come get me (if you want me), a teen wolf fanfic

A/N: This story is inspired by one of my favorite games, Sherlock Holmes: Nemesis, which I have played way too many times to still be considered productive. Also, I had a lot of fun writing Stiles has a police officer. If he never puts those brains to use in law enforcement in the show, I might be extremely disappointed.

Sludge.

There are some things in life that classes don't adequately prepare you for, like how the driver's test doesn't make you change a tire or how the police academy doesn't enforce mandatory attendance for a lecture teaching how to properly make coffee, and Stiles is dangerously close to the end of his rope. He doesn't understand if it's really all that hard, how when someone pours themselves the last few drops they go through the common courtesy of flinging a few spoonfuls of coffee ground into a filter before going to their computer to flick through whatever social media site captures the majority of their attention, but then again, he's been living under the assumption that some people have been put on this world just to test his patience. Or test his survival instinct, if he thinks back to high school. He wonders which is more tolerable.

He holds the pot dripping veritable sandy mud into his cup up by one finger like he's holding an unworthy parasite that he's helplessly watching infiltrate his life via his beverages, and vehemently side eyes everybody in the vicinity who could have been responsible for making coffee last. Greenberg is standing three feet away, and Stiles is inclined to blame him for this disaster just because him successfully entering the police department is a daily reminder to him that life is unfair and stupid and the government is actually in anarchy.

"If you want something done right," Stiles is murmuring hotly under his breath to the mug, because if he says it any louder somebody will snark in and mention that Stiles is the last person in the entire building who needs caffeine in his body anyway. He washes out the coffee pot, watching the last of the slew ooze down the sink, and gets to work on brewing more. "Do it yourself."

It takes the coffee machine approximately seventeen minutes to stop hissing and bubbling like a geyser about to erupt over his freshly washed shirt―freshly washed meaning vigorously aired out in the chilly morning air for three minutes―and that's when Stiles finally makes his way to his desk to boot up his computer. He has four new emails, two of them Scott asking him if he's still up for the role of wingman on Sunday night's club hop, one of them detailing the doughnut social a rookie's trying to set up for next weekend, and the last being a PSA from the chief reminding everybody not to park in her fucking spot anymore.

Stiles scrolls past them all and opens up Solitaire. He plays for twenty-four blissful uninterrupted minutes before a deputy comes up to him letting him know that there's three drunken frat boys who need to be fingerprinted and booked because the new rookie with a mustache needs help handling the handcuffs.

Nothing exciting ever happens in this town.

…anymore.

Sixteen hours later in the throes of a deep sleep that pulls Stiles' very soul to the mattress he's elegantly draped over, the gates of hell open up to dump a come shot of be careful what you wish for directly on his face in the form of a shrill, ringing phone.

Doo doo doo, doo doo, doodoodoodoo. Stiles is changing his ringtone to vibrate for good this time. This is surely the trilling of Satan, and he tries desperately to stuff his face into the pillow and ignore it. The phone stops after five rings that feel like ten years of his life he was deprived of sleep, and the silence settles softly as it stops. Stiles sighs into his pillow as it starts suffocating him and promptly rolls over to burrow into his sheets. A moment later, the evil trilling continues.

"Goddammit," Stiles slurs into the darkness, groping aimlessly under his bed where he vaguely remembers his phone residing after it fell out of his pocket while taking off his pants. His fingers scrape against the floor waiting to hit his target, instead tangling with clumps of lint. Stiles will not open his eyes if it kills him.

He finally finds it, his hand wrapping around his phone triumphantly as he answers it. The trilling stops and the sleep-deprived monsters roaring in Stiles' belly quiet. He settles on his side, lays the phone on his ear, and tries not to fall asleep.

"Hello?"

"Stilinski, wake the hell up," a voice roars, clearly not very amused, and Stiles shrinks in on himself. "Don't you ever check your messages? Get down here!"

"What?" Stiles sits up even though the strings pulling him down onto the bed protest. He rubs at his eyes, because he has a feeling the next few hours of his life aren't going to involve any more slumber. "Where? What happened?"

"There's been a fire, and we're pretty positive it's arson."

"Where is it?" Stiles looks outside and is met with a dark sky and hanging moon that are convincing him sleep is a much better idea than leaving his bed ever could be. Naturally, work has other ideas. Maybe if he had stuck with the childhood dream of working at the zoo, these sort of satanic interruptions to his sleeping patterns would never happen.

"In the preserve," the officer tells him. He can hear the sound of shouting firemen and rushing water through the tinny reception of the phone call, and Stiles can already imagine the billows of smoke and crackling flames. He slips out of the sheets, his feet making contact with the frigid floors, and reaches for the nearest button down haphazardly discarded on the ground. "Remember that old house the Hale family used to live in? It's that one."

And then Stiles freezes, one arm hanging from his sleeve and his cell phone trapped between his neck and his ear, but the call drops before he can ask any more questions, like was it really arson and nobody tell Derek Hale unless they want to see a grown man either cry or commit murder before six a.m..

"Nice to see you finally made it out of bed, Stilinski."

Stiles ignores the snide comments from the other officers, all looking just as sleep-mussed and grumpy as him under the dull glow of the moonlight filtering through the tall trees, and refrains from pointing out that he didn't even make a detour along the way to grab some much needed caffeine or an entire six-pack of Redbull like everybody else apparently had time to do. Standing precariously away from the action is Greenberg nursing a latte the size of his head, and Stiles sends a good amount of judgment in his direction before trudging on to where the chief is standing off to the side with a fireman.

"How bad is it?" Stiles asks her once he approaches, even though he can ascertain most of it with his own eyes. The walls, already decrepit in their own right, have been whittled down to stumps of seared wood, and the roof, previously hanging on a thread near the back of the house, has collapsed for good. Flames are still roaring into the sky, creating a dangerous warmth that Stiles feels tickle his skin even from the good bit of distance he's maintaining. The firemen come from all sides, hoses high and strong, and seem to be making little headway. At this point, Stiles is pretty sure it'd be faster for the remains of the house to burn to ashes than to spray out the fire.

"Not looking good," the chief tells him.

"And we're sure it's arson?"

"It's the most clear-cut case of arson I've ever seen. There's not a single suspicion in my mind," she points to a plastic gasoline container currently being handled by CSI units a few feet away. "We found the accelerant not ten yards away from the house. And the footsteps leading to the front door are clear as day. It's almost as if—"

"—he wanted to be caught. Yeah, I get it," Stiles rubs at his forehead. He's not sure he's liking where this is headed and he's barely been involved in this case ten minutes. Detectives normally swoop in for these high-class psychopathic challenges begging the police to catch them red-handed, though, so Stiles isn't too concerned about having to wake up to more houses burning to the ground in the middle of the night. Still. "Why this house?"

"We're not sure. It hasn't been a place of residence for years, and it's mostly used by teenagers to find a place to get together and drink. It's technically county property, so it might be a message meant directly for the police."

"But wouldn't anywhere that's county property other than this place have sent a clearer message? I mean, there's nothing of value in there. Most people don't even know it exists because it's tucked away in the middle of the woods."

"Like I said, we're not sure yet, Stilinski."

Stiles waves away the smoke clouding near them, the air surrounding him thick and heavy and hard on his throat. He tries to get a good look past the running firemen and the scorched wood, anything other than copper flames, and sees nothing of use.

"There weren't any people inside, were there?" Stiles asks even though he highly doubts it. The Hale House is nobody's old haunt anymore, not even Derek, who spent the better part of a few years hunkered down inside a broken building with questionable plumbing.

The chief points to the firemen jogging to the backside of the house. "They're checking now. It's unlikely, however."

"We got something, chief!"

The officers perk up instantly, herding closer as a fireman sprints from the ruins with a thoroughly blackened, soot-coated metal box in his gloved grip. He opens the clasp on the box and there, lying innocently in the center, is a folded letter. The letter itself is unremarkable, with the exception of the subtle details. Sending an incredibly long night ahead of him, Stiles' stomach churns in a way that sounds just as sinister as a haunted house's organ.

On the front, in elegant cursive, it says: to an old friend, Officer Stilinski, and Stiles feels the bottom drop out from under him.

"Well," the chief probes when Stiles can do little but stare and hope nobody notices. Of course they all notice. "Open it!"

He delicately picks it up and does, unfolding the parchment even though he wants nothing more than to chuck it into the nearest flame and let it burn to ashes with the remains of the house. He's pretty sure all of his future problems are waiting inside this piece of paper, a theory only emphasized by the fact that the majority of mail addressed to Stiles are either bills, dental check-up reminders, or cheesy advertisements, and he has even less hope reserved for the contents of the note in front of him. Unfortunately, he has at least six people crowded around him like the letter in his grip is the most thrilling zoo exhibit released yet, and with a dry mouth, Stiles swallows and opens it.

Stiles,

First I'd like to congratulate the police in getting this far in locating this letter, and second, I'd like to express my admiration for the force and how much of a fan I am of their work. Let me be clear, however, that I am only a fan of their complete and utter humiliation.

Now that I have the pristine images of your offended faces satisfyingly engrained in my brain, I'll continue.

The police have always been a personal favorite of mine to torment, probably because they're a dreadfully incompetent group who always arrive to the scene two hours too late for anybody to make any real deductions. But imagine my surprise when I heard that you, Stiles, have become a part of law enforcement.

More than a decade ago, arson struck my home and burned alive not only my family and friends, but me as well. It is a story you know all too well, Stiles. But some of the officers who will also read this note are not as familiar—so allow me to elaborate. The damage that I endured, that all those close to me endured, was not only undervalued, but it was forgotten. So much that it took my own effort to catch the arsonist myself, as the police only kick around evidence files so long before they declare cases cold. My case had gone cold, so now I dare you and the police to do the impossible—keep this one from going so as well.

Tonight's fire was a poetic warning. A reminder of a similar fire that raged in these very woods years ago to the detriment of multiple individuals. But it is not the end of my game. I intend to humiliate the police even further, and I dare you to catch me. I dare you to finish a case without locking it away unsolved.

I must admit, this isn't the sort of challenge I would bother myself with if I hadn't heard of your officer status, Stiles. I don't care for dabbling with the police. After too long, it feels like dangling bacon in front of a dog who has lost his sense of smell. But you, Stiles? I know you'll be interested. I know you'll ache to catch me.

To make the task even easier on you, I plan to leave a string of hints in my wake to call you in my direction. I am ready to be caught, but somehow, I doubt you will be up for the chase. Take it as a challenge to prove your abilities and prove me wrong, or take it as a compliment that I want your eyes on me, Stiles. There is only one person who I think knows me and my antics well enough to find me. One guess who.

I plan on orchestrating quite a few crimes that might catch your attention within the next few days, starting with visiting a friend who I'm sure will be curious of my residency as well.

I look forward to seeing you again, Stiles. I hope you are still as clever as I recall.

Good luck,

Peter

"Peter," one of the officers reads from over his shoulder, sounding properly infuriated. "Peter who?"

"Peter Hale," Stiles says dryly, resisting the urge to crumple the letter into his fist as his tongue tastes the name again after years of not having to think, speak, or worry about the guy's whereabouts. "Peter fucking Hale."

He doesn't get back to bed until five in the morning that night, and even then, his body stays awake.

"So wait. He set his own house—his already burnt and decrepit house—on fire in the middle of the night? You're serious?"

"I know. I feel like I'm back in high school again."

Stiles slurps his slushie down to the chunks of ice at the bottom of his cup, helplessly shaking it in hopes of more flavor tumbling to the bottom. Tucked into the discreet nook right by the neighborhood smack in the middle of an active school zone, Stiles waits for the inevitable student speeders to go revving by in the vehicles unjustly financed by their parents. He goes to reach for the last fry and finds the greasy container totally empty. He glares at Scott, the obvious pilferer of his fried goods, who pretends not to notice.

"So what does he want?" Scott asks, his own slushie tucked between his knees and his mouth full of fries. Stiles should've been greedier in wolfing down the food as he watches the last of the snacks disappear down Scott's throat.

"To rile me up, probably," Stiles mutters. "The letter was addressed directly to me. That, or he just needs a few hobbies. Preferably something other than revenge and murder."

Scott snickers in the passenger seat, like Stiles' toil and stress fuels his own personal amusement as long as he's not in mortal peril. Stiles smacks him in the arm with his greasy fingers.

"So what did all the other guys on the force say?"

"A whole lot of squat. Not to my face, at least. Thanks to that fucking letter they think he and I used to be BFFs and that I'm personally involved. Emotionally, if nothing else."

"Well, you are," Scott points out helpfully as a tiny vehicle goes tuckering down the road. Stiles lazily lifts up his radar gun and sighs when the number is nowhere near illegal. He's not sure if he wants to bust a few people's humps and ruin a few teenager's days by writing them tickets to feel like a successful cop or if he's too lazy to even start the car up again. He really wants a nap, honestly, except Peter's letter keeps nagging at his mind like he won't be able to sleep peacefully without figuring out his clues. Ten years later and the guy is still responsible for his insomnia.

"What?"

"He tried to kill you a few times. That kind of makes you involved."

Stiles grumbles and continues trying to suck the ice cubes in his cup into submission. "I don't want to be," he says. "Remember high school, Scottie? The constant fear of death? That wasn't fun. And that's exactly the kind of feeling he wants to bring back to me."

Scott shrugs, readjusting on the seat and resting his elbow on the open window. It's a nice day, perfect for romping around playgrounds and riding bikes in the sun, and normally Stiles wouldn't mind having speeding duty in the fresh air while he bops along to his favorite songs on the car radio, but today, his mind is a bit heavier. He feels like nobody else on this case, not even the genius detectives, can crack this, not when Stiles knows Peter better than any of them. Not when Peter singled him out and gave him hints meant only for Stiles to figure out, and it makes Stiles feel restless and itchy sitting here in this stuffy car not making a single step of progress in catching him.

"Or he's just bored," Scott supplies after a few moments of silence. "He hasn't exactly been doing much of anything in the last few years."

"That we know of," Stiles reminds him. "For all we know, he could've been eating babies and slaughtering family pets up north."

Scott shrugs again, much too casually for Stiles' liking. He doesn't know if it's maturity that's mellowed Scott out, or maybe the lack of threats against human lives that's keeping him calm, but Stiles wants a bit more feedback from him. He remembers high school, always pouring over whatever research Google gave him and Scott showing up two hours later to hear the summed up nutshells, and wonders why he expects any differently now.

"Ugh," Stiles groans, balling up the empty fast food bag and stuffing it into the cup holder. He was supposed to have an advantage on the force that his father never had—a very thorough and detailed and personally horrifying knowledge of the dark creatures that lurk in the night—but he's as confused as ever. He ought to say thank you to Peter if he ever gets his hands on him in the most sardonic and acidic way possible. "Remember when life didn't make you want to suffocate yourself with a pillow?"

"Not really," Scott says, and yeah, they've sort of been in that perpetual state since high school. Things might've mellowed out since graduation, except for the odd scare here and there that keeps them on their toes like hostage victims who've been cooped away for years and have adapted to the situation with the exception of the random reminder that there's a gun in their face if they try to escape. "I thought you said you were in a rut anyway."

"Yeah, and I never should have said it," Stiles says. He looks over at Scott and sighs. "Where do I go from here? All he left me was a fucking letter taunting me to come and get him."

"Look for more clues," Scott says, very helpfully, and Stiles rolls his eyes. "I mean it. Have you searched his place yet?"

Searched his place. Stiles keeps forgetting that werewolves do actually live in houses, not create forts of moss and leaves in the woods. Peter probably lives somewhere, somewhere with four walls and furniture and clues everywhere, maybe even schemes and plans drawn up on whiteboards if he's lucky. Scott is brilliant.

"Scott, you're brilliant," he tells him, clapping him on the shoulder. "I'll search his place."

"Absolutely not," the chief deadpans the second Stiles poses the idea to her. "We have no idea how dangerous he is, and the research is not in his favor. He's in a coma for years, then he vanishes and his nurse goes missing, and all but falls under the radar, only to return to set fire to his own house?"

"C'mon, Chief," Stiles whines. "All of that is circumstantial at best—besides, why would his own house be full of danger when he's much more of a sociopath than he is a psychopath?"

"Because he knows the police will check, Stilinski," the chief tells him. "He just committed a crime. The place is probably rigged. And given his recent admiration for pyrotechnics, we can't trust him not to blow up his own house. Bomb squad is going in first."

"But they could screw up evidence! Tamper with stuff that we need to catch Peter—"

"Stilinski, they're police sanctioned. They won't destroy anything crucial that will help us solve the case."

She starts rifling through her papers and pushing her glasses up her nose in a wordless dismissal of any of Stiles' further pleads. He considers his remaining tactics—shameless begging, subtle flattery, or the ever popular weeping that usually makes people uncomfortable enough to either usher away or give him whatever impractical thing he wants. Unfortunately, the chief has the skin of Iron Man and doesn't sway under any of his persuasion techniques, and Stiles has long since learned that grumbling and busting out sarcasm like he normally does when he and somebody reach an impasse is frowned upon at the work place.

"Fine," Stiles says, sighing. The chief barely spares him a cursory wave letting him know his presence in her office has now become bothersome. "I'll wait for the safety teams to go in first."

So of course, he does what any self-respecting cop with a history of insatiable rule breaking would do, and goes anyway.

All it takes is a little bit of stealthy name running on his computer to get Peter's address—it feels incredibly liberating to snoop on his own police computer rather than hack his father's—and the valiant face of someone pretending to do little more than file and sort traffic violations for nobody to notice, and Stiles nonchalantly leaves the station for lunch that day.

It's the first time he's ever been to Peter's place, always convinced that he hunkered on Derek's sofa like a broke hobo or slept in the woods like an animal back in the day when they reluctantly ran in the same circles, and it's not a bad building. It's in the busier side of town, his apartment high up on the sixth floor where nobody probably ever noticed him hanging out dead bodies to dry on his patio, and Stiles scopes out the area for cops before going in.

It's embarrassingly easy to break into, needing no further persuasion than a few well-angled jabs with a hairpin for the lock on the front door to drop, and Stiles doesn't even have to flash his badge at any old women peeking out at him from the ajar doors of neighboring apartments as he cracks the lock. The entire hall seems dead silent, devoid of any interruptions, and Stiles is in the door in under two minutes.

He closes the door behind him, turns around, and expects the worst. Puddles of blood oozing from the fridge, detached limbs on the floor, or even Peter, sitting as an ominously quiet sentinel in the center of the room awaiting Stiles' inevitable curiosity. Instead, nothing.

The place looks one hundred percent human, which honestly, is a bit of a letdown. There's a stack of mail on the desk in the corner and a half-drunken water bottle on the kitchen counter, and it gives Stiles hope that Peter's still here, with blueprints and maps of his plans laid out for Stiles to steal.

He searches the place up and down, going methodically through the kitchen drawers and rummaging through utensils before moving to the bathroom and checking behind the toilet bowl. He checks all of the notorious hiding spots, the places where addicts would stash cartons of cigarettes or the crannies where floorboards could be loose. The place is meticulous, though, so meticulous and unfathomably normal that Stiles starts wondering if he's accidentally broken into a young bachelor's home instead of Peter's.

He starts getting frustrated to the point of ripping open cushions when he rifles through the couch, elbow deep in the cushions just to find a single clue hidden out of sight. He has no idea what he's looking for except for anything out of the ordinary in this pricy apartment, the kind that doesn't bother with carpet and layers the entire place in shiny tiles that are cool against Stiles' palms as he lays flat on the floor to peer under the sofa. The place is clean, like a drug lord who knows all too well how to cover his tracks from the police's prying eyes.

He goes into the bedroom last, pushing open the door and hoping something—glistening blood, hopefully—will catch his eye. There's nothing there, nothing but a smoothly made bed and tiny nightstands sitting sentinel by the humongous mattress. That too, is clean, and it leaves Stiles feeling like the place is almost like the type of pristinely furnished house used for showing off the neighborhood for interested families who insert themselves into the expensive furniture with one stroll around the untouched rooms. With the exception of the quiet personal touches like the mail on the desk and the extensive book collection and the slightly rumpled pillows on the bed, the place is immaculate. It's irksome, but more than that, it's annoying. Stiles knows something is here. People always leave traces.

It's then when he sees something—a curtain on the wall, but no window. Curious.

He steps forward, feeling the thrum of crime-solving tickle his stomach. There's something behind the curtain, he's sure of it. There's always something to be hidden in the lair of a serial killer, that part is backed up by every television show in history, and Stiles braces himself for the worst with one hand around his gun as he approaches. There isn't the dank smell of decaying bodies or metallic blood filtering through the drapes, which Stiles takes as a sign to charge ahead without delay, so he grabs the fabric in one hand and yanks it open.

A door. It was hiding a door. Stiles can feel the answers waiting to erupt just one foot away behind a two-inch panel of wood. Who knows what it could be? Plans, descriptions, loot or stolen goods or even tracking devices. Anything to give him hints about what Peter's doing next and where he's going, and Stiles is the golden boy at the office for weeks.

He looks down at the knob and there isn't even a lock to pick. Stiles smirks.

"Looks like someone's gotten sloppy," Stiles sing-songs into the air.

So he opens the door, and that's when a behemoth of a wolf flies out at him.

Stiles only has two seconds to think oh shit before he's stumbling back, limbs flailing in his haste to back up and stagger out of the way before he falls prey to whatever insane security system Peter has in place. It's soaring out into the air with an insistence for blood, teeth bared directly at him, and that's when Stiles' leg hits the tiny end table behind him and he tumbles gracelessly down, slamming his elbow on the pretentiously tiled floor as he goes. Fuck.

The pain makes him see white hot flashes shoot behind his eyes like lightning for a few seconds, his arm numb on the ground as he falls flat on his ass, and when he finally peels open his eyes to stop the savage creature from careening in his direction, he sees nothing. Carefully, cradling his elbow as he goes, he sits up, and there it is, laying flat on the ground. A furry rug, booby trapped to come skyrocketing out of the closet—the empty closet that's totally devoid of evidence—with soft fuzz and a wolf's head crowning the top. Its eyes don't look nearly as hungry anymore now that Stiles' looks twice and sees the glassy lifelessness in them, the plastic teeth and the motionless backside. It's not real.

Stiles sinks back down to the floor, arm still throbbing and ass quite sore from where it made hard contact with the floor, and wonders if it'd be possible for him to be swallowed by the floorboards. Peter knew he would be here. Peter knew he would come first, alone, and he knew he would be spying for clues. Peter totally hoodwinked him. Peter thwarted him with a goddamn booby trap that could've been set up by a kindergartner.

In retrospect, the ridiculously easy breaking in probably should have been a clue.

He ends up leaving not with substantial evidence or proof leading to Peter's next target, but rather with a fractured elbow and enough anger at the thought of being outsmarted and duped by a sociopath to fuel all the electricity needed to have all of Beacon Hills watching television while the radio plays and blender whirrs in the background, and the drive to the hospital is not a particularly chipper one.

"I'm gonna kill him," Stiles grits out while Scott pins the x-rays up on the board and tries, unsuccessfully, to persuade Stiles to calmly rehash the story. "He could've killed me."

"It's just a fractured elbow," Scott tells him, even though his face is awfully suspicious. "You weren't supposed to go to his place, were you?"

"Duh," Stiles says. He looks at the x-rays and frowns. To be honest, he was sort of hoping for dislocated shoulder or at least a broken arm. This much pain is not worth the meek title of fractured elbow. "The chief specifically forbade me. Of course I went anyway." Scott is still daring to look at Stiles like a mildly disappointed father figure like Stiles is suddenly supposed to follow rules and protocol just because he's part of the force, and Stiles is having none of it. "Don't look at me like that, you would've done it too."

"Well, yeah, I probably would've," Scott concedes as he rummages around in the nearest cupboard and emerges with a blue sling. "At least it's not that bad."

Not that bad. Stiles grumbles like a child the whole time Scott gently eases his forearm into the sling, fastening it around his shoulder and holding aspirin out to him for the pain. "He might as well have rigged the front door with a guillotine."

"I thought you said you hurt your arm stumbling into an end table?"

"Because his booby trap scared the living shit out of me!" Stiles emphasizes. He doesn't feel like Scott is truly appreciating Stiles' status as successfully living and breathing right now. He could've been beheaded.

"Swallow your pills," Scott tells him, and something about his best friend in scrubs like an honest to god employed nurse always reminds Stiles to listen to his orders. He chucks the pills down his throat without complaint.

"That's not all," he admits after a pregnant pause while Scott fills out his paperwork. "It gets worse."

Scott perks up instantly. "Are you hurt somewhere else?"

"No, no, nothing like that. The only thing wounded here is my pride in my own police capabilities," Stiles mutters, and reluctantly, he pulls a crumpled bit of paper from his pocket that he hands over to Scott. "Just... Look."

"You break into my house, I break into yours," Scott reads aloud. Stiles suppresses a theatric shiver because it sounds even more ominous verbalized.

"I found that in that wolf's teeth, buddy."

"The fake one that flew from the closet?" Scott asks, and Stiles nods. "He knew you were there."

"Not just that. He knew I was there. Specifically me, and that I would come first before anybody else," he takes a moment to suck in a breath. "Should I be scared or fucking petrified?"

"Not sure," Scott says. "To be fair, he isn't threatening you. Maybe he thinks it's funny."

"Scott, this is the guy who crazy murdered half the town when we were sixteen. We're talking savage rampage. The guy doesn't do funny."

"I know. I was there," Scott mentions with a pointed look. "I'm just saying, if he wanted to kill you, he would've already."

"Then what does he want?" Stiles grumbles. "Aside from the amusing entertainment of watching my humiliation. What does he want?"

He looks at Scott, waiting for the brilliant answers, but Scott's blank face perfectly conveys that he isn't drumming up anything that Stiles hasn't already thought of either. Stiles has been dwelling on this for days now. It can't just be about toying with the police's ego. It can't be about being bored on a Saturday afternoon and deciding to prank the town police enforcement for fun. It has to be something bigger than that.

"As long as you're okay," Scott says, grabbing Stiles' shoulder. "You're okay, aren't you?"

Stiles grumbles some more. "Yeah, I'm fine." He rotates his shoulder and wiggles his arm, wincing when even tiny rolls of the muscles trigger twinges of sharp pain in his elbow. He needs to come up with a convincing story for his sling pronto, and probably why he ended up taking a lunch that's stretching into three hours by now.

"By the way, I meant to talk you anyway," Scott mumbles, and suddenly he's shuffling about in the corner, very interested in the contents of the third drawer from the left where Stiles knows from extremely immature curiosity is where the diapers are.

"Yeah?"

Scott rummages around in the depths of the cupboard for a bit, and Stiles finds it adorable that Scott thinks Stiles doesn't recognize it classic stalling, before he gets up and sheepishly scratches at his head. "Allison is in town."

"Oh, seriously?" Stiles asks. He'd think that was good news with the exception of the way Scott is beating around the bush about it like his over-opinionated grandma with the shrill voice is coming to visit rather than his friendly ex-girlfriend. "Is that bad?"

"No! I mean, of course not. It's just—you know that she's single now, right?"

"Where is this going?" Stiles asks carefully. "Please don't say junior year. You don't still have feelings for her, do you?"

Scott shrugs in a way that would probably deter most friends. Stiles has been around long enough to share mud baths with Scott; he can tell when sheepish deception is in the air. He stares.

"I don't know, maybe," Scott admits under the derision of Stiles' disbelief. "I always have. It's Allison."

"Okay, well. You have my blessing to be sixteen years old again."

"It's not that," Scott says. God, if it wasn't for the clipboard and the grown up haircut Stiles really might be convinced he's time traveled back to high school. Scott's mooning awkwardly over Allison, downright mooning, and Stiles has no idea how to respond. Not as an adult, at least. He still has the same teenage quips from sophomore year at the ready. "I'm meeting her for dinner on Saturday and I just really want you to be there too. It'd be less awkward."

"I don't know, Scott," Stiles says. "Are you sure it isn't more awkward when you bring a third wheel wingman?"

"Just one dinner! She'd be happy to see you too."

"Did she say that?"

"Well, no," Scott shuffles left to right. It's unfortunate how endearing it is, especially considering that it works on Stiles like a charm. "We didn't get the chance to mention you when we talked."

Stiles groans. This seems like such a bad idea, but then again, all he seems to be doing lately is bad ideas, so one more terrible and awkward mistake can't hurt that much more. He scrubs a hand over his eyes and nods in dread.

"Fine, I'll come," Stiles mutters, already regretting his loyalty. "For now I'm going back to work to pretend I spent half my day having lunch with my slow-munching grandmother."

"You won't tell them you went to Peter's?"

"Hell no," Stiles says right away, slipping off the hospital table. If he's lucky, he can slink over to his desk and hide his arm in the Snuggie wrapped away in his bottom drawer. He's done worse things for comfort at work before, so most people don't bother to question him anymore anyway. It could work.

He claps Scott on the back, thanks him for the painkillers, and promises to see him on Friday night for dinner with Allison. As far as he's concerned, the police never have to know anything.

Allison looks exactly like Stiles remembers—bright smile, dark hair, and warm eyes with just enough of an edge of danger, and Stiles feels completely comfortable pulling her into a hug when he sees her.

Luckily enough, it keeps things from being awkward. They're all friends, after all, or at least, they all used to be. Stiles figures out pretty quickly that you can't lose ties with somebody who you fought for survival with no matter how many years go by, and all the memories of trudging through the woods with Allison in his wake or the two of them having each other on speed dial to share information gained from research and eavesdropping rushing back to him before they even start the main course.

The only one sweating out of every orifice is Scott, who spends a better part of the evening fretting over the stove while he tries to serve spaghetti to all of them. Stiles watches as he slips Allison her plate and offers to grate cheese for her, wondering exactly how blind Allison would have to be to not see the hearts in Scott's eyes. It's cute, makes him feel young again, and Stiles has to admit that Allison is equally besotted, just capable of being more discreet about it. Just like the old days.

"So Stiles," Allison brings up just as Scott brings over the lava cake. "What have you been up to?"

"Jesus Christ, Scott, you really are the whole package," Stiles says as Scott hands him his plate and he digs in. It's definitely true. Scott's going to be the best husband in the world someday, and Stiles is only slightly jealous that he won't be on the receiving end of his infinite affection and newfound cooking talents every night. He turns to Allison. "I'm with the police now. So, uh. Solving crime." He gives himself a finger mustache for emphasis.

"That's great. Your dad must be proud," Allison says as she digs her fork into her own cake and Scott takes a seat across from her. "Any interesting cases?"

Stiles catches Scott's eye over the table. "A few," he mumbles around the rim of his glass. "Um. Peter's been causing me a few headaches again."

She stops eating. "Peter," she says slowly. "Peter Hale?"

"Uh, yeah," Stiles says. "He's putting me and the department on a wild goose chase after him."

"Specifically Stiles," Scott pipes up helpfully. "He left him a letter."

"Can I see it?"

He shrugs, pulling it from the inside pocket of his police jacket where it's been folded and refolded enough to be fragile in his hand. He gives it to her, watching her reread the words a few times with an all too familiar look of concentration on her face.

"Starting with visiting a friend who I'm sure will be curious of my residency as well,," Allison reads from the letter, her eyebrows furrowed in concentration as her gaze runs over the words. "Do you know what that means?"

"No clue," Stiles says, slumping in his seat. That lava cake hit him like a brick to his stomach and right now, the only thing he's interested in letting his brain do is hibernate, not worry over Peter Hale's riddles for another hour.

"Hey, wait," Scott says. "You broke into his place."

"Yeah, and?"

"Curious of my residency as well," Scott repeats back to him, looking excited. It's a face Stiles hasn't seen in years, the rare expression of satisfied surprise that flitted over Scott's features whenever he made a connection and reached a realization. The look puts Stiles on such alert autopilot that his spine instantly straightens to hear him finish his thought. "He knew you would go to his place, which means—"

"—he's going to yours, too," Allison finishes for him. "He's breaking into your house, Stiles."

"What?" Stiles scrambles to grab the letter from her again, rereading the sentence a few times. It makes perfect sense, so much sense that Stiles is shocked and a little disappointed he didn't notice earlier. Nobody else at the force would so much as have a clue, not when they had no idea that Stiles was sneaking around a convict's house behind their backs. "When? Why?"

"Is there something in your house he'd want?" Allison asks him. Stiles wracks his brain—outdated comic books he probably should've left at his dad's place, ratty hoodies, and a few kitchen appliances courtesy of IKEA is about all he has worth stealing—and comes up with nothing of use.

"No, no, I don't think so," Stiles says. "But—I figured it out. We figured it out. We're one step ahead. We're never one step ahead."

He's exuberant. He nearly fist pumps the air a few times for emphasis just to let his point drive home. He's going to do this. He's totally going to take down Peter Hale when he only has one foot in the game. This is perfect.

"What are you doing?" Scott asks him as he gets to his feet, stuffing the letter into his pocket and grabbing his jacket. "I thought we'd—"

"So, so sorry," Stiles apologizes, leaning over to kiss the top of Scott's head in thanks. "I have to leave dinner early. I have a lead. Oh my god, a real lead."

He squeezes Allison's shoulder and waves goodbye to both of them as he all but sprints from the table and hurries to the door. They should be okay without him, the ice is well broken already and those doe eyes they keep sneaking each other across the table aren't exactly hard to discern the meaning of.

He makes it to the police station in under ten minutes, and within another ten, he, the chief, and the entire department have arranged a stakeout outside of his home preparing to catch Peter Hale red handed.

What could possibly go wrong?

Sitting in the bushes outside his own house with police-sanctioned binoculars and at least ten colleagues next to him with the same equipment, waiting with the crickets for a single inch of movement, is certainly not how Stiles wanted to spend his Sunday evening.

This is the part of the job he definitely never wanted, Stiles thinks wryly. His father was affected by it too. Not only is there a supremely limited supply of personal time, there also happens to be a clause that says that he doesn't go to work—work goes to him, and that goes for any time of day or night and all the broken bones in the world won't get him out of duty. Especially when it's his house that everybody's staking out like they're waiting for Batman to descend from the sky and land on the roof.

The bush next to him rustles. "Pssst," it says, the leaves shaking. Stiles frowns.

"What?" he hisses back. The bush shakes, and then Greenberg's face emerges from the leaves.

"What do we do if we need the bathroom?"

Stiles rolls his eyes, staring firmly at the black sky to pray to the Gods to grant him the patience he does not have. He jerks his head to the other side of the yard where he knows the chief is hiding alongside the rest of the police squad.

"I don't fucking know," Stiles spits. "Ask the chief. Or just go in the woods."

He focuses on his binoculars again, tipping them upwards to peek through the blinds and into his living room. He honestly has no idea what the plan is. All he knows is that if he so much as sees a sign of human movement beyond the window, he all but yells fire and charges the bastille.

It's quiet for at least an hour, well into the darkness, and well into multiple bug bites. Stiles is sitting in the damp earth after twenty minutes even as the dirt wets his pants, considering pulling out his phone and passing time with Candy Crush. It wouldn't have been a bad idea to send the police on a false lead. Hell, it would put the entire police force twiddling their thumbs in entirely the wrong place—it would be brilliant.

Stiles is one knee into the ground ready to catapult into action to share his theory with the chief when his radio crackles with a bated breath, and suddenly, a light flicks on in the living room.

"Someone's in the living room!" a tinny voice says through the radio. "A light is on—proceed with caution!"

Instantly everybody goes from squatting in the underbrush playing tic-tac-toe in the dirt to crouching to the door, and Stiles is two steps behind four other officers in time to see them creak open the front door and slip inside.

"Hold it," the officer in front whispers over his shoulder, and he poises his gun at eye level as he pads to the living room. Stiles feels his heart thump in his neck, and he knows it's going to give them away. All Peter has to do is focus his hearing and he instantly knows how many of them are piling into Stiles' living room with the intent of catching him red-handed, and if this ends up in a bloodbath, it's all Stiles' fault for not warning a soul. He feels his ribcage clench around his organs like rusty chains, his heartbeat speeding up and up, and then the leading officer takes the jump and leaps around the corner.

"Free—what? Greenberg!"

Stiles opens his eyes, not even remembering squeezing them shut tightly enough to keep all the air out. There's a collective groan from the other officers as they round the corner and their eyes fall on Greenberg, eyes wide and hands held high and defenseless.

"Are you kidding me? What the hell are you doing here?"

"I was looking for the bathroom!"

The rest of the force piles in, and Stiles watches as all of their faces deflate from poised and aggressive to thoroughly dejected at the sight of Greenberg blushing red in the middle of the living room, and then glass crashes on the other end of the house.

"Oh my god, you were the decoy, and you didn't even know" Stiles groans, and the thought seems to pass through everybody's head at the same time, the stampede heading for the kitchen enough to jumpstart an earthquake. Officers are yelling, ready to whip out handcuffs and end this for good, and Stiles pushes his way to the front just in time to see a shadow dart across the yard and the shards of a broken window scatter on his kitchen floor. One of the cops—Stiles isn't sure if he's stupidly brave or just a compulsive show off—nearly backflips out the broken window to run out into the yard after the fleeting shadow. Stiles knows it's too late.

"Sweep the place!" the chief is yelling, sounding just as aggravated as everybody feels. "Check for anything out of place—anything."

Stiles isn't crazy about having the entire force rummage through his personal belongings—not that he's hiding skeletons in the closet or a sex dungeon downstairs, but still—but he isn't in a place to demand extra special privacy at the moment. Who knows what Peter took, who knows what he thought was worth breaking into a house when it was surrounded by the entire police force, and Stiles starts throwing cushions off his sofa at a speed that probably reflects his frustration quite clearly looking for the evidence of stolen items.

"Everything looks the same," somebody says, and Stiles whips around again and again, waiting to find a gaping hole in the wall or all his photo albums missing from the bookshelf. But everything's there, exactly how it used to be, and Stiles wonders if that has anything to do with the fact that nothing he owns is really worth stealing at all. The couch is lumpy and the TV is old and the posters are childish at best, and then he sees it. Something lying on the coffee table.

"Oh god," Stiles groans, picking it up. There's a message taped on it that Stiles tentatively peels off. "He didn't steal anything. He left something."

A few officers come storming into his room guns aloft, as if expecting ticking bombs or disembodied limbs, but it's just a CD. Blank, seemingly unlabeled except for the note attached to the back, and Stiles flips it open.

Remember this? it reads in black pen, and Stiles is already feeling the dread coil in his stomach. The conciseness is what's disturbing him, like that's all that needs to be said, and Stiles definitely doesn't want to see whatever's on the CD. Nope, nope, nope.

And then an officer is ripping it out of his hands and flipping it over, analyzing every smidgen of the shiny cover, before loudly declaring, "It's a DVD. He probably transferred a video onto it."

An interested murmur rifles through the crowd, and before Stiles can even step in and intervene, the DVD is being shoved into Stiles' TV and it flickers to life. He can't look away, not when he has no idea what to expect. What's on it? Proof of werewolves? Hints for his next heist? Gay porn?

When the video starts, Stiles realizes it's all much, much worse. It only takes a second for him to realize that he's staring at himself, barely a week before, sneaking around Peter's apartment. There he is, leafing through mail and drawers while keeping a paranoid eye over his shoulder the entire time. Stiles watches himself as he tugs open the closet door and is all but mauled by a fur rug, watches all of his snooping on incredibly high quality for a camera that was clearly small enough to be hidden out of sight by the ceiling. Fuck.

"Stilinski," the chief booms over the buzzing of murmurs. "Was this after the bomb squad investigated? Or did you specifically ignore my instructions?"

She turns her eagle eyes right on him, her glare like lasers that Stiles is helpless to avoid. Meekly, his elbow twinges in his jacket and he wonders if he has any hope of backpedaling out of this one.

"Let me get this straight. You were given specific instructions not to investigate Peter Hale's apartment to let the safety teams sweep the place first—a team you distrusted to keep from tampering with valuable evidence—and you decide that the best course of action would be to disobey my orders and tamper with the evidence yourself?"

The chief looks volcanically angry as she fixes Stiles with an expression of pure fury, a look which hardly suits her. Stiles refrains from mentioning it.

"That's, um. Something of a trick question."

"Not only did you break and enter into the area, you also felt the need to turn over every stone in his lodgings, and of course, ended up injured along the way. I cannot fathom where you got the idea in your head that this plan was the workings of common sense."

"You're right there, chief," Stiles says with a cheeky wink that used to work distracting those busy punishing him if nothing else. She's too occupied stirring sugar into her tea so vigorously it looks akin to an aggressive spanking to notice him, and Stiles shifts in his seat.

"Stilinski, if not for the fact that it seems Hale is going out of his way to target you specifically and that you might be our only lead on the case, you'd be sitting at home right now in your pajamas eating peanut butter with your fingers out of the depression of being suspended."

"But—but I'm not suspended, right?"

"Not yet," the chief says. She tosses a piece of paper at him that Stiles almost misses, a neatly folded note missing a return address in the corner like it was anonymously dropped off at the front of the station, and motions for him to open it. "Because it seems he's once again singling you out."

It's another note, worn from too many officers smoothing it out and folding it back into its crease, and Stiles feels the dread well up in his stomach as he picks it up—a feeling he's quickly becoming very familiar with.

"It's for me, I guess?" He asks her dryly.

"One of the officers found it in your nightstand," she says, and then goes pink. She clears her throat. "Next to your… personal prophylactics."

Stiles tries his hardest not to wither up on the spot. He knows perfectly well what sits in his nightstand. It's his stash of Walgreens condoms and lube, a stash he never thought he had to keep under lock and key, and he purposefully bites on his tongue until the heat ebbs away from his ears. He should've known Peter would hit not where it hurt the most, but rather where it tickled the most. He folds open the note.

Written on it is there is nothing I love more than a good family tradition, like you becoming a cop. I wonder if your predecessor is just as proud? and near the bottom, in tinier scrawl, is I personally prefer mine textured.

Oh dear god. He's targeting his dad.

Stiles doesn't wait for the chief to follow him, and he certainly doesn't wait to explain the situation. He just runs. He runs like he's channeling an Olympic track star, nearly barreling over his car as he skids to a stop and throws himself into the passenger seat. He finally has a good reason to turn on his police lights, and he nearly burns rubber on his way to his dad's house. Fuck no, fuck no, fuck no.

He almost gets into three accidents on the way, pissing off a few severely unamused drivers who swerved out of the way of Stiles' maniacal driving, and tries calling his dad four times while he's waiting at red lights, foot shaking so hard that the entire car nearly quakes with each nervous tap of his ankle. His dad doesn't pick each time, leaving Stiles to assume the worst. Oh god.

He almost breaks his hand ringing his father's doorbell and knocking on the door, his knuckles sore after the relentless banging. His dad's car is still in the driveway, seemingly unharmed, and there isn't an ominous trail of blood of a body dragging into hiding down the front steps, and Stiles tries to use all those signs as ways to calm down his pounding heart. Having a stroke right here and now would be extremely unfortunate.

And then his father opens the door, one hundred percent intact, and Stiles breathes a sigh of relief.

"Stiles," his dad says. "Stiles, what the hell are you doing?"

"You—you're okay," Stiles says, and nearly tackles him to the ground in his effort to launch himself into his father's arms. Maybe he was early, maybe Peter hasn't come yet. "Why didn't you pick up your phone?"

"I had company, Stiles," he says, sounding perfectly undisturbed. Stiles tenses in a heartbeat. "What's wrong?"

"What did he look like? What did he say?" he presses. "Is he still here? Did he try to hurt you?"

"Calm down," his father lays a supportive hand on his shoulder, trying to relax him, which has little to no effect on mollifying his racing heart. "He said he was an old fan of the neighborhood and that he used to live here when he was younger. He just wanted to look around, chat a bit."

"Well, he was lying," Stiles tells him. His father frowns.

"What's going on here?"

"Just—just tell me. Is he still here?"

And then his father nods, cocking his head to the dining room, and Stiles nearly trips in his rush to make it in time. If he's still here, if he still has a chance—

But the dining room's empty. And then Stiles notices the breeze that's hitting his face, and he sees that the porch door is wide open. He swivels around to where his dad is standing, arms crossed and face pinched like he knows without having to ask that Stiles' got himself wrapped up in another paranormal disaster. Stiles is grateful he doesn't have to explain.

"Uh, dad," he says, grabbing him by the shoulders. "Stay safe, and don't talk to that lying, scheming bastard again, okay? Lock your doors. Take out your firearms. Love you."

And then he's sprinting out the porch door, stumbling from the stairs and running into the yard just in time to see a body leap over the fence. He's not getting away, not this time.

His optimism, however, is short-lived. He's lacking one very important advantage he needs in order to win this race, and that's the infamous werewolf super speed, and Stiles is already out of breath by the time he scales the third fence and is scampering across an oblivious neighbor's yard. He doesn't give up though, not yet, not until his lungs are burning, and he makes it across four more yards before he sees that there's a message scratched into the wood paneling of the next fence, scraped by a claw like he didn't have time to grab a pencil and paper and leave a note in his wake.

He stops to catch his breath, and he swears he can still catch a whiff of gentlemanly cologne in the air. It's faint and seems to taunt Stiles, wafting around his nose reminding him just how close he was, and then he stops in front of the fence to read the scratched message.

You're no fun. I wasn't going to kill him.

Stiles really needs a drink.

Stiles is so, so, so very out of his mind drunk.

He doesn't normally do this. Not in public, anyway—the privacy of his room has seen its fair share of Stiles chugging Jack Daniels, but his walls are good at keeping secrets—since he has a rule of only getting wasted with company. Driving drunk seems like a terrible idea for somebody as uncoordinated as himself on the road, so smashing himself with tequila shots is normally only done in the presence of friends willing to drag him from a pub by his armpits.

"What do you mean you're not coming?" Stiles slurs into his cell phone, and he has to plug one ear because a group of twenty-something college kids are having too much fun down the bar.

"Sorry, dude," Scott says. "Things got crazy at the hospital. Can we go next Friday?"

"Fuck you," Stiles mumbles instead of accepting his apology because the alcohol has convinced him being extremely offended is the only way to go in this situation. "I wanted to talk about the case."

"Dude, work stuff is for work. I thought we were gonna talk about chicks."

"Nahh," Stiles says. "I brought my case files and everything. We were gonna be grown ups. Honest to god grown ups tonight."

He hiccups and fumbles for his drink, upturning the glass and sticking out his tongue for the last few drops. For someone as clumsy and frantically fingered as he is, Stiles is a much bigger fan of the hard liquor that turns him into an all around dead weight versus the dainty drinks that still leave him in control of his facilities, like reflexes and bladder control.

"Do you want me to send you a cab?" Scott asks, ever the good friend. Stiles should send him a mug.

"I should send you a mug," Stiles feels the need to tell him. "Would you drink from it?"

"What? Stiles, just hold on. I'll have Isaac come get you."

Stiles waves his hand in dismissal in front of himself like Scott has materialized between him and the bar, rubbing at his temples all the while. He feels like there are bad decisions in his future, probably courtesy of that last ounce of gin. He wonders if he's the spitting image of his father yet when he was stressed on the job.

"It's fine," Stiles promises Scott, giving the bar a few reassuring pats as if it's been listening too. "I'll walk. I need the fresh air anyway. If I fall into a bush and end up sleeping there, just don't tell on me."

Scott's quiet for a moment, and then, hesitantly at best, he says, "...I'm calling you in thirty minutes to see if you're home."

"Love you," Stiles garbles directly into the mouthpiece. "'M serious about the mug."

He hangs up and tucks his phone into his pocket, focusing hard on the papers in front of him. So many papers. He shouldn't need so many when he knows Peter better than any of the guys on the force. He remembers him like one remembers a hazy photograph, with the solid shapes still there but scraped and discolored around the edges like a vintage memory. Stiles remembers a quick wit and a constant thirst for power, like he wanted to take over the universe and see what it felt like to hold the earth in his hands. There was facial hair too.

to an old friend, the letter swimming in front of him croons. Stiles reaches for his drink and his fingers curl around cool, condensated glass that is still dreadfully empty. He was never Peter Hale's friend, he certainly never shall be, and he is most definitely not old.

"You look like somebody who needs a drink," a voice says next to his ear, incredibly close and warm on his neck, and then a man's figure that surely wasn't there before sidles up next to him. "May I sit here?"

Stiles looks up at him through goggles of intoxication. A strong jaw, a smattering of stubble, and dark hair registers in his brain, but somebody who needs a drink takes priority in his thoughts. "Only if that first part was an offer to buy me another shot," Stiles says, and he's met with a silken laugh that sounds like the soft strumming of a guitar against his eardrum.

The man's fingers tap against the counter in the wordless request for more alcohol that Stiles' hands could never master to subtly grab the bartender's attention. Two seconds later his glass is full again and the stranger a seat away is downing his own shot of copper liquor, Stiles reaching for his own just as he hides his papers away in his folder. Letting a random civilian know that there's an ex-serial killer who just happens to be a sociopathic werewolf with the ability to charm and sass somebody into compliance depending on the audience is stupid enough that even his drunken mind knows better.

"Now, now," the man says. "That's a nice scotch there, meant to be savored rather than muddled with work."

"I'm putting it away," Stiles promises him, stuffing his folders out of sight and pulling his glass toward him. It smells strong and musky, just like bad choices, and Stiles downs it in one mindless chug. It feels like someone's poured lighter fluid down his throat and followed up the attack with lit matches forced down his esophagus, but he supposes that's the novelty of expensive alcohol.

"What do you do for a living?" the man asks him. His drinking style is startlingly different, and even as he finishes his own drink with a few slow, deliberate sips, he doesn't look any less in control of his inhibitions or nearly as mind-boggled as Stiles feels. At this point, he's not sure if walking home is going to be an option. The bush idea is rapidly becoming reality.

"I'm an officer," Stiles tells him after he gathers his thoughts. Things have gotten a little blurry around the edges and his limbs are tingling with the electric warmth of liquor running down to his very toes, and suddenly this conversation seems like the best way to spend his entire night. He deserves to unload on a stranger and binge on overpriced alcohol.

"Really?"

Stiles grins and flashes the inside of his jacket across the bar, the glint of his badge catching the light of the overhead lamps. It feels satisfying every time.

"Really," he says, and the man reflects his smile with one of his own.

"So let me take a wild guess," he murmurs, shifting closer, "and ask if you had a trying day at work today?"

"Everyday," Stiles corrects through a moan. His glass is so empty again, so very empty, and he would love to drown his troubles in dead brain cells. Ideally, he'd kill off so many of them that his entire memory of the case would be wiped clean from his brain, no trace, and he could wake up a happy man content with traffic duty. Even wearing a bright orange vest and standing in the middle of an intersection can feel empowering on an especially optimistic day.

"Is it because of that cat-and-mouse criminal challenging the police to come and get him?"

Stiles looks up sharply from where he's staring into his empty glass like it has all the answers to life's hardest questions. "What? How do civvies even know about that?"

The man chuckles, and his laugh sounds low and warm exactly like whiskey sliding down Stiles' throat. "Word travels fast in small towns."

"Don't I know it," Stiles says, and for a second it feels like he's back in high school up until the moment he almost falls off his chair out of drunken clumsiness. It's still strange, not being carded, almost like his body grew up and his voice deepened and his hair thickened and his brainwaves stayed the same, unaffected by time. He furrows his eyebrows and tries to focus in on the man's eyes. "What else do you know?"

"Hmm," he says, taking a moment to compile his knowledge. "The man is quite slippery. Has a tendency to fall through the cops' hands like smoke." He leans in further, like he's sharing a secret, and Stiles feels compelled to lean in as well. "And I hear the one behind it all is part of that psychopathic Hale family."

Stiles hiccups, quite impressed. "I'm impressed," he tells the man, even as he seethes with rage at the idea of somebody like Greenberg—it just had to be Greenberg—chatting about a high profile investigation with the neighborhood grannies by the mailboxes only to have the entire town gossip about the case by nightfall. "Can you also tell me how to catch the damn guy?"

The man laughs again, leaning closer still. He smells good, the whiff of alcohol completely absent on his breath and replaced with the cool scent of a fresh aftershave. "Maybe he likes to hide in plain sight. Maybe he'll show up when you least expect it."

It sounds exactly like something Peter would do, like lurk an aisle away in the supermarket or spend his nights underneath Stiles' bed to infiltrate his nightmares, and Stiles is disappointed if only because he's no closer to pinpointing an actual location. Where the hell does a serial killer werewolf hang out? Sleazy motels, heavy metal concerts, right outside little girls' windows? Stiles shouldn't have to care about Peter Hale's whereabouts.

This bar is too damn hot, and the shots aren't helping cool him down. His leg feels like it's on fire from the buzz of the alcohol, and it's not until Stiles looks down that he realizes the warmth is coming from a broad palm spread over his knee in a subtle suggestion. Stiles stares at the fingers brushing back and forth over his jeans for a while, considering the implications before he jumps to embarrassing conclusions. It's been known to happen.

He looks up at there's the guy, closer than before like atoms probably wouldn't dare slip between them if he scoots any nearer, and Stiles feels a tuft of soft dark hair graze his cheek as his mouth nears Stiles' ear. His lips move right on the edge of his jaw, words hot on his ear, and he whispers, "I could distract you."

What a nice idea, Stiles thinks dazedly as the hand on his leg inches upward. "So much work," he says faintly just as a set of teeth slides down his jaw and nips on the sensitive flesh there. "I could use a distraction. But it better—" he grabs the guy by his cheeks, yanking him back to look him in the eye. "—it better be really good."

The reply is preceded by a smirk that encourages Stiles to come right here and now in his pants, but he doesn't, mostly because he's a grown man who should be in charge of his own dick versus it being the other way around like most of high school. And probably a few years after that too.

"I can think of a few," is the final reply, deep and rough, and Stiles bets that this guy is good at sex. He can feel it in the way the hand previously on his knee is now tracing the seam of his pants on his inner thigh, nothing but a lone finger teasing him slowly but surely. Stiles could definitely use this.

"Somewhere—pants off—not here," Stiles' brain says in quick succession. His thoughts are coming out jumbled, and whether it's from the booze or the hand on his thigh or the inebriating combination of the two, Stiles has no time for embarrassment. He grabs the hand dangerously close to groping his crotch by the wrist, not keen on giving the entire bar a free pornography show. "I'd have to arrest myself for public indecency.

"Oh," the man's voice purrs on his cheek, so close to kissing his mouth senseless, and the hand slips away from his unmentionable places. "We wouldn't want that."

"Nah," Stiles agrees, nodding. "I have a nice place. It has pop tarts and blowjobs."

"An offer I can't refuse."

"Right?"

The man hops off the stool, tucking a generous fifty dollar bill under his empty glass before extending his hand courteously to Stiles. It feels way too chivalrous for a man that will probably rip off his jeans with his teeth the moment they're in the privacy of a bedroom, but Stiles doesn't complain as he grabs him by the arm and tries to keep his balance slipping from his chair.

The walk outside is something Stiles doesn't remember well—only bits and pieces of cold night air hitting him smack in the face and being surprised by a few unsuspecting curbs—and it only reinforces the nagging voice in Stiles' head that this is such a bad idea. God, what a bad idea. He wants to get laid, he hasn't gotten laid in months, but he doesn't troll bars looking for handsome men who feel him up under a countertop. He doesn't trust strangers to lug his drunken ass home for sex, and he certainly never gives his real address to a man he met not twenty minutes ago, except drunken Stiles is an entirely different human with different plans and different morals, and those are all things Stiles ends up doing under the control of his evil alter ego, drunken Stiles. He should put that guy on a leash.

"This is nice," Stiles is garbling out as he's slid into the leather passenger seat of a vehicle that could probably finance a beach house down in Malibu. He's then buckled up like a two-year-old who can't reach the seatbelt, but before he can complain, his compatriot is already shutting the door and moving over to the driver's side. "Drive until you get to that funky statue of the life-sized squirrel."

"Don't you know any street signs?" the man asks just as he revs up the car and it rumbles to a smooth start. The streets are quiet, dark and silent like they always are deep into the night, and Stiles would be snoozing against the headrest if it wasn't for the erection demanding attention in his boxers.

"I'm drunk," Stiles says hotly as an excuse, leaning over to study the man's face. The sharp cheekbones especially are doing things to him, the stubble only encouraging the hormonal overcharge. "You're so hot."

The man smirks, hand sliding over the console to grip his thigh—to calm him? Rile him up? Stiles has no idea. He drinks it all up.

He makes it through the door and he grabs blindly for the solid chest, solid arms of his companion, only to be roughly slammed up against the wall the second the lock clicks behind them. It hurts in all the right ways when Stiles' back makes contact with the hard wall, his brain too focused on the sensations of blood rushing at inhumanly fast speeds to his dick to concentrate on the throb in his spine. God, he needs to get laid. He's needed to for far too long, and he needs a release from all this pressure that's bubbling inside him like a steaming kettle whistling for attention.

"Such a pretty mouth," the man is murmuring, his thumb trailing the curve of Stiles' lips, and he presses their bodies together, the heat of their aligned groins sending Stiles into a fever. He whines and arches into the touches, reaching desperately for something to hold onto—a good bit of hair, a hand, a hip. He's frantic in the way he ruts his hips forward, right until a hand flies down to still his waist.

"Hnnn," Stiles whimpers, trying to grind his hips to no effect. The guy's strong, his grip on his body firm and demanding. Stiles is so needy, unashamedly so, and flicks his tongue out to lick over the thumb tracing his bottom lip.

"God," the man murmurs. "Talk for me. Want to hear all those dirty thoughts locked away in that brain of yours."

It's a demand, not a request, and Stiles feels his entire body heat up at the idea of being roughly, aggressively taken for the first time in months. He needs to be fucked so badly, without careful touches or uncertain hands. He's so tightly strung.

"Need this, need this so badly," Stiles groans, head tipping back to the wall behind him. It exposes his neck, an opportunity his friend doesn't let slide, and suddenly there are teeth on the tendon under his jaw dragging down close to his jugular so Stiles can feel the sharpness of his bites. "Fuck, you're so hot."

"More, Stiles," he commands, the grip on his hip getting stronger. When did Stiles tell him his name? Was it earlier, when the gin was still present?

"Yeah, yeah," Stiles breathes, not keen on overthinking it. "I just really, really wanna be fucked. I wanna feel full again, wanna beg for it. Wanna have you bend me over and go to town."

"You want to beg?" the man purrs in his ear, nose nudging against his jaw. His voice is like molten sex, deep and rumbling, and Stiles feels his dick harden more every second. There's a hand on his ass, squeezing it, rubbing it, and then fingers are tracing the crack of his ass through his jeans.

"Yes, god yes, I'll beg," Stiles babbles, hooking his arms around the guy's neck. It's a strong neck, connected to strong arms, the kind that could probably pick him up and press him against the wall while he slides into him. "Please. Please just fuck me."

"I suppose that I could," the man says, smug and cheeky, and Stiles groans as his hand lets go of his hip in favor of working his top open, pulling at every button of his plaid shirt after Stiles urgently shrugs off his jacket and his badge this the floor with a clunk. God, too many buttons. He should switch back to nothing but t-shirts and jackets, anything with easy access. "Do you want to be wrecked, Stiles?"

"Yes," Stiles moans. He tries to hitch a leg over the man's hip but he's too clumsy, too heady to get a grip over his hipbone. The alcohol and the lust have gone to his head, combined into a swamp of haziness in which he wants nothing but to come hard and long after someone totally destroys his ass. He needs it.

"Do you want to be fucked hard enough to forget your name?"

"Fuck, yes," Stiles pleads, and that's when his phone goes off, trilling in his back pocket. "Oh, shit."

The hands pushing the shirt off his shoulders pause, the vibrations grinding between Stiles' jeans and the wall, and Stiles fumbles for it. Whoever it is, even if it's his grandfather calling from beyond the grave, they have to wait. The screen blinks Scott up at him, and he all but breaks his thumb in his eagerness to turn it off and fling it across the room. It'll survive.

"Important?" a voice rumbles against his ear, and Stiles shakes his head. He steadies himself on the guy's shoulders and climbs his legs, fastening his knees around his hips and fisting the fabric of the soft shirt on his back. Back to touching, back to mindless sex.

"No," Stiles says, licking a salty stripe up the neck under his mouth. The body under his shudders and grabs him by the ass, squeezing with both hands until Stiles is aching to lose his clothes. "C'mon. Floor, table, bed. Anywhere."

He's so hard. He rubs forward into the man's stomach, looking for friction and heat, and he chuckles at his enthusiasm. Stiles couldn't care less if he's too desperate. He fucking needs this.

He listens to Stiles and heads down the hall, lowering Stiles to his feet and kissing him hard the entire time they wrangle their way to the bedroom. Stiles doesn't care how he knows, how he finds the bed without a single direction needed, and then they're tumbling onto the sheets in a blur of limbs. He's not wasting time, not anymore, and Stiles struggles out of his pants and t-shirt like they're poisonous to his skin. He reaches out, desperately pulling on the body above his, and the man gets the message, descending on Stiles' chest to pay special attention to his torso.

"Look at you," the man is murmuring on his chest, hands ghosting up his sides just as he bites down on Stiles' nipple. "You want it terribly, don't you?"

"God yes," Stiles groans. He doesn't care how much of a hangover and a sore ass he'll have tomorrow, he needs to feel sex. He has to. "Clothes off. Please."

He tugs impatiently on the shirt above him, pulling it off his friend's head and tossing it into the ethers. Stiles doesn't care, not when his dick is throbbing with need in his boxers. He doesn't seem to be the only one who notices, however, and a hand slides into his Stiles' underwear to stroke his length just as Stiles is busy toeing off his socks.

"Off, off, off," Stiles chants, lifting his hips and wiggling. The man gets the message, tucking his fingers into the waistband of his underpants and sliding them down to his ankles for Stiles to urgently kick off. "Please, please, c'mon."

"Begging already," the guy says, sounding quite pleased, and Stiles pulls him down for another open-mouthed kiss. He goes willingly, blanketing Stiles' body with his own, and the skin-on-skin context feels like sweaty, hot relief. Stiles needs more.

"More," he pleads, dragging his mouth down a stubbled chin and canting his hips upward. Why are people still wearing pants in this room? That has to end, now, and Stiles makes it his mission to work on the belt digging into his waist.

"I got it," the man murmurs in his ear, catching Stiles' wrist and guiding it away to unzip his own pants. "Turn over."

"God yes," Stiles nods, scrambling to flip over, and he wastes no time easing apart his legs and lifting his ass into the air. He hears a heady groan hit the air behind him, like the sight of his exposed ass is working as great encouragement to be fucked as fast as possible, and Stiles grins over his shoulder. He wishes it wasn't so dark, and he wasn't so drunk, just enough that he can catch a clear glance of his partner's face. "Like what you see?"

"You have no idea," he says, and then there are hands spread over Stiles' ass, squeezing and pulling his cheeks apart for a better look. A thumb presses against his hole, insistent and fleeting, and Stiles ducks his face into the pillow to stifle his needy groans as he ruts his ass into the touches.

"Condoms and lube," Stiles chokes out, wrapping his fingers around the sheets. "First drawer."

He jabs his finger in the direction of his nightstand. There are rustles behind him, rustles of shedding pants and underwear, and then a cock is nestled between his ass and legs are pressed up behind his thighs as the man reaches for the first drawer to grab into Stiles' stash. Stiles hasn't felt another man's cock in months, hasn't felt the sweat of hot sex or the warmth of another body slick against his in too long, and he's done waiting. He rubs his ass back against the dick hard against his backside and moans for more.

"Relax, Stiles," a voice vibrates through his backside as a mouth trails its way down his vertebrae. "I'll give you what you want."

He hears the telltale sound of the lube cap snapping open, and then there are slick fingers rubbing slow, torturously soft circles on his entrance. Stiles whines to absolutely no effect of encouraging his friend to hurry up, not when he seems to be enjoying watching Stiles fall apart while he teases his ass.

Warm palms play with him gently, pulling apart his ass cheeks and rubbing the soft skin there. Stiles feels like sobbing his need as his asshole flutters under the barely there ministrations, bucking up into the fingers dabbling over his opening. And then cool drops of lube dribble over his hole, sliding down his ass, and Stiles hisses from the sensitivity directly into his pillow.

"Tease," Stiles breathes out, muffled by the sheets he's pressed his face into.

"Just admiring the view," the guy says before dragging his thumb up to his asshole, catching lube on the way to slide his finger into Stiles' entrance without warning, slipping in straight to the knuckle and pulling a string of moans from Stiles' mouth. God yes, the show is on the road.

He doesn't waste time after that, and one finger quickly becomes two, pushed in to the knuckle and working Stiles open with steady thrusts of his fingers. And Stiles, he loves this part. The way he can come apart just by being fingered, how much he loves the feeling of being stretched and filled, how he could probably easy come from his prostate being massaged into submission alone. And if the labored breathing of his partner is ant sign, Stiles isn't the only one affected by the fingers in his ass.

"Stiles," the man whispers, his voice no longer sturdy and composed. He slides his fingers in and hits Stiles' prostate, pulling him that much closer to sobbing with need. "You want it?"

"Fuck, fuck, yes," Stiles groans, and if this is the part where he begs, he'll do it. "Please. C'mon, please."

He twists his fingers. "Please what?"

"A-ah—fuck me! Please, please, please," he pushes his ass into the fingers teasing out of his opening, threatening to slip out of him.

Apparently his begging does the trick. His friend is laughing, throaty and breathless, but he pulls his finger nonetheless to make room for his cock, only wasting a few seconds ripping open a condom and slicking himself up with lube. Stiles peels his face from the pillow to sneak a glance, just in time to watch hands grab his hips for leverage and feel a cock slide in his hole.

Stiles hangs his head, because fuck. It's been too long. It feels amazing even as it stings and hurts, the push of a thick length slamming into him without reserve knocking him off his axis like an earthquake. The hand on his hip slides up his back, slipping from his spine to his neck to fist Stiles' hair, and that's all the warning Stiles gets before he's sliding out and thrusting back in.

A thumb brushes over Stiles' puckered hole just as he pushes in, leaving Stiles stretched and vulnerable and barely coherent. He can only imagine the picture he's making, ass shamelessly in the air while his hole, glistening with lube, swallows up a dick. He fumbles to fist his own dick, pulling it into strokes that match the slow and hard rhythm he's being pounded into, only to be roughly slapped away. Stiles keens, desperate to be touched.

"No," the man growls, and he slaps Stiles on his ass to drive his point home. "Only me."

He wraps his own hand around Stiles' dick instead, fingers teasing with the head and smearing the precome up his shaft, timing each twist of his wrist around his erection with the thrusts of his hips. Stiles is so oversensitive, so needy, so ready to come that he doesn't even know which direction to rut into, whether it be the right grip on his length or the cock ramming out of him. The hand not pumping his dick squeezes his ass cheek, rubbing a thumb over his soft, pliant skin there while Stiles sobs into the pillow.

"God, yes, yes, yes," he groans. He almost wishes he was sober, not enough to regret taking a stranger home with him but just clear-headed enough to enjoy every thrust and pull of his friend's hips with excruciating detail, and his senses go into overdrive as a set of teeth scrape up his back and bite, right on his side. It hurts and thrills him all the same, groans pushed from his lungs at every push inside him.

He loves this. Stiles can't explain how much he loves this, not enough. He loves the fullness, the inexplicable adrenaline rush that comes from a cock nestled in his mouth or his ass, slick and heavy in his grip and always ready to push Stiles to the edge. He loves the roughness, the way his eyes water and his throat protests whenever he's giving head, or even better, how his ass is sore like an overworked muscle the next day, like a mark of possession that doesn't fade until lunchtime. He loves being manhandled and guided by another man's grip, and then his friend changes up his angle and hits Stiles' prostate, and Stiles thinks he won't last much longer.

"So amazing," the man is murmuring behind him, short of breath and wrecked. Stiles feels the same. "So meant to be fucked, meant to take all I have to give you. Just like that."

"Yes, yeah," Stiles agrees along mindlessly, barely enough oxygen left in his body to let the words rush from his mouth. He's so close, close enough to feel it tingle in his midsection, and then the thrusts speed up and the man drapes his chest over Stiles' back, fingernails pressing into Stiles' arms and breath hot on his neck as he continues the assault on Stiles' neck with his teeth. Marks, teeth, spit everywhere.

"Say my name," he growls, fingers digging into Stiles' shoulders and chest sticky and sweaty on his backside as he pulls out and pushes back in, achingly good and right where it matters. Stiles whines, head hung and toes curling into the sheets. "Say it."

"I don't—"

"Peter," he murmurs on his neck, nothing but a two-syllable pant, and Stiles nods along.

He chants it, he sings it, he fucking swears it over and over right as Peter drives in with a thrust that sends him home like he's not just experiencing fireworks, but he is the firework, and the name rolls off his tongue like nothing. Nothing but breathy sounds, six-letter pleas, a drunken chant of yes, Peter, yes.

It's not until the morning that he remembers one singular fact about the night before, just a single name panted in the heat of climax, and he makes the unfathomable connection.

Stiles wakes up with a pounding headache, a construction site drilling deafening holes inside his skull, and what feels like sandpaper stuffed in his mouth, which unfortunately, is not the worst part of his morning. What comes right after the agonizing hangover pain is the regret.

He groans. This is why drinking works better than the buddy system—Stiles can definitely use the helping hand of somebody who will scoop the last few drinks away from him. He remembers the bar, loud and bathed in an amber glow, and a smooth-talking stranger with the hand on Stiles' thigh.

Shit. It comes back to him fast after that. The flirting, the decision to head somewhere private made by Stiles' libido, and the mind blowing sex. He rummages around under the sheets next to him, feeling for a sleeping body or a warm patch, and feels nothing but wrinkled sheets.

It only takes him seven minutes to convince himself to peel open his eyes and face the world, and the second he does and his blurry room with too much blaring sunlight comes into focus, he sees a folded note on the end table in lieu of a naked man curled onto the other half of the bed. Stiles grabs it, and there, in elegant curls, are the words you're fun to mess with, but you're more fun to sleep with.

He thinks back to last night—the subtle hints, the teasing. The last thing Stiles said at the demand of his friend. Peter's name.

Maybe he likes to hide in plain sight.

Oh god, oh god, oh god.

It's said that the human body renews itself every seven years, with fresh strands of hair and replaced skin cells and new blood. As if Stiles' body could ever forget Peter. As if he could ever forget his touch on the nape of his neck as he manhandled Stiles in the parking garage, the way his thumb brushed his ear and his breath was warm on his jaw.

As if his body ever will forget after last night.

The sweat, the tangled legs, the tongue licking up his spine—Stiles' autopilot gives a theatrical shiver that he feels obligated to shake out. He's pretty sure his brain will never, ever let him forget any of it now that the pieces have come back to him, specifically the part where the extremely attractive stranger now finally has an identity. He doesn't know which is worse—the fact that he feels like his brain is equipped with high definition instant replay of the way Peter ran his fingers up his legs or the idea of admitting to anybody in his life that he was duped by a handsome guy in a bar because he was drunk and off his guard. He's a policeman, for Christ's sake. He can never tell anybody.

Stiles lasts two, maybe five whole minutes before he calls Scott and starts spilling the beans while he nurses a coffee with enough caffeine in it to jumpstart a spaceship. The hangover isn't helping, hung over his eyes as a dull throb right next to his guilt and regret, and Stiles methodically closes all of the blinds and shutters while he waits for Scott to pick up.

"Dude, are you okay?" Scott says the second the call picks up. "You never answered me yesterday when I called to make sure you weren't drunk in a ditch somewhere."

"I know, I know," Stiles says, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. "And that was just the beginning of my bad decisions last night."

Silence, and then, "Are you hurt? What's wrong?"

God, Stiles wishes he was hurt. This phone call would be miles less embarrassing if his story was one of how he was mugged by thirteen-year-olds and then run over by runaway zoo animals.

"I did something stupid. The stupidest thing I've ever done. So stupid I'm just waiting for MTV to knock on my door and give me my own reality TV show," Stiles shuts the last of the curtains and slumps into the nearest armchair with dread. Like a bandaid, Stiles decides to go for the tactless route and just blurt it out. "I slept with Peter."

"You," Scott says. "Wait, what?"

"So, so, so very stupid," Stiles reiterates, for his own sake more than Scott's. "I don't know what happened. This is what goes down when you let me drink alone."

"I thought you were going home?"

"I was! And then this hot guy—fuck, it was Peter fucking Hale—came up and started flirting with me. And I just really needed to get laid. It's been forever, Scott," Stiles moans. He doesn't care if Scott doesn't want to know, he's sharing all of it. Every last horrific detail.

"Stiles, it's okay. You were drunk, right? You didn't know what you were doing," Scott is saying gently through the phone, and the soft, soothing way he's talking actually makes his words sound like they're making sense.

"Right. I was drunk," Stiles tries to agree as breezily as possible. "That's a good excuse. Except that I really, really, really enjoyed it and I have no excuse for that."

"Woah," Scott says. "It was good?"

"So, so good. I had no idea he was this good at sex and it's messing with my image of him," Stiles rubs at his eyes and takes a deep breath. He's pretty sure falling into a panic attack isn't the preferred morning after routine, but he's already called in sick to work so he can reserve the day for wearing sunglasses indoors and wallowing in remorse. Scott's voice breaks through his thoughts.

"Why did he do it?"

"What?"

"You were drunk, but was he? Why'd he do it?"

"To cause me lifelong pain and humiliation?" Stiles suggests, scrubbing a hand through his hair in a fruitless effort to rip out a few chunks. The agony might distract him.

"It's just a little weird, don't you think?" Scott points out.

"Scott, I don't need deep analysis," Stiles grumbles. "I need to feel better about my extremely bad decisions. Maybe flushing myself down the toilet will do the job."

"No, no, no. Stiles, why don't you come over tonight? Allison's stopping by and we can watch a movie to get your mind off things?"

Stiles considers it. He could wear the comfy clothes that make him look like a laundry basket and he could pick up booze on the way to make the evening bearable, plus he could whine to Allison and Scott. It wouldn't be the worst evening in the world, and it would certainly be better than slamming his head on every hard service when the memory floods back in while he binges on chocolate alone in his house.

He weighs the pros and cons of having to put on properly laundered clothes for the price of whining to his best friend while something more dramatic than his life plays in the background on the television. He shifts on his chair, instantly feeling the twinge of a sore ass, and promptly decides that yes, yes, yes, he needs a distraction.

"Well, this is a little unexpected," Stiles says.

He's standing in Scott's open doorway with four bottles of wine piled up in his hands, dumbfounded as he stares down the scene in front of him. Scott and Allison, wrapped up like an octopus with just a blur of arms to focus on, necking like a bunch of teenagers in the middle of a locker room. Stiles is feeling a little bit of deja-vu.

"Stiles!" Scott says, and promptly they spring apart. Stiles wonders exactly how new of a development he just stumbled in on if the blush high on Allison's cheeks is any indication. He readjusts the bottles of booze in his grip and waits for the awkward explanation while Allison smooths out her hair.

"Hi," Stiles says. "Should I come back later? I have enough alcohol to keep me entertained for a while."

"No!" Scott reassures him, pulling him inside. His eyes flick to the heap of wine in his arms and gives Stiles a critical eye. "Isn't this what got you into last night's problem in the first place?"

"Lucky for you, I have no intentions of humping you, Scott," Stiles says shortly, heading straight for the kitchen to dump the bottles on the counter. He can't sit here and discuss his bad decisions without being at least generously tipsy, and he certainly can't sit in silence on a couch watching a gory movie without having first spilled his guts. It's a chain of events that the wine has to precede if he wants to enjoy himself at all this evening.

"Hey Stiles," Allison says, stepping forward. Stiles grabs the glasses from Scott's cupboard of dishes and waves one in her direction in invitation which she politely declines with a shake of her head. More for him, then. "Sorry about that."

"It's fine," Stiles says. "I've seen it before. As a matter of fact, I used to run in on the two of you making out a lot. I should be used to it."

There comes the blush again, tickling up both Allison and Scott's cheeks. It's almost endearing how embarrassed both of them are, almost like they're five-year-olds tugging pigtails on the playground, and Stiles resists the urge to snort into his freshly filled glass of wine. He isn't exactly one to judge anybody's love life anyway, not when his can be summed up with accidentally hooking up with psychopaths. The overwhelming urge to slam his forehead into the fridge washes over him once more.

"So… do you want to talk about last night?" Scott pipes up, probably to spread the heat from himself back to Stiles. Stiles somehow simultaneously does and doesn't want to talk, caught between the part of himself that is horribly ridiculed and the other part of himself that needs to wail and share every detail for the sake of his own tortured brain. If somebody else shares the pain of knowing he slept with Peter Hale, maybe his own mind won't hurt so much.

"It was really bad," Stiles says. "And at the same time, really good, which is where the problem comes in."

"You can enjoy sex without enjoying the person," Allison says helpfully, and Stiles decides to make that his motto for the next few months. "It wasn't exactly moral of him to take advantage of you while you were drunk."

"Trust me, no one was being taken advantage of," Stiles admits, quite dejectedly, while Scott grabs his wine for him and gently herds him into the plushiest armchair available. "I was totally up for it. I nearly let him blow me right there in the bar."

"That's a lot to process," Scott says, looking quite helpless. Stiles doesn't blame him. There isn't exactly any advice that currently could fix the situation, no wise maxims that could touch his soul and take away his remorse. He calmly tries to remember that not even twenty-four hours have passed, and he deserves to give his tortured mind at least that to digest and repress every last detail.

"It's fine," Stiles mumbles, wrapping his arms around a pillow and fitting himself into the confines of the chair. "Let's watch a really tragic movie to make me feel better about myself."

He lets Scott and Allison decide on a film, filtering through a few classics before putting in something appropriately depressing as requested. They pick Titanic, which gives Stiles a good four hours to relish in the fact that at least he's not drowning on a boat. That would certainly complicate his life.

Halfway into the movie, curled up on Scott's armchair with two bottles of wine standing guard on the floor beside him, Stiles lets his eyes flicker from the television to the couch and notices Scott's hand tucked into Allison's between their legs. He's rubbing his thumb back and forth on her knuckles and in the bright light of the TV, Stiles sees a hint of a faint smile on her face. It should make him happy. After all, it's always nice to see an urban legend like high school sweethearts actually making it come to life in front of him, but instead, Stiles feels something like pain twinge at his heartstrings.

Everybody's happy. Everybody's happy but him. They don't feel stuck in the past or completely out of their depth. They don't feel bored in their jobs up until a serial killer werewolf pushes excitement back into it, and they don't feel lost in their own skin sometimes. They have people.

Stiles has people too. He has his dad, and Scott, and there's some people at work whose house he probably wouldn't toilet paper during a rainstorm. He has the sort of things he never thought he could after everybody started dying years ago. But then he sees something stupid like the way Scott and Allison hold hands, like nothing could tear apart their intertwined fingers, and he fiercely wants the same thing.

The closest thing he's gotten to the type of thrill that comes with having somebody to hold is the excitement Peter's made him feel at work chasing down a supernatural monster with an agenda, and Stiles has no idea what that says about him.

Probably that he really is just as fucking crazy as he always hoped he wasn't.

Hands on his thigh. Fingers on his hips. So, so much heat, so much Stiles is going to pass out from the headiness. Fingers trailing over his ass, teeth on his shoulder. A voice telling Stiles to beg, tell him exactly what he wants.

Fuck.

"Stilinski, for shit's sake."

He really ought to stop nodding off in work, Stiles thinks as he rockets up from his desk and wipes the stickiness from his mouth. Not because his coworkers disapprove, no, Stiles can't exactly bring himself to care about the officer contemptuously judging him with crossed arms a few feet away as he comes back from a restless nap, but rather because it causes him to relive every single moment of his night with Peter in startling detail. Clearly, his brain is hell bent on keeping every memory safe and shoving it back into the forefront of Stiles' mind for maximum torture, and Stiles fixedly ignores the officer poised by his desk waiting for sleepy excuses as to why he's catching forty winks in the middle of the work day. He's exhausted.

Scott's words have been bugging him, bugging him to the point of over analyzing every moment. Peter's letter is crumpled up in his hand, the last thing he was pouring over before he succumbed to a lunchtime nap atop his case files, and he still can't figure it out. What does Peter want, and even worse, why did Scott have to bring up the most important part—what the hell did he get out of sleeping with Stiles?

Stiles knows Peter, even after years have passed. The constant quips and loitering in the shadows to share homicidal advice are hard to forget, and before all that, the totally ravenous rampage that ended up with half the town covered in blood. Peter's dangerous, with absolutely no remorse, and it leaves Stiles to wonder—why hasn't he done more damage?

He's caused the police force their share of headaches and put them on wild goose chases, but still—it's been startlingly innocent. Stiles can't believe he's lost his touch—after all, evil is pretty persistent and doesn't leave even if you put up all the chairs and turn off the lights and lock the door behind it—but still. Still. He could be doing so much worse. He could've slaughtered half the force and left Stiles sobbing in his renewed nightmares. Is he waiting for the art of surprise? Is he letting the suspense rise, like all of them are sitting in a pressure cooker waiting for the anvil to drop and one of them to be helplessly beheaded out of the blue?

Across the station, a phone trills. It's so loud, too loud to concentrate, especially with the constant noise. The chatting, the stapling, the ringing phones. Stiles yanks open his desk drawer, looking for his Adderall bottle, and upturns it in his hand. Fuck.

He could slip out for a moment, just to run to the pharmacy or to dunk his head in the nearest lake, whichever clears his head faster, and nobody would even notice. He's doing a head count of how many people are thoroughly engrossed in their keyboards to not notice him slither out the door when his phone rings, loud and obnoxious and reminding him of his responsibilities. Stiles grabs it.

"Stilinski," he says.

"Are you still sore?"

The voice has Stiles rocketing up from his chair. He recognizes it—how could he not? He's been hearing it in his head for days. He grabs the nearest passing police officer he can find, covering the mouthpiece and ordering them to trace this call as fast possible, and then he vaguely registers the sound of laughter coming through the receiver.

"You know I can hear you, can't you?" Peter murmurs. He sounds silken and nonchalant and nearly bored. Stiles wants to give him a reason to stay on his toes. "You don't have to trace me. As a matter fact, I'll even tell you where I am. The parking lot."

"What?" Stiles asks. "The station parking lot?" Then, after a moment. "What the hell do you want?"

A beat. Then a long, dissatisfied sigh. "I'm disappointed, Stiles," Peter says. "Haven't you figured it out yet?"

"Figured what out?"

"What I'm after," Peter tells him. "And please don't belittle me and say like to kill me. I'm hardly that predictable."

"If you don't want to kill me then what the hell do you want?" Stiles demands. Peter's acting like it's obvious, like all the answers are floating around his head but are hopelessly invisible to Stiles' impatient eyes.

"Figure it out," Peter spits out, enunciating carefully. Then, "do you still have my marks on you?"

But he hangs up before Stiles can let loose a diatribe of words that would have his grandmother smacking him upside the head ten times in a row, the resounding click echoing in his ear. He only stares at the phone for one, two seconds, and then he's bolting out into the parking lot.

He circles the entire area, eyes zipping left and right looking for the tiniest fraction of movement. A ducking head, a mop of dark hair. Soft shoes tiptoeing out of sight. He runs in between rows of cars, frantic at best, and waits for Peter to pop up behind him and scare the pants off of him. He makes a beeline for his own car, and Stiles is making rounds from the headlights to the bumper when he realizes something's wrong.

His car is crooked. It's sagging, actually, like a deflated balloon, and frantically, Stiles gets to his knees. And there, clear as day, are his slashed tires. Claws marks left to right, scraping the hubcap and ripping all the air out of the tires with three clean swipes. He runs to the back tire, and there too. All the tires, hopelessly torn, and when he whips around to check the surrounding vehicles, he sees that all of them have suffered the same fate.

"Son of a," Stiles trails off, feeling the fury boil inside of him. He swivels around again and again, running in between rows of cars just to see if he can catch a glimpse of the guy ducking underneath a car door. He looks at the lines of ruined tires, wondering what lucky auto shop is going to have the feast of their life when the department springs for new tires. He feels like a little kid waiting for his mom to pull up in an SUV to pick him up from school, not like the honest to goodness adult he is, and wonders if he can convince Scott to cut his shift at the hospital short so he can pick him up and bring him home.

He's banging his head into the window when he sees the note tucked discreetly behind the windshield wiper. Stiles tugs it free and unfolds it, and there it says if you're still sore, I can always try my very best to be gentler next time.

What comes out of the slashed tires aside from the fury that is palpable in the station for the rest of the afternoon is that Stiles has to swap out his police vehicle for an old friend: his jeep.

Pulling it out of his garage and dusting off the hood feels bizarre. For a second he feels seventeen again, reckless and clumsy, and he decides to put that feeling to good use. He calls Scott after he drops him off, volunteering that they get his jeep running and like good times, bring alcohol and camp out under the stars for a few hours just to soak in the air. Maybe that's all he needs, a new mindset. Fresh air and old friends, sitting side by side away from the hullaballoo of work and remembering how his brain worked long before he ever went to the academy.

Scott agrees, and it only takes Stiles half an hour to rummage around in the engine before it's working again, purring to life and rickety as ever. The interior still smells like high school, like spilled Cheetos and grape juice that Scott's mom would keep in the pantry before Scott and him pilfered his kitchen.

They drive straight to the cusp of town, right where they'd sit on the edge of the rocks and try to find the lights of their houses from the hilltop when they were younger. Stiles isn't sure if things have drastically changed or if they're really still the same. Stiles is still doing his best to solve crime, Scott is still helping innocent strangers, and they've still got each other. They only thing they've lost is the foolish impulsivity of their youth.

Scott brings beer and Stiles brings the car, and all the quirks come back to him as he drives them up the hill, how the car wheezes going too steeply and the radio jumps volumes at random. They teeter the car right to the edge and slide onto the hood, backs against the cool front window and beers nestled in their hands, and breathe in the familiar air. Things always seemed simpler up here.

"So," Stiles brings up casually around the mouth of his bottle. "You and Allison?"

In the glow of the moonlight, Scott's cheeks light up with just the slightest of tickles of red. "Yeah, I guess," he says. "I'm not sure where it's going, but... She's staying in town for a while and it's... Nice."

"You always said you guys were meant to be together," Stiles says around a bark of laughter. "Like fate."

He puts air quotes around the "fate" and lets it pop from his lips to show his opinion. He's almost positive fate is one of those mythical things invented by people scared of the future. If fate existed, it certainly wouldn't have pushed Peter fucking Hale back into his life. And his bed, for extra humilitatory measures.

"What about you?" Scott asks. "Are you still upset shout what happened with Peter?"

"Scott, I think I'll always be upset about something with Peter," Stiles sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. It's nice up here, that's for sure, with a gentle breeze blowing over his cheeks and a crisp air that only the highest of altitudes are privilege to cleaning his lungs, but it's not nice enough for his problems to go away.

"Hey," Scott mumbles, hand sliding to Stiles' forearm. "Are you okay?"

"Hmm," Stiles thinks. "Yeah. If that means no, anyway. Not really."

"What is it? Peter?"

"You know, I thought it was, but," Stiles twists on the car, listening to it croak and groan under his movements, "I think it's just work in general. The pressure's crazy."

"Stiles, if it's too stressful, then just take a week off," Scott says. "You and me can go somewhere. We'll go to the beach for a while."

It sounds amazing, and Stiles smiles. If he can count on anything in his life to stay the same, it's Scott. He reaches across the Jeep to grab Scott's hand and squeeze his fist for a few seconds. He deserves more than a mug. He deserves a fruit basket, one of those humongous overpriced ones with chocolate covered strawberries and pineapples in the shape of stars.

"Thanks, Scott," Stiles mumbles. He stares up at the sky and tries to focus on a star, except they seem to fade away into the deep blue when he does. "If I go now they'll never catch him."

"Is that such a bad thing?" Scott asks gently.

Stiles sighs and considers it. He could easily let Peter get away, no harm done. He hasn't actually spilled blood, not that Stiles knows of, anyway, but he can't let down the entire department. He can't let himself down, not when he wants to prove himself. He's a good cop, somebody who can think hard enough even through the jumble of his racing thoughts and helpless ADD, and he knows he can get to the bottom of this if he tries hard enough. He can beat Peter. After all, he has set the guy on fire before.

"He's not the problem," Stiles says. "It's me. Something went so wrong these last for years. I don't even know. It's like I stepped out of my life and when I stepped back in, I didn't fit anymore."

"What?"

He twists around to glance at Scott and look him straight in the eye, looking for the understanding in his eyes. It's not there yet.

"You know when the first time in forever I really felt like myself was?" Scott shakes his head, eyebrows furrowed. It almost hurts Stiles sometimes to see how much he cares. "When I was woken up at the crack of dawn to read a psychopathic letter left to me by Peter goddamn Hale. It's like these last few years I kept trying to kid myself that after all that shit in high school, I wanted to be normal and ordinary. Which I am—in comparison to you, anyway—but my life isn't. It's full of werewolves, for shit's sake."

"But I thought you," Scott stops himself, eyebrows knitting further together. "I thought you liked being safe again."

"Well, duh," Stiles throws his hands into the air. "That's nice. But you know what I like better? Chasing after bad guys with you. All that adrenaline! I feel like that's what I was meant for, Scott. Like my tombstone should read wow, he lived the fuck out of his life. I can't do this boring stuff. Coffee and solitaire every morning."

He sits up on the hood of the car, steadying his feet on the headlights and staring directly over the city. The lights are bright up here, and the city's grown since the last time he and Scott came up here to ramble about light. Just a few neighborhoods and malls here and there, but it's still nice, seeing his tiny city grow and expand and know that he's a part of it all. He feels Scott sit up next to him as well.

"Stiles, I miss that too. I mean, it was really fun."

"Right?" They both laugh for a moment, bumping shoulders.

"Then you should," Scott pauses, fighting for the right words. "find whatever excites you, even if it drives you crazy. I really think you should."

"You think I should let myself chase a middle-aged serial killer?"

Scott laughs, eyebrows knitting together. "Okay, it sounds weird like that," he admits. "But he's not really much of a killer anymore. He hasn't done anything as bad as he used to."

"Think he went to murder rehab?"

They laugh again, the beer settling pleasantly in their stomachs. Stiles knows Scott doesn't feel it like he does, maybe nothing but a tiny warmth in his belly, and wonders if he's jealous of Scott's resistance or relieved at his own ability to let himself go to the alcohol.

"So you're over the whole... one night stand thing, then?"

Stiles thinks about it, how he spent the entire afternoon with the ghost of strong fingers dancing up his legs haunting his every moment, and laughs. "Not at all," he tells Scott, pillowing the back of his head with his forearms. "Not even close."

They find Peter's last message on Monday, taped underneath the chief's car and found by the mechanic who was lucky enough to get the business of the entire police department needing new, functioning tires. It only says four words, back to the beginning, and it leaves Stiles properly frustrated.

He's smart enough for this, dammit. He's outwitted Peter before. He wants to stand up in the station and share the time when he helped set him on fire, because that was definitely a fleeting moment where he had the upper hand. Such moments have ghosted away from his grip recently, but still. His record stands firm. He used to be better at this.

He doesn't bother going home that night. He stays at the station, drinking coffee on overdrive, and tries to focus on back to the beginning.

Apparently, another police officer finds the solution the next day.

He shares it with the group in the evening after Stiles takes a discreet nap in the break room, one pretentious step closer to sharing a PowerPoint presentation, and the murmurs of impressed agreement is what sets Stiles on edge.

"It only makes sense he'd go back to the woods," the officer is saying. "It was, after all, his first crime. And apparently his first home, if records are anything to go by."

"No, no, no," Stiles pipes up. He's grumpy, and he's being completely ignored. "That's not it."

"Excuse me?"

"I know the guy. He doesn't like predictable. This is way too predictable. The same crime scene twice? Really?"

The officer's mouth twists into something unpleasant, and Stiles is getting the feeling he won't like what's coming. "Ah, right. You know him. We keep forgetting about your former alliance."

"It's not an alliance," Stiles insists as the room starts buzzing. Like bees in a hive, he swears. Nobody ever really grows up, not to replace the coffee filter and not to listen to the voice of reason. "I'm good at discerning patterns. And he definitely has a pattern."

"I thought you said he wasn't predictable."

"Yeah, and that's his pattern! Doesn't this feel weird? Like we didn't have to think hard about this at all?"

"He's cocky. He thinks he won't get caught. It's totally reasonable."

The look Stiles is getting, he's pretty sure it could shatter glass. He crumples away from it, not willingly, until he's back to slumping in his seat and feeling much too tired for a full day of work. The officer's about to keep speaking, keep blathering about the most useless clue possible, and then a man is pushing through the crowd of surrounding cops.

"We got a tip off call, chief," an officer interrupts, bursting in. "A civilian saw something that looks like it could be a few shrapnel bombs in the woods near the Hale residence."

"There we go," a few detectives say, like that settles it. "He's going to the woods. Good work."

"No," Stiles insists. This feels all too familiar, like they've gone down this road before. And then he remembers—that night at his house. Greenberg asking him about the bathroom, Stiles twiddling his thumbs in the dirt, how he had started thinking how they were all sitting ducks in the totally wrong spot. How easy it would've been to dupe the department by leading them surely, certainly, somewhere across town. That's what this is. This is just like high school, calling tips into the police and hoodwinking everybody with false texts. This is what he does, and he's damn good at it.

"We better go," the chief is saying, everybody rising to their feet with purpose in their step. No, no, it's not right.

"I had it wrong," Stiles mumbles.

"What?"

"I thought it was before—when we were all camped out in my bushes," he can't get the thoughts out fast enough, his hands twitching and his legs itching to run. "I kept thinking how clever it would be if he tipped us off in totally the wrong direction. We'd all fall for it, the entire police department all in one place, the wrong place!"

"What are you getting at?"

"He's not going back to the woods! Those bombs—they're not real!"

"Stilinski, they could take human life. We can't risk that. A jogger in the woods could get blown to smithereens—"

Stiles shakes his head hard, surer than ever. "No, it's not right! He did the same thing when I was just sixteen! He called the police and tipped them off to prank calls from the school and then locked us in the school—"

"Stilinski, we don't have time for this! This is a good lead!"

"No! No, he wouldn't go there. Not again," Stiles is saying, but no one is listening. "It's too predictable. He'd never do that!"

He might as well be a swaying plant in the corner. No one is sparing him so much as a glance over the commotion, everybody too busy grabbing the holsters and their jackets and following the detectives out the door. Stiles waves his arms for a smidgen of attention, unsuccessfully.

"Guys!" Stiles yells into the hustle and bustle to no visible result. "Guys?"

"Move it, Stilinski," an officer is telling him as he pushes him roughly out of the way. "Do you want Hale to get away or not?"

Stiles throws a few choice gestures after him that go unnoticed in his hurry, and feels his panic rise to levels of beeping red lights flashing behind his mind's eye. This is wrong, this is so wrong, and Stiles knows because he knows Peter, knows his patterns and his game and his purpose. The chief is pulling on her blazer a few feet away and he sprints directly to her, hoping he can delay the madness by going straight to the source.

"I know this is a dead end," he tells her desperately, holding to the edges of her desk to steady his pulse. He can practically feel the opportunity of proving himself as an adequate officer and not just the rookie son of the town sheriff flee from his fingers. "Trust me."

The chief glances at him, looking completely unconvinced. "This is a good lead, Stilinski," she says. "Why would you think otherwise?"

"Because!" Stiles howls, clawing at the air. He feels like he's sixteen again, explaining incidents to his father while biting back all the key words like werewolf or clawed monster or lizard man if he flashes back to sophomore year. He has all the answers in his pocket but nobody is ever willing to believe him. "I know what he wants! And not to blow up his childhood home after setting it on fire!"

"Then what does he want?" the chief presses. She sounds clipped, like she's already secured one foot out the door to the Hale house, and Stiles doesn't even have a good answer. He tries to drum one up, to make the deductions fast enough in his head, but his thoughts are a blue of speeding ideas going too fast to be stopped and observed. He takes too long, and when he looks down the chief is already fastening the button on her jacket and heading for the door. "Feel free to come with us, Stilinski."

Stiles is going to scream, he's sure of it. He watches her hasten after the officers with the fortitude of somebody intent on catching a criminal red-handed, and Stiles doesn't have the proper arguments to take the wind out of her sails. He goes from clawing the air to clawing off his face.

Think, Stilinski, Stiles drums into his brain. For god's sake, think!

And then, he does.

"Me," Stiles mumbles aloud, which is unfortunate because nobody's around to hear his triumphant deduction. "He wants me."

This wasn't about messing with the police or spicing up his murder-free lifestyle, and it certainly wasn't about the game. It was about Stiles, about catching his attention and toying with him, about challenging his intelligence like nobody ever bothers to do anymore. It was about getting Stiles to notice him through the fog of what had become a hauntingly dull life and pushing fast, hard, illegal excitement back into it.

Fuck, and it worked. Stiles doesn't know who he was kidding. He doesn't want naps in the middle of the day or humdrum microwaveable lunches everyday. He feeds off excitement, lives off of it, lets it fuel his very being, and he had totally forgotten. Peter gave him back all those adrenaline-packed emotions that rushed at him like a tsunami in high school—fear, urgency, thrill, the pure exhilaration that comes with almost dying once every month—and he even managed to do it without maiming an innocent life too.

Stiles knows where he is.

Back to the beginning. It all makes sense. The beginning of all the things with them—where he and Stiles drunkenly slept together, where Stiles first woke up because of the call that a fire's blazing in the woods. Even where Stiles first heard the police radio warning him of half the body in the woods all those years ago, jumpstarting everything with one bad decision of impulsive excitement. The one domino decision that pushed their lives together. He's at Stiles' house.

He drives carefully, knowing perfectly well nobody's behind him. The entire police force is marshaling out of the station with the bomb squad heading straight for the preserve, ready to diffuse bombs and save innocent civilians kicking leaves and looking for inhalers in the woods. Stiles is totally in the clear—just like Peter knows he is, too.

He pulls up and there isn't a care in his driveway, as expected. Peter would never leave such an obvious trace. He probably sneaked in through a window like the animal he is, since after all, some things never change, and Stiles tests the front door as he walks up the dark driveway. The sky's already black, the perfect time to slipping undetected through a back window, and Stiles quietly unlocks the door as he pads inside. Darkness, except for one soft light in the kitchen. Silence, except for one sound. Someone's here.

He doesn't take out his gun. No, not when Stiles has finally figured it out. He knows what this was all about, and what he wanted, and why he was targeting Stiles specifically. It's like it all makes sense all of a sudden, like his brain clicked into action. He steps carefully, quietly, and when he rounds the corner, he sees it.

And there's Peter, rummaging around in Stiles' fridge, bathed in the yellow light of the refrigerator bulb. He has no idea what he was expecting. He clears his throat, standing a good distance away, and Peter's head emerges from the fridge door. He's smiling, like he was waiting for him to figure it out.

"I was going to sit in your chair and flick on a light when you came in, but," he shrugs, "I've never been one for the cliches."

"You totally are," Stiles says. "But keep telling yourself that."

Peter smiles. In the bright light of the fridge, his facial features cast long shadows, a sharp contrast on his cheekbones and his mouth like an edited photograph. He closes the door to the fridge, leaning casually against it.

"So you found me."

"I did," Stiles confirms. "I figured it out."

"You did," he looks to the side, eyes raking down Stiles' cluttered fridge, full of magnets and pictures. He looks like he's trying to soak in all the tiny idiosyncrasies of Stiles' house, all the things he couldn't analyze while he was breaking in or tearing off Stiles' shirt on one particularly inebriated night. "I knew you would."

"Really?" Stiles inches closer, dropping his keys on the table. "See, I realized something. You used to murder people. Basically for a living."

"…okay."

"So I know what you're capable of. And I know how good you are at not letting the police catch you. And if a murderer fails to kill you more than five times, well… maybe he isn't trying to kill you at all. Am I right?"

"I already told you I wasn't going to kill you," Peter says with an elegant eye roll. One day, Stiles will learn how to do that. He inches closer.

"I know. But I had no idea what you were trying to do. Whatever you were, it wasn't working. Not really."

"I managed to humiliate the police pretty well," Peter says airily, casually staring at his fingernails. Stiles doesn't believe the nonchalance, not when he sees the way his eyes keep flitting upwards to catch a glance at Stiles, see if his holster is out and ready or if the handcuffs are jingling.

"Not as well as you could've," Stiles says. "But you know what you did do pretty well? Drive me bonkers."

"Life fulfilled, then," Peter murmurs.

There's a moment of silence, where in the muted darkness, Stiles wonders if he and Peter are thinking the same thing. It would be a rare occurrence. Peter's expertly avoiding the issue, or rather, the answers Stiles has been digging into, so he steps closer still.

"So the tip about the shrapnel bombs? That was you?"

"Mmm," Peter says in response, with just enough of a lilt to his humming to be affirmative. He traces a few pictures of Stiles and his father on the fridge, casual as ever.

"And the actual shrapnel bombs?"

"Hopelessly fictional," Peter dismisses, and he has the gall to flash Stiles a pleased grin through the dark that Stiles picks up on through the glow of the oven light. "Except the police might find some convincing dummies strewn near the sight that will cause quite the distraction."

God. Dummies, tips, bombs. He really does think of everything. Stiles hates how impressed he is, especially after working tirelessly with the sloppy criminals who might as well walk straight into the police station asking to be cuffed. Peter's different, Peter makes him work for it, Peter draws it out into an exquisite challenge that Stiles' very being thirsts for.

"And here," Stiles says, "what are you doing here?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Peter asks him. His voice is soft, perfectly quiet without even trying to fit the ambience of the warm darkness, and he takes a single step forward in Stiles' direction. "I'm here to finish my game."

"How?" Stiles presses. He knows the answer, but he wants to hear it from Peter's mouth. He wants to hear what sarcasm Peter will wrap around it, wants to stand his ground as Peter tries to scare him off by crowding into his personal space.

"I'm stealing something invaluable," Peter tells him softly. It sounds do easy, so simple, like here they are discussing tomorrow's weather forecast, and then Peter steps another inch closer and Stiles gets a whiff of his cologne. It's familiar. "Do you know what it is?"

Stiles looks up at him, nothing but a dark silhouette with the yellow light tickling the back of his head. He doesn't know how to respond to him, not anymore, not if he should strangle him or kick the air out of his lungs or take the initiative and inch closer too. He could stand here, see sawing back and forth on each leg, and tell him he doesn't know, or he could do this right here and now and tell him the answer. He could chase the excitement for the first time again in years.

"Me," Stiles finally says. "Right?"

He hears Peter laugh, the same gentle rumble he remembers from long nights in Derek's loft where he wanted anything else but to sit next to the town sociopath in a tight Henley while they tried not to swap ideas and cleverness and lots of sass back and forth. It's deeper, imperceptibly so. Stiles wonders what else about him has changed with time.

"Yes," Peter says, and then there's a rough thumb on Stiles' chin and Peter's right there in front of him. "If you want the fairytale answer, specifically your heart, since I believe your virginity is already off the table."

Stiles touches the hand on his face, firm on his jaw, and wraps his fingers around Peter's wrist—is he steadying it? Encouraging it? Stiles isn't even sure if his body and mind are in agreement yet.

"You bet it is."

"A mouth like that—I'm not surprised," Peter purrs, and then he's close enough for Stiles to see every detail of his face, dabbed with spots of age and obnoxiously handsome still, through the filters of the darkness. He drops his voice to a whisper that lands right on Stiles' cheek. "So, officer. Are you going to arrest me?"

Ah, the million dollar moment of truth. Stiles considers it. He might get a framed picture of himself on the wall for this. A tiny plaque under his smiling face reading employee of the month and a few congratulatory claps on the back from colleagues. It's what any morally respectable cop would do.

But that's the thing. Stiles isn't morally respectable, he never has been. He's not like Scott, who would take a bullet for a passing squirrel, or even Allison or Isaac, who have learned to want to do the right thing even when it's harder than the easy option. He likes easy options. And he also likes fright and unexpectedness and the feel of his heartbeat thrilling his body while it thumps in his ribcage with abandon.

"Any good cop would," Stiles says, sliding his hand off Peter's arm just as the fingers on his cheek twitch. "But I kind of want to do different things with these handcuffs."

"Ha," Peter says, but it doesn't sound victorious or smug or like the shit-eating triumph of a villain. If anything, it sounds like a chunk of laughter that got lost to arousal, so Stiles does what his hands are itching to do and reels him in for a kiss.

It's great because Stiles can feel all of it, the facial hair on his chin and the soft noise of surprise Peter makes against his mouth, not muddled with too much gin in the least. Stiles knows exactly what he's doing, exactly what he wants, outside of lust and confusion and desperation. He's incredibly clear-headed, and realizing that he's kissing Peter, really kissing him, in a state of utter sobriety hits him like a comedic slap to the face. He starts laughing, pulling back to survey Peter. They're the same height, and the realization goes through him like a rush.

"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" Stiles asks. "Not just a quick fuck or some hilarious humiliation at my expense. You wanted this? You wanted me?"

Peter shrugs, but the grin on his face gives him away. He looks incredibly satisfied, like he's a wolf who's caught a rabbit in his teeth, and the best part is that it's completely the other way around. He's let Stiles catch him, and he's let Stiles hold the power, and he doesn't mind. He wanted it that way all along. "I'm impressed, Officer," he murmurs. "You're too good for the police. You ought to put that brain to better use."

"And how would I do that?"

"Join me," Peter says easily, hands sliding up Stiles' shirt to flutter over his stomach.

"And take over the world?"

"Obviously."

Stiles grins. "Nah," he says, and he leans in to kiss him again.

It's a bit hotter than last time. It goes from slick lips to open mouths and brushing tongues, hands grabbing for clothes to remove and midsections stirring in interest. Something about Peter gets Stiles so incredibly riled up, always has, and he drags his hand down Peter's chin to catch on his stubble. He's glad he stuck with the facial hair after all those years.

"So what's your agenda?" Stiles murmurs against his mouth as he reaches for the hem of Peter's shirt, pulling it up his chest. Something about his lips is addictive, urging him to kiss him forever, unthinkingly, until his mouth is raw and bruised. He feels Peter snicker against his lips.

"You," he says. "You were the agenda. You are the agenda."

He pushes Stiles up against the kitchen counter with a strength that forces the air out of his lungs. He does the work for Stiles and yanks off his own shirt, revealing his chest, and digs his nails into Stiles' back as he hitches up his tee with a few roaming fingers and latches onto his neck with his teeth.

"Oh," Stiles breathes out, his eyes fluttering closed.

"Getting you wrecked," Peter murmurs reverently on his collarbone through his t-shirt, mouthing his way up his neck with slick lips. "Have you beg for me."

"And you didn't even kill a body," Stiles says, quite impressed. He gasps when Peter's hands wind around his legs and prop him up onto the counter, slipping him onto the cool tile and sliding down until his nose is nudging up Stiles' shirt, his tongue laving up his stomach and his chin bumping his tented erection. Stiles tangles his hands into Peter's hair and tries to remain lucid for as long as possible.

"I can always kill a body, if that's what you want," Peter says easily, hands trailing up and down Stiles' legs. His fingers outline his kneecaps before drawing lines upward to his thighs, rubbing his legs through the denim barrier of his pants. Stiles laughs, just a short chuckle that grabs the rest of the oxygen from his lungs, leaving him thoroughly breathless.

"Fuck, Peter, just take off my pants already," Stiles groans, and Peter actually listens.

He unbuttons his jeans and slides them off with one hand while the other idly draws Stiles' wrist to his mouth, laving his tongue over his pulse point and biting hard enough to draw blood to the surface. Stiles yelps.

"You have no idea how intoxicating you smell right now," Peter murmurs, dragging his lips up the dots of blood on his wrist and nipping up the sensitive skin of his forearm. "So aroused, so waiting to be taken."

"Yeah, yeah, just easy with the teeth, yeah?" Stiles mumbles, winding his hands into Peter's hair to urge him into the right direction. His dick wants attention, for at least an hour, and when Peter finally pulls his jeans off his ankles and starts nuzzling him through his boxers, Stiles is ready to scream.

Still, Peter's in no position to hurry. He's probably getting off on this, feeding on the way Stiles is writhing and squirming for more, and he takes his time mouthing his way around Stiles' dick, dampening the cotton of his underwear with his tongue. Stiles feels his impatience, hardly strengthened with maturity, grow paper thin, so he yanks on Peter's hair and bucks his hips up.

"Ooh, playing rough," Peter murmurs, sounding quite appreciative of the road this is going down, and nearly tears off Stiles' boxers yanking them down his thighs. Stiles would not have forgiven him. That's a good pair of underpants.

Still, they're finally off, and Stiles' dick is free to explore the world—right until Peter softly blows on it and it decides it's better off staying right here. Peter curls his hand around the base of his erection right before his lips wrap around the head, suckling, honest to god suckling, and Stiles nearly falls off the counter in an effort to steady the back of his head somewhere solid.

He lets Stiles maneuver him as he pleases, Peter's hands hard on his hips as Stiles guides him back and forth with the grip he has on Peter's hair. Peter takes it all in stride, probably because he's all too eager to show off his skills at giving head, and Stiles has to give this one to his ego. He's definitely enjoying himself.

Peter knows exactly what to do, how to draw Stiles' length into his mouth and flatten his tongue against the underside of his dick, how to massage his hips and his thighs while his mouth works wonders pulling Stiles in and out of a deliciously warm, wet cavern of bliss that Stiles doesn't ever want to part from. It's been so long since he's been blown, especially blown this well, not just a hurried moment of mouth magic behind a bar by a dumpster only to be interrupted by the bartender taking out the trash.

"Are you sure you're not turning me in?" Peter asks, tipping his head up from Stiles' dick, lips slick like it couldn't be more obvious that he was blowing Stiles like his life depending on turning Stiles into a writhing mess a moment ago.

"I can if you want me to," Stiles offers, proud of how barely breathless he sounds for how completely wrecked he feels. "But I kind of had other plans?"

"Fine with that," Peter says, and then he takes Stiles' dick back into his mouth.

God, Peter was built to do this. To wrap his lips around the head of Stiles' erection and hollow his cheeks, sucking just hard enough to pull groans from Stiles' mouth and smash his restraint to pieces. Peter may be in control with his tongue on the underside of his length, bit Stiles still gets to shoot up to heaven without even having to leave his kitchen. His hands fly to Peter's shoulders, kneading the flexing muscles there to occupy his hands, and then Peter pulls away.

"Can you come twice?" Peter asks him, voice decidedly hoarser than it was before. He slides his hand over Stiles' dick to replace his mouth, fingers steadily pumping him while Stiles tries to trickle back to earth.

"What? Why?"

"Because I'd like to fuck you here on this counter," Peter says easily. Stiles moans.

"God. How can you just say stuff like that?" Stiles mumbles. "Yes, yes, you can fuck me on this counter."

"Do you want me to finish," Peter suggests, dragging a single finger down Stiles' slick shaft. He emphasizes that with a few soft scrapes of his teeth up Stiles' cock, his tongue following suit. Stiles his eyes flutter closed but still sees the smug smirk on Peter's face long after his eyes are shut. It's not hard to imagine.

"No, no, no, just—just fuck me," Stiles babbles, pulling him up and dragging him closer by the neck. He doesn't want to wait, not when he can finally just give in, and the next second Peter's murmuring appreciatively into his mouth and kissing him senseless, all the while biting bruises on his lower lip. He definitely has a biting problem, not that Stiles expected much less.

"You're so eager," Peter mumbles on his mouth. "I'm surprised. Where's the moral crisis?"

"What?" Stiles asks him, already losing focus on things like logic and rational conversation as Peter wraps his hand around Stiles' abandoned dick. "Well—you know, there are volcanoes and meteors and all kinds of other life forms that could just as easily kill off all human life tomorrow, so. I mean. I might as well let you fuck me."

"Might as well," Peter grins, and he pulls apart Stiles' legs to wedge himself between them, unbuckling his own pants as he slips his hand down from Stiles' dick to fondle his hole, thumb pressing over it. Stiles groans.

"Wait, wait, wait," he mutters, squeezing Peter's shoulders. "Do you have stuff?"

"Stuff?"

"Condoms, lube, the stuff that every Boy Scout should know to be prepared with."

Peter arches a single eyebrow. "What kind of Boy Scout were you?" he asks, just as he slides his hand into his back pocket and pulls out a packet of lube. Stiles doesn't know if he thinks Peter's presumptuous for expecting this or extremely grateful that he's equipped.

"Condoms?" Stiles presses.

"We don't need condoms. I'm a werewolf," Peter growls. "There's nothing I can pass along to you, you idiot."

"Hey."

The rest of Stiles' indignation is swallowed up as Peter pushes his finger into Stiles' holes, easing apart his knees further to get a good look at where his knuckle is swallowed up by Stiles' body. Peter has an uncanny ability to pull his entire impressive vocabulary away from him, leaving him with nothing but groans and whimpers and broken fragments of words to use as communication, and Stiles keeps himself afloat by wrapping his legs around Peter's hips and waiting for him to tear open the lube.

He watches him slick up his cock, fingers flexing with need on the back of Peter's neck while he inches closer on the counter. It's not cold anymore, just sticky and sweaty and exactly what sex in a kitchen should feel like, and Stiles busies himself with leaving marks that fade after a moment's worth of healing on the expanse of Peter's neck. And then, without a warning, Peter's slipping his finger free and pushing his cock in. Stiles wonders if blacking out is an option right now as he digs his nails into Peter's backside.

"You asshole," he groans. "You said you'd be fucking gentle."

"I lied," Peter says easily, and then his dick inches in further and Stiles is left leaving scratches on Peter's back. He feels full and complete and totally torn apart, and then on the first try, Peter nudges his prostate and the pain is replaced with something explosive. Stiles isn't feeling fireworks behind his eyes. If anything, he feels like he is the firework, exploding brighter and harder with each passing second as Peter pulls out and slips back in.

He grips him by the cheek and pushes him back to get a good look at his face, damp from beads of sweat on his forehead, and Stiles feels a swell of pride hit him because he's responsible for that. He's responsible for reducing Peter to this human mess, no longer the brave dangerous werewolf, and then he tips up his chin and catches sight of burning blue eyes. Fuck, he's not just tearing away the walls, he's seeing the primal animal underneath. Stiles grins and pulls him into a kiss that's all teeth and tongue.

It's better this time. Stiles isn't seeing drunken stars explode behind his eyelids and his limbs don't feel sleepy. He's completely aware, completely alert of every passing moment, of how amazing it feels just to have Peter's fingers slip and squeeze on his waist, his thighs, the curve of his ass, and wants to memorize it this time. No guilt. No watching Titanic well into the hours of the night. Just letting go.

He's not in his head, not at all. For once in his life, Stiles is not focusing on the aftermaths or the repercussions or even if he's doing this right. He knows he is. He wraps his arms around Peter and pulls him closer, licking into his mouth and letting the breath hitch from his chest each time Peter thrusts back into him.

Their kiss gets sloppier as their mouths align, Peter's fingernails nearly drawing blood on his hips as he jerks Stiles closer with each push of his hips.

"Don't you dare bring out the claws, you psycho," Stiles warns him just as his words are interrupted with a moan, and Peter ignores him, scraping his blunt nails Stiles' back. He's messing with him, and is enjoying this too much.

"Can feel every bit of you," he growls into Stiles' ear. "Nothing in the way."

"Weirdest—fucking—kinks," Stiles grits out, but he barely does it in one breath. Peter's speeding up, his thrusts just animalistic enough to pull fangs from his mouth, and Stiles' eyes widen as he watches the blue in his eyes flash. To think that he's making Peter lose control, that the sensation of Stiles' tight ass around his cock is pushing him that much closer to where his restraint is nonexistent after years of careful discipline, is enough to have Stiles flushed and panting.

He comes with a cry, Peter's hand crawling up to push fingers into his mouth and feel his lips wrap around his knuckles, and Peter stays relentless in the snaps of his hips. He pushes into Stiles' body long after he's riding the waves of his orgasm, drawing heady, oversensitive moans from his lips. Peter's growls are hot and deep right in Stiles' ear, primitive at best, and Stiles feels it in every bone when he comes inside him, warm and fast. His chest heaves against Stiles', his pulse fast and insistent where Stiles is feeling it thump on his neck against his ear, and he stays inside Stiles long enough for him to feel inexplicably full.

"Nnngh," Stiles says just as Peter slips free, steadying Stiles with his arms. The tingles are still zapping through him like hot flashes of electricity, and he feels like a Lego who's lost its bottom half. He definitely won't be standing on his feet anytime soon.

"Get up," Peter says softly in his ear, rubbing his thighs and biting his ear. Stiles frowns.

"I'm barely conscious."

Peter doesn't listen, sliding his hands off his body and falling disappointingly out of reach, deciding instead to saunter his way into Stiles' room. He's completely in the nude and not the least bit ashamed, and the sight makes Stiles' thoroughly used and sated body perk to life just a spark.

"Where are you going?"

"To your bed," Peter says, like it's obvious. "We haven't used your handcuffs yet."

Oh. Right. Stiles supposes he could still get up for that.

"You know you'll have to run, right?" Stiles asks the next morning in the bathroom. They're both cramped in the three square feet that are available, Peter bent over the sink to shave away the unwanted stubble on his cheeks with Stiles' razor while Stiles towels off his hair from his morning shower. In the morning light, he can admire Peter better, take in the crinkles by his eyes he doesn't recall from years ago and the long expanse of his bare chest.

"Obviously," Peter answers. "At least, for a little while. Like you said, I didn't murder anyone."

"Right. So the police should just strike the last few weeks from your record, huh?"

"I wouldn't mind it," Peter murmurs loftily as he drags the razor down his jaw. It feels bizarrely domestic, standing here in a towel preparing for the shitstorm that work will be. He got a few disgruntled texts this morning from officers letting him know last night was a dead end, and that Greenberg spent five minutes frantically giving CPR to a dummy before the realization sunk in. And then there's Peter, not a foot away and barefoot in his bathroom while he rummages around in Stiles' medicine cabinet like he secretly lives here and just never bothered asking Stiles for permission. Stiles looks at both of them, perfectly casual in each other's presence, and thinks not even scientists could explain this morning's interactions.

"Maybe you should grow out your hair," Stiles volunteers as he reaches around Peter's shoulder to grab his deodorant.

"So you have something to grab during sex?"

"Uh, no. So the police wouldn't recognize you," Stiles looks at him, not sure if he should be surprised or know better. "You've got a dirty mind for such an old man."

"It keeps me young," Peter explains, rinsing off the razor with a few swishes in the sink, a few clumps of shaving cream swimming off the blade. "So how about dinner tonight?"

Stiles scoffs. "You realize if I'm seen with you in public, I will have to arrest you, right?"

"That's why I keep telling you to quit your job and help me achieve world dominance," Peter says. His razor draws blood on the way down his cheek and Stiles watches the cut heal away a second later. Totally unfair.

"I'm a warrior of justice," Stiles tells him.

"Are you sure?" Peter persists as he towels off his face and twists around to lean against the sink and survey Stiles. His boxers are slung low on his hips in a way that shouldn't be as distracting to Stiles as it is, and he firmly tells himself to keep his eyes north of the equator as Peter grins at him. "We could be Bonnie and Clyde."

"You respect me too much as a policeman," Stiles tells him, and he can't hold back the pleased smile on his face that pulls an eye roll out of Peter.

"Fine. You're the clever one, like you always have been," Peter admits, but not without a fair bit of sarcastic tinges to his words. Stiles doesn't mind. He knows perfectly well that short and sarcastic is Peter's default setting. His is too. "So."

"So," Stiles echoes.

"So it seems our story must end," Peter concludes, splaying his fingers out over Stiles' cheek. He looks soft and clean-shaven around his facial hair, and Stiles wants nothing more than to fuck work and nuzzle his neck until the sun goes back down. Peter considers him, something find and quiet under his unendingly diabolical smirk, and he adds a teasing, "For now," to his declaration.

"For now?"

"Well, Stiles," Peter says, his hand sliding to the back of Peter's neck. His index finger curls around the strands of short hair there, a barely there but remarkably human touch that Stiles focuses on. "I'm not giving back what I stole."

"What would that be?" Stiles asks, delighting in Peter's answering grin.

"You," he whispers, dragging him closer so he can lick his way into Stiles' mouth. It's incredibly heated for so early in the morning and in a bathroom, no less, and the fresh smell of shaving cream tickles Stiles' nose as he angles their lips together and gives as good as he gets. They pull back after the breath wheedles away, Peter pushing their foreheads together. "And I'm keeping what I rightly stole. So Stiles? You won't let anybody else snatch you away. Not when I have you."

"Okay," Stiles nods. He wrinkles his nose. "Is that a twisted love confession?"

"It's a warning," Peter says with a light shrug. "I can always come back and murder off any offenders if you forget who you belong to."

He says it so fiercely Stiles doesn't even bother fighting him about it, not when he rubs their lips together and reels him in by the neck to keep him in place. What did he expect anyway? Peter always has even absolutely insane.

"So," Stiles says again when he pulls back, seizing Stiles' bottom lip with his teeth as he goes. "I'll see you later?"

"Later, yes," Peter says, stepping back. Oddly enough, it doesn't feel anything like a goodbye. Still, Stiles expects a few postcards. Anything to keep up with Peter's life without having to read about animal attacks or psychopathic murder sprees in the papers, preferably.

He heads for the bathroom door to grab his clothes, nearly out when Stiles slams the door shut. Peter shoots a curious eye over his shoulder at him.

"You're not leaving so fast," Stiles says firmly, locking the bathroom door before Peter can slip away.

"Oh?"

"You know that the police are going to have to file this as an unsolved case?" Stiles points out, and he stares Peter down with extra emphasis on his eyebrows to remind him exactly how much Stiles' generosity in Peter's freedom plays a part in that particular humiliation. "You don't really think I'd let you embarrass me like that, do you?"

Peter smirks, tilting his head. "Are you changing your mind about handcuffing me?"

"I'm letting you go on one condition," Stiles offers, leaning against the door to effectively block the effect. Peter slides into his personal space, intrigued, and Stiles drapes a hand over his hip. "This was your game, and guess what? You totally lost."

"Perhaps."

"So," Stiles trails off with a smile that Peter's eyes follow carefully. "You're writing me and the police department an apology letter."

"So that's it? You really let him go?"

"Yeah, I did," Stiles says, shrugging. Scott looks amazed, too dumbfounded to even dig into his waffles. "He's exciting." He expounds when he looks up and sees Scott is clearly still in want of a deeper explanation.

"I can't believe you didn't arrest him," Scott says, finally shaking away the surprise and grabbing the syrup. "So that's really it?"

"Of course not," Stiles says easily. "He's gone for now, but we're gonna do the postcard thing."

"The postcard thing," Scott parrots, sounding thoroughly bewildered by their dynamic. "You guys are insane."

"Yeah, maybe," Stiles admits. "But I think I like it that way."