Author's Note: This is the sequel to the story "What Does it Mean? (it means that you're mine)"

The second Peter's plane lands, a mental countdown starts going in his mind.

His leg is bouncing despite his better sense, and he wishes he could hide it better, but by then probably all the first-class of that plane can already tell how desperate Peter is to get out of that plane. They probably think he's afraid of heights, or that he gets sick while airborne, so a few sympathetic glances are being thrown his way, and although they couldn't be farther from the truth, Peter does nothing to correct the assumptions.

It sounds more respectable than the truth, anyway.

How would he have been able to explain that his thoughts are a loop of stilesstilesstilesstilesstilesstiles?

He powers through the next eight minutes, getting up and leaving the second the doors are open, rushing out of the plane, thanking a random deity that he had no luggage to reclaim, and so, he can go straight home. If he sort of jogs all the way to the parking lot, well, nobody has to know it.

The feeling of urgency is rising in his chest. His flight got delayed, and although he had no way of predicting or fixing it, Peter feels the need to make up for the lost time now, rushing to find his car on the mass of black cars standing in front of him.

Two minutes later, Peter slides into his car, indescribably happy that the Jag is still in the same conditions as it had been when he left it there six days ago. The last thing Peter needs at the moment is to waste his precious time having to a cab or rent a car. No, Peter mind is focused on the task ahead, so he drops his backpack and jacket on the passager seat, finds the pedal and floors it.

He has only one goal, and a small thing like traffic law isn't going to deter him. Not today.

He glances at the car's display, checking the time, and sees that he's cutting it too close for comfort. He has twenty minutes to get there if he doesn't want to keep Stiles waiting.

Shit, Peter thinks, speeding through a red light without blinking, his fingers already moving across the buttons next to the steering wheel, selecting a name, ringing it.

She answers almost immediately. "Peter." Claudia's voice comes through the speakers, loud and rushed. "Please tell me you'll make it."

The plead behind the questions is clear, and Peter finds himself pressing down harder on the pedal. "I'm on my way," he informs, his voice snappier than usual.

"Thank God!" She says, exhaling a deep breath. "Stiles's been miserable without you around."

Perhaps she means that as a reassurement, something that will please Peter, or maybe she is just exhausted from a long week with his unsettled mate... it doesn't matter the motive, was does matter is that Peter knows she doesn't mean it in a bad way, yet her words only serve to fray even further his already distressed nerves. Peter's grip on the steering wheel tighten until his knuckles turn white, and he has to bite back the growl threatening to make its way past his lips.

Knowing Stiles' been miserable raises all his hackles, triggering a protective instinct he hasn't quite managed to get under control even after several months.

"Call the school to warn them that I'll be the one picking him up," he orders instead of telling her to shut up the way he wants to. "I'll be keeping him for the weekend. Is that alright?"

"Sure," Claudia agrees, far too readily, as though she had already known those would be his next words. "I'll tell John—don't worry about him." There's a pause. "Peter, please try to get him to eat something, okay?"

Peter knows his eyes are flashing and his voice sounds lower when he answers. "You got it. I'll take care of him." And it's a fucking promise.

"I know you will," Claudia says softly. "I'll call the school now. I see you on Sunday."

"Bye," he snaps, but she's already hung up on him.

It's okay, though. He has something else to focus on.

The Jag skids to a halt in front of Stiles' school, and he's only five minutes late, which it's a fucking miracle, but Peter cannot find it in himself to be impressed when he's so impatient, pushing the car's door open and all but jumping off his seat. Goddammit, Peter is slowly turning into the energy ball that is his mate, and he can't even be bothered to regret it.

He walks to the front door, ignoring the looks he gets from the mothers around him. He's not interested in any of them, and it's best if they don't get the wrong idea, so he bypasses them, skillfully rushing pass the bodies in his way until he sees his mate's classroom, with its stupid yellow door and fucking tiny elephants painted all over it.

The stupid door is open, though, so he can see the inside, where there are only three brats still playing, and all the way in the back, sitting down on the floor, reading a book in complete silence, is his kid. Stiles. Peter's heart is racing, and he only notices right then, when his eyes land on his perfect mate.

But he looks sad, and Stiles should never look sad.

"Is there something wrong with that book?" He asks playfully, watching as Stiles instantly raises his head, eyes widening as they meet Peter's.

"Peter!" He shouts, throwing the book aside and running towards Peter, who has barely any time to prepare before he gets an armful of Stiles. "You're back."

Peter reposition Stiles in his arm, putting him in a more comfortable hold, with his arm tight against his mate's middle. "Yeah, you little terror. I told you I would come," he says, bumping their noses together, basking in the moment as his anxiety vanishes. Stiles is in his arms, safe and sound. All the rest can wait. "Did you think I wouldn't come?"

"It's been so loooong, Peter," he whines, batting his eyelashes at Peter, like the little shit he is. "You said it would be fast. Blink and miss it. This wasn't 'blink and miss it,' Peter. Nuh un. No way. I waited for hours, and you never came back—what took you so long? I wanted to show you my new comic—"

"Breathe, Stiles," Peter orders, even though he's pretty sure he's smiling at the enthusiasm, unable to resist the infectiousness of his mate happiness as he moves his hands around and bobs his head as he speaks without catching a breath. God, he missed this kid so much. It's ridiculous.

"I'm breathing, Peter," he mocks, sticking his tongue out, and Peter's about to tease him about it when Stiles' teacher interrupts them.

"Stiles! What have we discussed about sticking your tongue out at others like that?" She asks, her voice stern.

"That it's a rude gesture and we aren't supposed to do it," Stiles recites dutifully, but Peter sees the glint in his mate's eyes, and he knows the kid doesn't give a crap about what—Melissa, Melanie?—is saying.

When she opens her mouth to add something else, Peter interrupts. "Is okay," he says, ruffling Stiles' hair with his free hand, messing his hair up even further. "He knows that one of these days I'll bite his tongue off if he's not careful."

"No, you won't," Stiles says with a smile, not believing him for a minute, and shit, Peter used to have a reputation, an image, a frightening demeanor, and yet this small piece of a human being just smiled in the face of his threat, confident that the werewolf wouldn't hurt a single strand of his baby-soft hair.

"No, I won't," he concedes, not even bothering to pretend. "I might not give you your present, though." Which, yeah, also a big lie, but he had to try to save some of his dignity.

Stiles' eyes light up. "Present? What did you get me? Is it a toy? Is it? Hun? Is it Batman? Peter!"

"Not saying," Peter sing-songs, turning to the teacher again. "Can I have his backpack, please?" And he throws a little of his charm her way, hoping to smooth things over a bit, knowing it never hurts to keep people on his side. He's rewarded with a wide smile; her scent instantly turning sweeter.

"Sure! I'll get it for you," she says, almost tripping in her rush to go retrieve the backpack.

Stiles tugs at his sleeve. "Hey!" He calls, and when Peter turns back to him, he's frowning. "Tell me about my present. Stop getting distracted—I'm here!"

At that, Peter melts slightly, grinning fondly at his mate, who still doesn't know just how much sway he has over Peter. Stiles is jealous of his teacher, and it's so ridiculous that Peter cannot help himself. He leans down to kiss Stiles' neck, blowing a raspberry against his skin, only to smile when Stiles giggles in his arms, shifting and trying to push him away.

"Yes, you are, kid. Let's get out of here, shall we? Get something to eat?"

Stiles rests his cheek on Peter's shoulder. "Can we have curly fries?"

"Anything you want, kid." Peter agrees softly. "Anything."

Peter isn't exactly sure when his life had shifted into being a 24/7 daycare center for a single, very active child. Yet, despite all rational odds, that's precisely what he concludes it has become when, the next morning, while his wolf senses tell him that it's still way too fucking early to not be sleeping, a small body climbs over his back to hug him from behind.

"Peter, wake up," Stiles says, shaking him, and it's supposed to be a whisper but they are still working on the whole 'inside voice' with him, and therefore comes out more like a loud whine. "I'm hungry."

"There's food," Peter mumbles against his pillow, refusing to open his eyes. Maybe if he pretends to go back to sleep, his mate will follow suit, and they can get a couple more hours of rest while they still have that possibility.

It's the first time in five nights he's sleeping next to Stiles and, thus, getting any actual rest, so sue him if he tries to stall for a few more moments under the covers.

No such luck, though, 'cause Stiles pokes him at the ribs, with way more force than a six-year-old kid should have. "Nuh un. You have to make pancakes, Peter. It's Saturday, and Saturday is pancake day," he points out, nuzzling his nose against Peter's back, and it's such a wolf thing to do that it almost forces a purr out of Peter.

But making pancakes means getting out of bed, getting up, moving from his current place. "Stiles, just half an hour, hun? Pancakes can wait," he tries to bargain, moving his arm a little so he can reach back and rub Stiles' back.

Stiles laches onto his arm like a baby koala. "You promised."

Two words.

Two words being whispered against his skin and Peter's eyes snap open, all thoughts about going back to sleep crushed to dust because his mate sounds uncertain and it means there's something wrong, and Peter's brain instantly demands that he fixes it.

So Peter shifts until Stiles slides off his back, instantly turning around so that they are facing each other instead. Stiles is kicking the sheets away, still wearing the Batman pajamas that Peter had bought him, looking so small and perfect, those golden eyes shining. Peter's hands move on their own accord, reaching for Stiles and wrapping around him, pulling him closer, settling his face on the crook of his neck, his nose instantly moving to scent his mate. It's comforting to smell that fresh, clean scent coming off of Stiles in a way that nothing else is.

"Hey, what was that? Of course we are gonna have pancakes today, it's our little tradition," Peter says, ignoring the voice in his head that reminds him that something that has been going on for three months can hardly be constituted as a tradition. Stiles says it is, so it is.

Stiles' small hands find their way under Peter's shirt, tracing slow patterns on the space of his back. "You weren't here last weekend," he confesses, sounding guilty as he admits what's truly bothering him, and somewhere inside his rib cage, Peter's heart misses a beat.

He left for six days. He needed to wrap things up in New York after he had moved back to Beacon Hills without even so much as a warning. They talked about it—it isn't like Peter disappeared out of the blue. They spoke on the phone a million times, and Peter drove to pick him up at school the second he landed.

It doesn't mean Stiles took it well. However, other than a sad face and the clinginess, he hadn't said anything about it until now.

"I'm sorry if it seemed too long for you, kid. I tried to do things as quickly as I could to come back," Peter says, pulling back a little so he can look into Stiles golden eyes. "It's over now, okay? I won't have to leave again. I promise."

"It was a lot of days," Stiles insists, pouting.

Too many days, in fact. Peter destroyed all the plates in his old apartment and almost killed two people trying to settle his old contracts. Six days without Stiles is not an experience he's willing to go through again.

"I know," he agrees, carding his fingers through Stiles' hair. "I know, kiddo. But I'm here now, and we'll do pancakes together like always."

Stiles considers the offer for a long moment. "I want chocolate chips."

"Alright."

"And orange juice."

"Okay."

"And bacon."

Peter smiles. "You are not eating all that," he points out, although they both know that it's not a no.

"Yes I am," Stiles says, grabbing one of Peter's hand and moving it until it settles over the chain of his necklace, as he always does when he wants to win an argument. "You said anything, right?"

Stiles' eyes are gleaming with challenge, daring Peter to deny him something after so many days away, and his hand is atop of Peter's, pressing it against his neck and the necklace there, that proves Stiles belongs to him. Only him. It's blatant manipulation, it's what it is, and Peter silently wonders if that's what love feels like, 'cause it just isn't fair for someone to be as perfect as his mate is.

"Yeah, you little shit," he grins, closing his fingers against the cold chain possessively. "I did."

Stiles' smile in response is so big that Peter is pretty sure he sees all of the kid's white teeth at once. It's soft and innocent, and Peter wants to record it just so he can save the memory for his future self. "Peter?"

"Yes?"

"That's a bad word," he says, nudging Peter's ass with the heel of his foot. "If you take me to the arcade, I won't tell mom."

And really, who was Peter to say no to such good blackmailing?

AU2: Hey! I'm back!

Due to popular demand, I've decided to make a part 2 of this universe. Like it says on the cover, this story will be a series of one-shots covering Peter's and Stiles' lives.

Thank you so much for all the love, guys. All the kudos and the comments are greatly appreciated. Always. Xoxo.