Author's Note: Sooooo, lately I've been reading so many stories where Stiles is a kid, and god, he sounds so freaking cute as a too-smart-for-his-own-good kid that I couldn't help myself. I took a break from the massive Sterek story I'm writing right now to get my hands into this.
I'm not gonna lie, okay? This is ultra self-indulgent. I just wanted to write Peter wrapped around Stiles' little finger.
I hope you all like it!
If there is one thing that Peter considers himself good at, is being contrary.
Peter is good at defeating the odds.
A pro at the art of saying no.
Whether that means defying his parents and Talia's expectations in regards to his professional and personal choices, or smaller, more personal decisions that Peter makes about his own life, which he insists on doing based on what he believes will be best for him, and him alone. Yes, he is a werewolf and pack will always represent something to him, regardless of how he behaves, but it doesn't mean he has to put his interests in the backseat just so Talia can be the perfect Alpha.
So Peter leaves, just as soon as he finishes High School, to attend Yale and become a lawyer. He lives as a lone wolf for most of the five years, coming home only during the holidays, and leaving without a single look back once they're over. As soon as he graduates, Peter receives an offer for a job in New York, and he knows that that's the thing for him. It's what he wants, and no one, not even his family was able to change his mind.
He's home for Christmas, though. He's in Beacon Hills for what he hopes is the last time in a long, long time—hopefully, he'll be able to come up with some excuse in the next year, skipping the trip altogether.
For now, however, Peter is sitting at the kitchen table, nibbling on a gingerbread cookie while trying to ignore the loud noises coming from all places in the house. Children were running all around the area, bitting each other and generally being the disgusting creatures that children tended to be whenever left unsupervised for longer than five minutes. He probably should stop them, but it seems far too much of a hassle, and, besides, that's not his job. He isn't the one who decided that having kids was a good idea.
In hindsight, Peter probably should've taken the opportunity to make himself look busy.
"Peter," Talia calls, entering the room with far too many bags of food in her hands, her distended pregnancy belly bumping into a cabinet in the way. "I need you to go pick the new table-towels I've ordered. They should've been delivered yesterday, and so far nothing, so I need you to check to see why they weren't."
"Don't you have enough of those already?" Peter asks more to annoy her than anything else. If she wants to interrupt his peace, the least she could do was provide some entertainment while doing so. Honestly, it was common decency.
She flashes her eyes at him. "Now, Peter. Things need to be ready for tomorrow."
Peter rolls his eyes, underwhelmed by his sister's lack of creativity, and gets up from the chair, making sure to move as slowly as he can, stopping to stretch his muscles once he is up. Talia watches him from the corner of her eyes, and he can almost sense the anger levels rising inside her as he continues to waste her precious time. Unfortunately, before she loses her patience and snaps, the doorbell rings, drawing both of their attention.
"A human," Talia informs, wiping her hands and gesturing for Peter to follow her. "What's a human doing here?"
It's a good question. The preserve is not a place a person stumbles on by chance—one had to know where they were heading to find the Hale residence. They both could hear the pounding heartbeat outside the house, and the faint smell of panic dirting the air, even from across the door.
Peter follows Talia, standing behind her, slightly to the left, the position coming naturally from him even after all this time. When she opens the door, standing in their porch, dirty and disheveled, is a human child, who looks to be about six or seven, all bones and edges.
"I'm lost," he says right away, his voice surprisingly clear and smooth for a child. "I need to call my dad."
"Of course," Talia agrees softly, giving him space to enter the house. "Come in. What's your name?"
"Stiles," he says, stepping forward until he was standing right in front of Peter. The kid seems to be speaking to Peter and no one else, even though it was Talia who asked the question and Peter has yet to say anything. "Stilinski. Stiles Stilinski. It's not really my name, you know, but my momma picked a Polish name for me, and no one can say it right. So Stiles is good."
Stiles speaks all in one breath, his bright golden eyes glued to Peter's blue ones, and his cheeks are flushed, a serious look on his face, as though the matter of his name is of uttermost importance, and Peter feels something akin to affection blossoming in his chest. "Well, Stiles, I'm Peter. Peter Hale," he introduces himself, going for a handshake when Stiles shoves his hand forward.
The second their hands' touch: fire. There's a burning sensation going up Peter's arm, 'till it reaches his chest and it spreads, and suddenly his legs don't feel quite up to the task of holding him upright any longer. Stiles' mouth is forming a wide O, and he might be squeezing Peter's hand tightly, but it's hard to say because at the moment Peter's wolf is demanding he takes the child into his arms and rub his face all over him until their scent mingles enough that everyone knows Stiles is his.
His mate. The person Peter had been waiting for twenty-four years, standing right in front of him.
Peter wants so badly to get closer, and touch, and smell, and study every piece of skin of his mate, but Talia is speaking something, grabbing his arm, telling him to… let go?
"Peter," she orders, turning so she could flash her eyes without Stiles' seeing it. At the explicit command, Peter's arm drops, as though he had been electrocuted, and his wolf whines at the lost of contact.
"Where's your mother, Stiles?" Talia asks.
Stiles doesn't seem to give her any attention, instead, coming closer still to Peter and making grabby hands at him. "Up," he demands, just as strongly as his sister had just done.
Surprisingly, it has the same effect as well. Without even blinking, Peter reaches and scoop Stiles into his arms, holding him easily by the waist as his mate's legs wrap around his torso. And fuck. Up close, Stiles' scent is intoxicating, perfect, dangerous. A mixture of oranges, and pine-trees, and wet grass, and Peter wants to dig his nose into his neck and never let go.
"You have pretty eyes," Stiles informs, smiling. "I like you. You have pretty eyes, and I like you a lot." His eyes drop to Peter's white shirt. "I'm getting you dirty, I'm sorry. I was playing outside, and I heard a noise, so I followed it. I think it was a wolf. I got lost, though."
Peter doesn't even look down, too busy watching the moles covering his mate's face and neck, and also the way his mouth moves as he speaks. "Don't worry about," he says, even though he is always careful about his appearance and would probably murder one of Talia's brats if they got him dirty. "You have pretty eyes, too. And a wolf you say? Interesting. I thought there were no wolfs in California."
"Peter, his parents are probably looking for him. We need to call them," Talia interrupts, being the insufferable person she is. Can't she see that Peter is busy memorizing all possible details of his mate? Who cares about his parents? They'll probably only get in the way.
Stiles wraps his arms around Peter's neck and rests his cheek on his shoulder, his nose buried in Peter's throat. "Don't wanna go home. Want to stay here. Mom is making carrots, and I hate carrots," he mumbles. Peter tightens his hold, taking the opportunity to do the same and get his fill of his mate's scent. Stiles is no longer panicked, and it makes his scent even more powerful. "They taste gross. I'm hungry now. I want food, but not carrots, 'cause they're not food, they're just the thing garden elf's use to scratch their noses. I'm sure."
Peter laughs, an honest to god wide-mouth, body-shaking laugh. "Is that so? Good to know. I've never been fond of carrots myself, but that information seals the deal." Peter nibbles on Stiles' shoulder, walking back to the kitchen and grabbing the entire plate of cookies, his wolf screaming at him to provide for his mate. "Here, you're hungry? Eat."
Stiles removes his face from Peter's neck, his eyes widening at the sight. "Can I have all of them?"
Peter doesn't hesitate. "You may have anything you want."
Stiles grabs one cookie and shoves it all into his mouth, speaking around it. "Anything?"
"Anything," Peter assures, and he never meant something quite as much as he means these words. Stiles is his mate, and Peter's wolf is clawing at his insides demanding Peter provides and care for any possible need his tiny human might have.
Stiles, being the child that he is, has no idea the number of doors Peter has just opened for him, cannot possibly understand what it means to have a werewolf with his money, cunning, and connections wrapped around his fingers, but he does look happy when he shoves another cookie into his still full mouth.
Talia interrupts their private moment once again. "I've called the Sheriff," she says, as though she was doing him a favor, and Peter begins to sneer, but she adds. "They were ready to put the cops after him. I've told him there's no need for him to come here, that you would be happy to drive Stiles' home. They are waiting."
"That's my dad. He's the sheriff, you know? He's kinda like a superhero," Stiles tells him with a grin before Peter can answer her. "I didn't want to worry him, but the wolf sounded like he was near our house, and the door was open, so I just followed the noise. I didn't find anything. You think I scarred it away, Peter?"
It was probably Laura, who overheard Talia saying she would be the next family Alpha three days ago and has been insufferable since then, running around like she owns their land. Peter almost shivers at the thought—he would rather dramatically cut his wrists than to be a part of Talia's brat pack.
Peter grins widely. "I don't think so. It probably wants you to chase it." He nods to Talia, letting her know the message was received, but sits down on the chair behind him, with Stiles in his lap, one arm still wrapped tight around the boy while his free hand goes for the thick, soft black hair sitting on top of his head.
There's no way Peter is letting Stiles leave so soon. The Sheriff lost his mate, he can wait for a little longer.
"I walked a lot, Peter," Stiles pouts. He grabs another cookie. "This is soooo good."
"They are my favorite," Peter says, leaning forward to steal a bite from the one in Stiles' hands. He takes his time, slowly coming closer and closing his mouth around the cookie, watching his mate's reaction. When Stiles tilts his head sideways, a look of consideration on his face for a minute, before he seems to come to the conclusion that feeding Peter is much more fun than just eating by himself, Peter melts.
He melts, and it's beyond the bounds of possibility to prevent his eyes from going impossibly soft as Stiles offers him another bite, waiting until he's done swallowing to provide the rest of the cookie. It's adorable, and Peter can vaguely hear Talia sharp intake of air when Peter kisses Stiles forehead, soft in a way he had never been, even when he, himself, had been a six-year-old.
He ignores her, just as he ignores the others walking, speaking and screaming around the house. His sister is probably preventing them from entering the kitchen and interrupting their moment, in a rare show of sensitivity—although it was nothing more than her obligation as an Alpha to guarantee that new mates had their first bonding uninterrupted.
When Peter finally leans back again, Stiles' eyes are glued to the chain wrapped around his neck, his curiosity clear stamped across his face. Without another word, his mate grabs it and pulls until it's no longer partially hidden by his shirt. Peter is content to let him do as he pleases.
"Wow," Stiles says, and it's clear that he's impressed by the black triskelion dangling at the end of the short chain. It's made entirely out of onyx, and it's still cold to the touch, despite being pressed against his chest until seconds ago. "What does it mean?"
"It's my family symbol. A triskelion. Everyone who's a part of our family has one, in a way or another," Peter explains, his hands leaving Stiles' for the first time since they touched to reach behind his neck and unclasp the necklace. It seems perfect. He cannot claim Stiles yet, not while he's still a child and doesn't understand what it means—what he can do, however, is give Stiles this. Anyone who's a part of the supernatural world would recognize the Hale's family symbol, and the Peter's scent would be enough to keep any other werewolf away from his mate.
It was perfect.
Talia clearly disagrees. "Peter!" She calls sharply, her mouth opening to forbid it, so Peter acts fast and clasps it around Stiles' neck, not giving her the chance to ruin his fabulous idea.
"There," Peter whispers, fighting to keep his eyes from flashing. His wolf likes having a claim on Stiles, likes seeing the family symbol hanging from his neck, where everyone could see it. It was also charmed, so only the person who put it on was able to take it off, which, in this case, makes Peter twice as satisfied. If it depended on him, it was never coming off. "It looks better on you."
"I can keep it?" Stiles demands, his eyes going wide and his smile stretching, showing his white teeth. "Please?"
"Of course," Peter agrees, as though it hadn't been his intention to let him have it all along. "Anything you want."
"You're my new best friend," Stiles declares, hugging Peter and, perhaps instinctively, nibbling the base of his neck in much the same way that Peter had done earlier.
In his own way, it's a claim, too. Stiles was declaring Peter to be his, and this time nothing could prevent the wolf's eyes from flashing in response, acknowledging the bond between them.
Young Stiles didn't know yet, but his life was about to become way more interesting.
When Talia repressed a growl of dissatisfaction inside her chest, Peter hid his smile in Stiles' hair, inhaling deeply his smell of happiness mingled with the baby shampoo he used. His eyes closed, and a purr rumbled from deep within' him.
Maybe Peter's life was about to become more interesting as well.
Fuck New York.
AN2: Ughhh, aren't they just the cutest? Peter being completely at the mercy of young Stiles has me all gooey and shit. Hhahah.
Comments and reviews are super duper appreciated! Xoxo.