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Full Summary:
It's not that Stiles doesn't get along with the Hale pack, it's just that he's keeping his head down while trying to learn the truth about his mom's murder. And luckily, he's got his own set of supernatural skills to help with that.
So when Peter approaches him to ask for help finding out what happened the night of the Hale fire, it gets a whole lot harder to keep what he is a secret—especially because murderers don't appreciate it when you drag their dirty deeds into the light.
But Stiles is burning to find answers, and he's not too worried about what it takes to get them.
Rating: T for some violence and language, nothing crazy but please use discretion, etc. etc.
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The Midday Lord
Chapter One
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Stiles has always kind of wanted to suddenly pop up in the rearview mirror of someone's else's car, like in the movies. To see the complete surprise on a victim's face, maybe even get a legit screech of terror. Plus, it seems super appropriate given the situation.
He sort of underestimated how much it would make him feel like a creep, though, lying in the backseat of a stupidly wide (but surprisingly comfortable) Ford F-150, half-heartedly triple-checking a couple Beacon Hills news feeds on his phone as he waits. The air in the truck cabin is humid and sweltering; the summer sun, which is at its height now in the middle of August, scorches the windows. If heat wasn't kind of Stiles' thing, he'd have probably passed out by now.
Eventually, he hears footsteps approaching from outside. Stiles pockets his phone and reaches for the handle of his baseball bat, mostly for his own comfort. The dashboard display lights up as one Colin Ellery unlocks and approaches his car.
The truck cabin shifts as the man opens the door and slides inside. Stiles doesn't wait for him to turn the car on. (Come on, he's vengeful, not suicidal. Scaring the shit out of someone when their car's cruising at 40 miles an hour seems like a good way to get them both killed.) He sits up and leans forward to meet Ellery's gaze in the rearview mirror. To his credit, the man doesn't shout, though his eyes fly open wide and he flinches in his seat as if struck.
There's sort of a trick to it: when Stiles gets like this, and if he's concentrating just right when he locks eyes with someone, they seem to have a hard time looking away. Or doing anything, really. His mom could have done it better, without needing to focus so much. She'd explained it all to him once when he was younger, but Stiles hasn't really gotten the hang of it yet.
Anyway, it's a trick he'll have to figure out on his own now.
"Hi," Stiles chirps. There's a grin across his face that's almost real. "You're Colin Ellery?"
Obviously, Stiles knows the answer to this, having recognized Ellery from the photos in the papers. This man is in his late forties, maybe a year or so older than Stiles's own father—but life doesn't seem to have treated him nearly as well. Purple shadows weigh down the bottoms of his eyes, and he's got a maze of crow's feet branching out from their corners. Stiles thinks if he were to look away from the mirror, he'd find that Ellery's mouse-brown hair is beginning to thin, but he can't break his gaze now.
"Yes," Ellery says, the word coming out slowly. By now, he's probably recognized the stifling heat of the car, and that he's virtually incapable of looking away. With what little movement he can manage, he's stiffly pressed himself away from Stiles and into the car door as much as possible. "Who are you?"
Stiles knows from experience that people have a hard time seeing him when he's like this, that he grows somehow brighter. Less recognizable. Almost hellish, on a second glance. The car is stifling now. Not for Stiles, of course, but he can sense how it might be for someone else. And Ellery's skin is already beginning to glint with sweat.
"No one important," Stiles says eventually. "Could be an enemy, could be a friend. But I have a few questions for you, so it depends on how I like your answers." He leans forward onto the center storage console, making himself comfortable. "Your alibi for the night of May 2nd. You weren't really in San Francisco visiting your brother like the court documents say, were you? Your brother's just covering for you."
"I...I…" The man's breathing is a bit labored, but Stiles can't tell if that's because of the heat or anxiety over the unexpected question. His eyes are a little glazed over, and Stiles thinks he should maybe tone it down. Probably. "I wasn't…"
It's possible he was going to say more, to refute the accusation, but he trails off for long enough that Stiles accepts his answer. "Good," he says, drumming the plastic in celebration. "Off to a good start. Second question: if you weren't in San Francisco, what were you doing on the night of May 2nd?"
"Here," the man gasps. "I was—in Beacon Hills." Stiles smiles, thinking this might be easier than he'd thought, but the man continues of his own accord. "Couple of us were...were out drinking, and—nothing happened, though, I...I just went home."
"Nuh uh," Stiles replies, and the man swallows. He's far gone enough that Stiles feels comfortable breaking his gaze. He watches a bead of sweat roll down Ellery's stubbled throat. "One more try."
Ellery is quiet enough that Stiles thinks the dizziness must already setting in. "There was that girl," he says at last.
"Rhea Gonzales."
"Yeah. She...she ran out right into the street. I was...we'd all been drinking. I didn't see her in time, she was there like a fucking picture flashing, nothing one second and something the next, and I—...I hit her. And I couldn't, man, I couldn't have done anything, I mean you hit a deer or something, hard, like it happened then, and you know they didn't make it, and this girl, I knew she didn't make it."
"Did you—" Stiles stops himself. He's angry now, but he runs his thumb along the handle of the bat, taking a few breaths to let it pass. It seems pretty unlikely, based on the statements of character in the reports he'd snuck from his dad's office, that Ellery tried to help the girl, or made a phone call, or anything. So hearing this part will just get Stiles's blood boiling. And if he isn't careful, he'll take things too far.
Ellery isn't helping his own case, because when he keeps going, he proves just as despicable as Stiles might have expected. "I wasn't gonna be arrested man, I wasn't going to jail…they would have known I was drinking, they would have known—"
"And you didn't serve time. Of course. You got acquitted." Stiles frowns when the man doesn't continue, but then, it hadn't really been framed as a question. "So who do you know? Who paid?"
The man looks frightened now. Well, more frightened, anyway. His face has turned an ugly shade of puce, and he stares dazedly at Stiles from his slumped position in the seat. "I don't…"
"Answer the question." Stiles says quietly. "This only gets worse if I don't like your answers. Or if you don't answer at all."
"What are you doing to me?" Ellery asks, pulling weakly at the sweaty collar of his t-shirt.
"That's not how this works. You answer the questions, and maybe I let you go, or maybe I don't. Depends on what you say. Or you can sit here and keep sweating it out until it gets hot enough for seizures and organ failure. I can tell you all about it, I've researched like you wouldn't believe."
Ellery swallows again. "My father-in-law used to be best friends with the judge," he manages at last. "I mean, he's got the money, but he didn't pay—"
"He put in a good word, I'm sure," Stiles inserts benevolently, resting his chin on one fist.
"I—yeah, he...I mean, favors exchanged, you know—my dad looks out for him next election..." Ellery says faintly, once it's clear that Stiles won't respond right away. The man still isn't all there, his eyes clouded, but he manages to inch himself up just a bit to get a better glimpse of Stiles. Whatever he sees makes him swallow frightfully and look away.
As Stiles weighs it all in his mind, he finds that it all balances out: everyone and their grandma knew Ellery had killed Rhea Gonzales in the hit-and-run a few months ago, so the truth as Ellery spoke it was far from surprising. And Mattes Ellery, this guy's father-in-law, was on the list of possible connections for the insanely fast acquittal. (That's along with mismanagement of evidence by the prosecution, but there's really only so much Stiles can tackle at once. He's just one witch, after all.)
"Okay," Stiles agrees after a beat. "I'll take it." He leans forward and grips the man's shoulder. Ellery winces at the onslaught of heat, though Stiles knows it'll just be a weirdly shaped red mark by tomorrow. His breaths are coming more shallowly, and he either won't or can't pull his head up to meet Stiles's eyes. "Here's what you're gonna do. You are going to drive straight to the Beacon Hills police station and turn yourself in to the first deputy you see. You're going to tell them the truth, everything you've told me and then some, and you're going to let them record it. Any details that might be relevant about that night, you tell them. Do you understand?"
The man nods, more frantically than Stiles would have thought him capable at this stage. He removes his hand from the man's shoulder. "You're in the middle of a heat stroke," Stiles adds matter-of-factly. "Headache, dizziness, nausea, rapid heartbeat, overheating, swea—ah, actually, looks like you stopped sweating. Not actually a great sign in the realm of human health." Ellery blinks once, languidly, and Stiles continues. "You're not gonna die, probably. Anyway, if—if anyone asks, a heat stroke is all you're going to say happened today. 'Cause I forgot the last couple symptoms: disorientation, hallucinations, stuff like that...So. Let's say you had a change of heart after a near-death experience. No strangers involved. You get me?"
The man nods again.
"Great. We're friends, then. Hallucination-induced friends. But. If I hear anything otherwise...or if you ever get behind the wheel of a car after even a single sip of alcohol...I'll know, and I'll find you," Stiles adds. It's a total lie—that's not really his kind of magic—but this guy doesn't know that. "The next few questions might not be so nice. And if I hate your answers, I might let you burn for real, not just stuff for funsies."
The man doesn't reply—hell, he's right on the verge of passing out, so expecting clear speech is expecting a lot. But he does whimper, so that's a win.
Anyway, Stiles is done here. Once upon a time, he'd worried how he'd manage to get away from a victim after something like this, leaving before they managed to grab him. (Despite all his trickery, he's still basically a fragile human who happens to be able to burn people alive if he tries real hard and believes in himself...but strangulation would do him in just like the next guy.) By now, though, he knows at what stage people are way too out of it to tie their own shoes, let alone run after him. And they really do seem to consider him a hallucination—which is for the best. No need to have them explain their guilt (or innocence, sometimes) to a judgemental maybe-hallucination and come to terms with the existence of magic in the same day.
So, tired and lightly shivering, Stiles slips out of the car like normal. But, because he's really not trying to kill this guy, he opens the front driver side door wide. The truck's parked on a side street, but enough people are passing by that someone will eventually wonder about the dude slumped in his truck and come to Ellery's aid.
Two streets down, the road is closed off for a start-of-summer festival, which also spills over to the lawn of a nearby elementary school. The air bursts with the smell of freshly cut grass. Children slip and squeak down waterslides and parents fan themselves into a dull torpor in under the school awning.
Stiles rests his bat on his shoulder. Then, he slips into the crowd and disappears.
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Stiles is hot. And not in the drop-dead gorgeous kind of way (okay but who's he kidding, he can be fucking adorable when he tries). It's more like the drop-dead kind of way.
He gets it from his mom. Got it from his mom.
Or more specifically, he got it from the summer fields of his mom's homeland. Not the cold winter Poland's so well known for, but the scorching hot summers, with crops burning gold under the sun and dust growing from the arid horizon. He gets it from a line of witch-creatures that once grew from the heat, their magic linked to the earth and sun and summer, a line reaching back to the first farms and fields of the early world.
This line once came with a sense of purpose and duty: protecting the land against those who abused it, questioning their motives. But like with most aspects of ancient magic in today's world, that original purpose had pretty much faded in time.
For one, Beacon Hills can be pretty dead sometimes, but it isn't a farming town, and Stiles and his mom never valued any field enough to dedicate their lives to protecting its crops. And really, Stiles's mother had never been a regular practitioner anyway. She'd lived in Beacon Hills most of her life, and after meeting Stiles's father, she'd never found it in herself to quest for justice or revenge as her family did. Up until last year, she'd spent her talents to support a more modern cause: the Beacon Hills Fire Department.
As a kickass firefighter and, eventually, the assistant fire commissioner, she knew more about heat and flames than virtually anyone else, both theoretical knowledge and a practical (if uncanny) to subdue rogue fires, like a lion tamer at work.
Once, Stiles used to be like that, too.
Till a year ago, his power existed, but it didn't own him. He only felt it as an affinity for long summer days, for the beach, for open fire pits in the dead of winter. He felt it as a dedication to questions and riddles and learning.
Now, though, things are different.
Now, his duty thrums in his veins, a very real burning somewhere below his heart. He needs it like he needs to breathe. And in the burgeoning summer heat, he feels it now more than ever.
Stiles is a poludnica. Once upon a time, people in Poland might have called his kind a Noon Witch, or a Midday Lady: a witch-creature they warned their children about, a thing of blinding white light that waited in the wheat fields for those foolish enough to pass by in the full heat of day. They were otherworldly beings with warped, mocking faces and grins that showed too many teeth. They walked in dust storms, radiated heat, demanded the answers to questions or even riddles that helped them judge a stranger's worth.
If Stiles is being honest, though, it's not just the poludnica in his veins that drives him to do what he does. With his mother's murder and no answers to the only questions that matter about her death, he feels the need to do something, to make someone pay what they owe—even if it's not whoever owes his mother.
He's been doing his research on it, of course. When does he not? But finding leads on what happened to his mom is slow going. Unbearably slow.
And so he asks questions, and he hunts, and he burns.
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Halfway through her meal, Melissa pauses mid-bite, stands, and opens the window that leads from the McCalls' living room to the porch outside.
"I'm not sure if that's better or worse," she says as she settles back on the sofa to turn her absent gaze back to whatever trash ghost hunting travel show is on the TV. After pulling her dark hair off of her neck and into a ponytail, she goes back to attacking her eggs with gusto. "I called someone to come out and look at the air conditioner," she adds after a beat. "Either something's wrong, or it just can't keep up with this summer."
It doesn't have to mean anything. In general, Beacon Hills has seen record-breaking heat waves over the past few weeks. But Stiles makes a conscious (and slightly guilty) effort to rein in his own natural body heat anyway. "I told you we should have just gone for ice cream," he tells her nonchalantly, stuffing half a syrup-drenched pancake into his mouth. "Heating up the stove versus refrigerated food? Today? Easy win."
Melissa doesn't dignify this with a response. And really, given her professional (and of course personal) interest in keeping them both healthy, they're probably lucky she'd let Stiles make something as sugar-laden as pancakes.
Scott, who is wolfing down his own pancakes (chocolate chip, no less—Stiles had snuck those in pretty carefully), laughs into his coffee. "I'm not holding out for that."
Sunday breakfast-for-dinners have become a weird tradition for the three of them over the past year. Back when Melissa had first started insisting Stiles stay at the McCalls' as often as possible instead of the usually empty Stilinski residence, she'd also begun stuffing breakfast into Stiles and Scott before school whenever she could. If only to make sure Stiles was eating something. It's taken Stiles some time to appreciate the effort. And it's taken even longer to turn things around and show off his superior breakfast skills to earn a place as the designated cook.
Their busy work and school schedules eventually whittled their daily breakfasts to once a week: late Sunday afternoons right after Melissa's longest shift of the week. Stiles finds himself looking forward to it, even months after the start. It's one of the only times he really feels at home. He loves being here, draped over the sofa, the smell of greasy breakfast food in the air, the TV running on low in the background.
As one, Melissa and Scott snort at the overdone antics of the show. "It basically sounds like they only caught a bunch of static on the EVP and were so embarrassed they made up something it said!"
"No, mom, they were so helpful, they added subtitles so you can obviously make out the words time to die."
"Ugh." Melissa grabs the remote and changes the channel. The images dart past, and then she hesitates, thumb hovering over the button, and scrolls back down.
On the local news station is a headline that makes them all perk up—even Stiles, who'd known it was coming but hadn't known it would be so fast. A newscaster stands outside the Beacon Hills police station, with the lights of a pair of ambulances flashing in the background.
"Look at that," Scott breathes, reading the scrolling text at the bottom of the screen. "Ellery turned himself in?"
Melissa turns up the volume.
"...offering a full confession to detectives with the Beacon Hills Police Department. Insider sources say that Ellery's health may have been a causative factor in this confession, and one source reports that he had to be helped into the police station, as he was and is suffering from severe dehydration and heat stroke. A medical team was called in about an hour ago, and while we have no follow up reports about his health, we can confirm that Ellery did, in fact, confess to hitting Rhea Gonzales in the fatal hit-and-run accident that made the papers back in May. If you remember, Gonzales was a university student visiting family at the time of the accident, and despite detectives' initial suspicions..."
There's no updated video of Ellery, just the same still images of him and Rhea Gonzales they've been using in the news for months. Stiles tries to imagine the man's face as he made the confession.
"Guess your dad will be busy today," Scott says slowly. "Think he'll have to take overtime for this?"
"I don't know," Stiles replies, frowning. "I haven't really talked to him in a day or two, so it wouldn't really make a difference." It's not the whole truth, mostly for Melissa's benefit. He and his dad have briefly glimpsed each other just a few times recently, but he hasn't actually talked to his dad in a week, at best, and he knows that'll put a sad look on her face. Stiles clears his throat. "Anyway. I'm gonna head home tonight, actually—I wanna clean and run some laundry since Dad forgets."
Scott wipes his mouth with his sleeve. "We still headed for the movies or something tomorrow? Maybe in the afternoon? Alison and I are going out later that night."
"Can't wait," Stiles replies, shoving his plate into the dishwasher. "Don't get started without me."
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This is how it always happens, if it happens: Stiles will be on the couch, and his father will come through the door, motion to the phone on his ear, and lock himself in the study to finish a pressing case. Or, Stiles will come home to find that the extra TV dinners he bought with this month's grocery money has slowly disappeared, replaced by constellations of empty beer bottles. Or, Stiles will guiltily hide his research at a creak on the stairs, only to realize it's just the house settling, not his father home from work.
Because his father is pretty much running himself ragged with work these days. Or maybe he's just running. Stiles can't really say he blames him, not after his mom died last year. Stiles is running too, but in a different way. A different direction.
Today, though, Stiles runs into his father quite literally on the way into his house. Fortunately, Sheriff Stilinski has enough experience with Stiles's clumsiness that he catches Stiles by the elbow before he can faceplant on the front steps.
"Dad!" Stiles exclaims, surprised, as he makes his way to his feet. "Thought you had the late shift today."
"Just had to run back here for a sec," the Sheriff replied. His smile is fond in light of Stiles's blundering, with age lines creasing his cheeks like dimples, but he quickly sobers. "Lotta overtime coming up in the next day or two. You heard about Ellery yet?"
"Yeah, yeah, I...Melissa and Scott and I just saw it on the news."
"Full confession. Everything we needed to know, all laid out. Completely unexpected." The way he says this is casual, but the searching look in his eyes is anything but. His next few statements aren't questions, not yet. But Stiles has the sense they may be growing in that direction. "Says...says he had a kind of heat stroke earlier today. Just sitting in his car, forgetting what time it was. A little strange, if you ask me."
"No, it's completely strange," Stiles agrees. "Guilty conscience? I'd've been going nuts if I was trying to keep something like that quiet. With that girl's parents and everything..."
At this, his father's face softens a bit. He shrugs. "Good thing you wouldn't have run from something that serious in the first place," he replies with certainty. This is probably true, Stiles thinks—he would have been way too eaten with guilt to flee that scene. His dad knows him pretty well, after all. Most of him, anyway.
His father's face is flushed, which could be from the warm sun, but Stiles suddenly has another suspicion. "So why'd you run back here again?"
"Picking up some paperwork I forgot," his dad replies easily. It's only half true enough: he is holding a case file. But Stiles thinks that's not all of it, wonders if his dad's even aware of how often he picks up a drink without real thought. "You in for the night?"
Stiles nods, frowning. "Just wanted to get some peace and quiet. You know."
His father grimaces, again reading Stiles too well. "Leave something for me to do, will you? I know the dishes are piling up…"
"Dad, I got this," Stiles replies, rolling his eyes. His dad looks reluctant, tapping his case files restlessly against his leg. Finally, Stiles gives his dad a gentle shove down the sidewalk, grinning. "I have literally nothing to do all summer. You can make it up to me when school starts."
They both know he probably won't, that his schedule won't magically clear up in September. But it's nice to pretend, and they sink into the lie easily.
"Don't work too hard," his dad calls over his shoulder as he climbs into his cruiser. "Bed by nine. Not too much television. All that jazz."
"Yes, sir." Stiles mock-salutes, turning it into a quick wave as his dad pulls out of the driveway and turns onto the street.
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For the last two days, Stiles has crashed in the McCalls' guest bedroom, having binge-watched an entire season of The X-Files with Scott. Today, he finds more empty beer bottles in front of the TV, and an entire bottle of Jack Daniel's down to just a finger of whiskey in his dad's office. There are dirty plates too, across the coffee table and piled in the sink, and the laundry waits in a heap against the washer.
Stiles turns off the AC. Then he rolls up his sleeves and mindlessly gets to work, first on the laundry and then on the kitchen. The scattered bottles are the last to go.
"An awful lot of alcohol," someone comments from the corner of the living room.
Stiles jumps, losing his grip on the beer bottles he'd been carrying. They crash to the floor as he turns to see Peter sitting in his mother's armchair, which had been empty when he'd passed it a few minutes ago. It makes Stiles scowl fiercely, his anger quick and searing. "Do none of you make any noise, or ask to be let in like normal people? And—how did you even get in here? "
"I don't think we can be like normal people," Peter replies, though he does climb to his feet and walk into the light of the kitchen.
"What are you here for?" Stiles asks suspiciously. It's been a few months since Scott was accepted into the growing Hale pack, but Stiles's interactions with Peter have been pretty minimal. Mostly because Peter manages to be MIA at the best of times and creepy as fuck at the worst.
Look, Stiles knows better than most that everyone deals with grief in their own way. Whatever vices Peter chases to deal with his own grief must be different from the "just punch whatever moves" attitude of his obnoxious his niece and nephew. Plus, Stiles figures it's probably a big mindfuck for him to go from being his sister's beta to being Laura's in the space of two years. And so Stiles doesn't know much about Peter except that he's quiet and stares too much and probably has a life that's about as shitty as Stiles's, just in a different way.
So he gets Peter, on some level, but on a level that does not and has never included welcoming Peter into his home.
"My fault. Allow me," Peter replies, without really answering. He bends down to pick up the glass, and Stiles lets him, finding it interesting that Peter never really turns his back on him as he does so. Never turns his back on anyone really. "It's warm in here," the werewolf adds offhandedly, not pausing in his movements.
"It is."
"And do you always work in the dark like this?" Sure, Stiles does. The blinds are always drawn these days, to let Stiles and his father steep in their own misery.
Stiles doesn't really want to look at Peter's face, to see what he imagines will probably be pity there. Or hell, maybe not: Peter knows as well as anyone what it's like, being sentenced to remain in the house where someone you loved once lived.
"Peter, what are you doing here?" Stiles repeats, exasperated.
The werewolf stands, smiling pleasantly. He holds the shards of glass in his cupped palms like a gift, but then he turns to tip them into the recycling bin. "Straight to the point, then. Well. I've realized we may share...a similar interest."
"And what's that?"
"I'd also like to know why my family died," Peter replies, looking Stiles straight in the face.
A slight chill runs down Stiles's shoulders, and for a moment, his mind races. Then, he shakes his head. "I don't get it," he retorts flatly.
"Of course you do. Your mother's murder remains unsolved. It wasn't hard to learn that you spend half of your time at your friend Scott's or at our house...but the other half you spend researching, either here or at the police station. I imagine you don't just sit in the waiting area filing your nails all day. And I suppose the key evidence, if you will, is that you bring your research to our house sometimes. Lots of notes on possible suspects and motives, that sort of thing."
"Okay. Let me just, like, break this down. One, what I do in my free time is my own business. And two, I'm not even going to ask if you've been following me or why you went through notes I had in my backpack, and three, my dad works there," Stiles replies indignantly.
"Yes. But by your own admission, you don't see him often these days. So one has to ask: what other motivation could you have for waiting long hours at the police station multiple times a month?"
"And definitely listening in on my conversations with Scott. Not creepy at all."
"I'm hardly trying to have you confess to murder, Stiles. Just to...researching one. Potentially with better tools than most inquisitive werewolves have on hand."
At this, Stiles tilts his head as the pieces click into place. "Wait...are you, are you basically trying to ask me if I can help you look into…" Stiles pauses. Stares. "What? The whole, um, fire thing?"
"Yes. The whole fire thing." Peter's face briefly becomes tight, like his skin is stretched too far over his cheeks and jaw. But after a moment, his expression morphs into a look of actual sorrow. "I understand...what it's like to look, and not find what you're looking for. Perhaps you already know I don't believe the fire was an accident. For many reasons. But among them...there were hunters in the area at the time. It also was only by chance that Derek, Laura, and I were not at home that night. And for none of the others to have escaped, with our regenerative abilities...it's possible, but not likely. That was enough for me to research, but not enough to get me through the brick wall of bureaucracy," he adds, face stony. "The hunters I've already looked into. But to learn what the police know, what they found in the way of evidence supporting my theory...that's what I need.
"Derek and Laura know nothing of this," the werewolf adds after a beat. "They might have suspicions of their own for all I know, but none of us have ever spoken of them. And I'd rather no one confirmed my suspicion."
Stiles nods slowly, still a little off-balance. "Then why are you telling me this?" he asks, a little hoarsely.
"As I've said, I've hit a brick wall. The police seem resolved in thinking my suspicions are out of left field, because they've been about as useful as you'd expect. No offense."
Stiles ignores this. "And you think I'll help...what, by smuggling information out of my dad's work?"
"Won't you?" Peter challenges. Stiles realizes suddenly how close this could be to blackmail, except that he doesn't think that's what Peter's going for here. Hesitantly, Peter adds, "I imagine you do the same when researching your mother. Half the newspapers say her murder was random, the other half...well, the tabloids, mostly, but the circumstances do lend themselves to the imagination." He pauses. "What do you think happened?"
The question is one Stiles wasn't aware he wanted to be asked. In just a millisecond, he goes from skeptical and annoyed to intrigued. "I think it was premeditated," he hears himself say automatically, after a short pause.
Because he never talks about this. Not with anyone. Scott and Melissa dance around the subject like Stiles might explode if they bring it up, the Hale pack cares about the topic just enough to send him looks of intense pity sometimes, and with his father...well, just no. So Stiles has a lot of practice keeping this part of his life tightly bottled up.
But he suddenly finds himself wanting to talk about it, wanting to explain the research that has absolutely devoured every waking and most sleeping moments.
Wanting to explain to someone who, he realizes, might actually understand. Peter is looking at him expectantly, but his face doesn't show the keen sympathy or care of someone who worries the question might break something in Stiles. He looks curious, nothing more. And curiosity is a trait Stiles recognizes. One he can work with.
"My mom...she'd worked her way up to assistant fire chief. And so she didn't always suit up for stuff anymore. But she was trained as an EMT. The 911 dispatch got this call one afternoon, saying someone with a medical emergency a few blocks away from her station needed a defibrillator. So my mom goes, maybe just by chance...because most of the department's across town working on a three-alarm fire that later turns out to be arson. She's not even on location in the truck when someone shoots through the front window. It kills her instantly. They catch the guy, Tyler Mendez, this rando with a rap sheet as long as my lifetime, and he's not talking, but it doesn't matter because he mysteriously winds up hanging in his cell the next day."
The kitchen is quiet, both Stiles and Peter briefly suspended in time.
"So no," Stiles says quietly. "Some people say it was just a random shooting, 'cause the guy's profile makes him seem like a nut. But I don't...I don't believe that. Maybe Dad really does, we've never...we don't really talk about this at all. Like, ever. And I've never heard him mention any other investigation, so probably he took it as a suicide and not a suspicious death. But, for me..."
"You think someone killed him. To keep him quiet."
"I think it's possible."
Peter hums. "And by that thread, there might have been a reason your mother died."
"Yes. I think...someone knows something. Someone here. In Beacon Hills, maybe even someone I know. I don't know what the reason could be for wanting my mom to die, not yet. But I've been trying to recreate what she was doing in the months before she died, who she talked to, who she met. She didn't keep a journal, but she has notes that Dad—well, he doesn't like the thought of going through her stuff, really, so I kinda made copies of all the stuff that was on her desk and then snuck it all back."
"I see," Peter replies slowly. "What kind of notes?"
Stiles opens his mouth to answer, then stops. He stares. The werewolf appears nonchalant, but the hairs stand up on the back of Stiles's neck as he realizes the connection Peter is suggesting. "The categories of fires over the past few years," Stiles says weakly. "Mom was responsible for filing reports about the emergencies the fire department responded to. Including things like the type of fire—natural or wood-based, electrical. Arson."
Peter, weirdo that he is, has the beginning of a smirk on his face. "I've started to realize: I don't know whether there's a connection between your tragedy and mine," he begins. "But at the very least, two heads are better than one. We might at least bounce theories off of each other. Don't you agree?"
"You think there's a connection. Between...if your fire wasn't an accident, and if my mom…"
"I think it's possible."
Stiles rubs his forehead, wary of the potential for manipulation. This is Peter Hale, after all. He once manipulated all the betas into ordering only Hawaiian pizza, just for fun, like some kind of demon.
But at last, Stiles nods. Because maybe this is a lifeline he didn't even know he needed. "It's hard to do this in a vacuum," he admits finally. "Some days...I think I'll go off the deep end if I have to read another line." He looks at Peter warily. "I can get you copies of my mom's stuff, but I don't have everything. Just the stuff she had on hand at home. Getting stuff from the police station is harder, 'cause I'm mostly limited to snooping on what's on peoples' desks or really rarely, if no one's around, I can peek in a filing cabinet or in the database records. But that's really slow going."
"But it's going," Peter replies, his smirk in full now. "Which is all I can ask. I might have some...questions for you. Over the next few days. Perhaps we can talk next time you come to the house with Scott."
Stiles rolls his eyes. "Thank God. If I have to watch another stupid pissing contest between Derek and Scott during training again, I'll scoop my eyes out with a spork. Let's definitely to do it then."
"It's a date," Peter says politely.
Stiles frowns, fidgeting with the rest of the empty bottles. Just for something to do, he moves to throw them into the recycling bin. "Peter," he says suddenly. "Why are you asking me, really? I mean, me. I know what you said, but I'm just some kid. We've like, killed some pixies together once and you've seen me butting heads with Laura on a regular basis. But you barely know me. And seriously, don't pretend you guys aren't loaded enough to hire a private investigator with actual clearance to get police files, and fast. I've been in your house, and it's a McMansion compared to this place."
Peter inclines his head, looking thoughtful. "You're right," he concedes slowly. "I barely know you. But I know enough about you. You have to understand, my priority is to get answers, but to get them safely, without exposing...what's left of the pack, to potential threats. If I'm right that the fire wasn't an accident, there's no way to know who to trust here. I suppose...in watching to see what you were up to, I realized that you must know what that's like. And that you obviously know how to keep a secret."
Peter says this casually, so casually that Stiles honestly cannot tell whether he means it simply in a you're-looking-into-your-mother's-death kind of secret, or a you're-not-actually-human kind of secret.
Because that part isn't something Stiles is ready to talk about. He turns away for a moment, busying himself with the bag of recyclables.
It's true that sometimes he thinks he should have told the others. Maybe not before his mom died, back when he didn't know anyone else who was a supernatural being. But definitely after his mom died, and Scott was bitten by a psychotic rogue werewolf that Peter eventually put down, he could have said something. It had been such a welcome distraction from his grief a few months in, suddenly having to help Scott with his whole new "Yer a werewolf, Scottie" thing. And at some point, he probably should have said "Surprise, here's this super weird thing about me, too!"
But here's the other thing: it's not really about what he is, but what he does with it. Before he'd started using it on actual people, it might have been a cool party trick to pull out of his pocket. Now, he just doesn't want anyone to start connecting the dots. He's been careful, he's only gone after a handful of people who deserved it, but the last thing he needs is to explain himself when he barely understands himself anyway, some days.
"I don't…" Stiles begins, turning around to face Peter. Who is nowhere to be seen. The kitchen is empty, as is the adjoining living room. His mother's armchair faces him still, unoccupied. "Damn it, Peter," Stiles gripes under his breath, knowing the werewolf can probably still hear him. And then, because he can't help it: "Wow, so this is what Jim Gordon feels like all the time."
It doesn't really matter, though. At this point, Peter's given Stiles more than enough to think about.
.
.
.
stiles: umm, so how did you get in and how are you leaving?
peter: don't worry about it