Is this the way you were before?"

"I suppose so. While I need a Pack, I've always enjoyed being by myself as well. It's why I went so far away to school and have lived alone since I became an adult, both of which are unusual in family Packs. I have to admit, that I was concerned about sharing my space with anyone, let alone you, but we do get along very well."

"Yeah, that surprised me, too. I guess I didn't give it much thought how you had no choice but to make room for me here. Teenage ego, I suppose. You've had a lot of patience with me, another surprise. Believe me, I know what kind of challenge I am." His fingers reached over to brush the marriage certificate and he wished he could remember the ceremony more than the bite and the taste of Peter's blood. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"Do you like guys at all?"

Obviously surprised and a bit discomfited, Peter took a sip of wine, then set down his glass. "I'm bisexual."

Feeling both relieved and more confused, Stiles bluntly asked, "Then is it just me? You're not attracted to me?"

Face shuttering, the older man said, "Stiles, you're too young to be having this conversation with me. I'm old enough to be your father."

"Age? It's all about age? I thought you were just saying that to placate my dad. I'm not a kid!"

"Legally you are and even if you were eighteen, you'd be too young for me."

"So the fact that we get along, we have a lot of the same interests, we make each other laugh and challenge each other's minds, doesn't matter at all?" Stiles snapped.

"It matters. It makes us friends, companions, but not lovers, Stiles," Peter replied coldly, then rose to start clearing the table.

"We're not done, asshole."

The wolf's eyes flashed blue in anger. "Don't push me," he snapped before he walked into the kitchen and Stiles winced at the clatter of the dishes on the granite counter top. After a minute listening to banging and clanking, he drained his wine glass and rose to follow his mate. He really didn't like being brushed off.

With his back to the door, Peter stood at the sink, hands clasping the edges of the counter, head down and shoulders rising and falling rapidly, betraying his agitation.

"This isn't a good idea," he growled softly.

"Yeah, when have I ever not pursued the bad ones?"

Turning, Peter leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest, his face unreadable, but his eyes just a bit too bright blue. Still, Stiles wasn't scared of him. He was certain that Peter wouldn't hurt him. That he couldn't hurt him. "I can't give you what you seem to want, Stiles."

"Okay, here's the thing about that, Peter. Believe me, I'm grateful you saved my life or my sanity or whatever, and I consented to the mating, knowing what it meant. I'm not a child." When Peter opened his mouth to protest, Stiles waved him off. "No, I'm not. I haven't been since my mom died and I had to take care of my grieving dad, take care of the house, myself. I was eight, Peter, and I grew up fast, and, yeah, I have the lack of impulse control and ego of any teenager, but for the past what nine months or so I've been submerged in a world I'd only played with in online games. I've been fighting and running for my life, researching stuff that shouldn't exist, learning things way beyond my comfort zone. Knowing full well what was going to happen, I sacrificed my life for my dad and this town. Do you get that a child wouldn't have the strength to do that and come back from it?"

Appearing startled by all of that, Peter narrowed his eyes, but did seem to be thinking about what Stiles had said. He took that as a good sign to continued. "If you don't want me, okay, somehow I'll deal, but we're it for each other. I can't have anyone else. You can't have anyone else. Do your really want fifty or sixty years of celibacy? Because I don't. Can you..." he felt his cheeks flush, but soldiered on, "Can you try to want me? I mean, you did that first night, right? Or...maybe not?" Losing his steam, Stiles dropped his eyes to the floor and shuffled his feet uncomfortably. He'd been so out of it, maybe Peter had read porn or something to get hard enough to fuck him. He just didn't remember.

"Stiles," Peter sighed. "It's not...it's not a matter of want. I know you consented to the mating, but what were your options? You were so dazed and we were so rushed, you couldn't have had time or the clear head to consider all the implications. Stiles, it's not just age. I'm...I'm not a good man."

"Because of what you did when you were crazy and brain damaged? You think I'm not past that?"

In a flash Peter was across the room, lifting into their line of sight Stiles's wrist that bore the four red scars of his mating bite. "If I'd bitten you that night in the parking garage, against your protests, I'd have turned you and mated you in one instant. If I'd survived that night, which, with you at my side, I probably would have, I'd have fucked you in the dirt next to the bodies of the Argents, and you would have wanted it," he stressed coldly, "because I can control you through the bond, even more so if you were my Beta."

Feeling himself pale and unable to meet the older man's searing eyes, Stiles slowly drew his hand back. "You can control me?" he asked hollowly. "Through my emotions?"

"I haven't. I swear I haven't, but I can, especially when you're vulnerable. You are never more vulnerable than during sex."

"So, you won't...because you don't want to lose control and make me feel something you think I won't want or don't already feel?"

"One of the reasons. I've taken advantage of too much in my life. I always swore to myself if I ever took a mate, it would be for love. I broke that vow, but, accompanying it was a vow that I would never manipulate my mate to do or feel anything. It would be such a fine line, so easy to cross, with you, because..." He took a deep breath. "I do want, Stiles."

Feeling almost hopeful, Stiles recalled a moment during their one time together and asked, "Did you refuse to kiss me because you were worried you'd lose control?"

"Clever boy." One hand came up, brushed through Stiles' bangs then down to cup a cheek. "It would be so easy to be with you, but it's just..."

"Don't say wrong," Stiles interrupted, his hand covering Peter's. "Please, don't. I know what I want."

"Maybe I'm already manipulating you," was Peter's dull reply as he pulled his hand away and took a step back.

"No. I don't believe that. We've been together for nearly six weeks and everything I feel has developed naturally. I'm an Emissary, remember? You think I don't know my own emotions and that they're real? The first thing you taught me was control of myself and what I feel. I can recognize what's real."

"I...I hadn't thought about that."

Stiles smiled and stepped forward. "See, sometimes I am smarter than you."

Peter snorted and shook his head, but not in denial. "Alright, Stiles. I'll admit to attraction, desire, but that still doesn't mean that this is right. I promised your father..."

"Oh, please! We're married. Legally. Sex isn't illegal between married people no matter their age. And my dad wants me happy. I can guarantee sex with you will make me happy." The smirky smile that crossed his mate's face made him want to jump in glee, because Peter was caving.

One condition, Stiles. We tell your father that our relationship is no longer platonic."

"OMG, you want to tell my father, the man with access to many, many guns and wolfsbane bullets, that you're doing his son?"

"My husband," Peter corrected and before Stiles could flail and protest some more, pulled him into his arms and leaned up just slightly to press their lips together in a tender kiss. "Mate."

Peter's emotions--pleasure, comfort, caring--flowed freely into Stiles and, for the first time on purpose outside of practice attempts, Stiles let his own slip to his mate.

Smiling at each other, they kissed again until both were breathing hard and flustered.

"But, telling dad tomorrow, right? Not now?"

Huffing, Peter agreed with a nod, then glanced over his shoulder at the messy kitchen counter, the dishes in the sink. "I should..."

"No freaking way, dude. If your OCD insists you clean something, you can bathe me with your tongue."

"Incorrigible."

"Damn straight." He started to tug Peter out of the kitchen, allowing him to stop only to turn off the light.

"Let me at least recork the wine. It will take thirty seconds."

"I may explode in thirty seconds."

Snorting, the older man pulled away long enough to go to the table and seal the wine, then he was back at Stiles' side. They kissing all the way into the bedroom, where Peter dimmed the lights and folded down the bedspread, and Stiles rolled his eyes and started yanking off his clothes.

He was hopping on one foot, tugging off the other shoe when a thought hit him and he craned his head to see Peter slowly removing his shirt and watching him with a bemused but hungry look on his face that sent a thrill of desire through Stiles.

"You can't get me pregnant can you?" At Peter's surprised laugh, he glowered. "Because I have no problem being a sixteen year old husband, but I draw the line at teen mom." He tossed the shoe aside and stumbled out of his jeans.

"Still laughing, Peter pulled him into his arms. "It'll never get boring, will it?"

"Nope." Stiles popped the 'p' and started sucking a sadly quickly fading hickey onto his mate's neck. "Oh, just so you know, while I'm okay with bottoming until I know what I'm doing, I'm gonna want to top some time, too, because every guy should get to..."

Peter shut him up with a hungry, passionate kiss before toppling them both onto the bed.

*****

Dopey and happy and sleepy--all the dwarves except for grumpy and maybe doc--Stiles lay curled in Peter's arms, drooling a bit on his chest, and reveling in the afterglow--because it really was a thing--when he realized he hadn't gotten an answer, and since Peter's baby making stuff was leaking out of him...

"So, mpreg, a thing or not?" he asked with a yawn, only partially caring because really he felt too damn good.

"I'm taking the internet away from you," Peter replied gruffly, "and, no."

"Good." He yawned again and let his eyes close, then, thinking about kids with his eyes or Peter's sass, he asked, "In a couple years, when I'm not technically a kid myself, can we talk about them? I mean kids for us?"

Feeling Peter's hand tighten around his shoulder in surprise, Stiles blinked his eyes open and up at him. There was something almost...fragile on the wolf's face. Something fragile and happy.

With a nod, Peter bent down and kissed his forehead.

And around them their emotions swirled and mingled until they sank into a blissed out sleep.

End