Life after Stiles loses a lot of its shine. For a few days, he believes that Stiles will come back. It's not the first fight they've had. Each time, Stiles had reappeared at the house, rueful and apologetic.
The day of their next meeting comes and goes. More meetings (dates) pass without word from Stiles. He never calls or texts. Peter can recognize a breakup when he sees it.
On one of those regularly scheduled visitation days, he sits in his usual armchair, pretending not to stare at the ticking clock. Peter wonders what he thought he'd accomplish by breaking the spell. If the momentary satisfaction is worth the memory of that stricken look on Stiles' face. The utter betrayal written on every line of his body.
When he finds himself exiting Hot Corner, sipping a dirty chai latte and holding a bag of everything bagels for Stiles, he knows it's not. But what's done is done. There's only the way forward – a truly pathetic future where Peter buys Stiles' favorite things because he can't remember it's over.
Peter refuses to be chained by the past. He believes in the future. He believes in whatever unequal portion you can beg, borrow, or steal. And none of that counts if you can't hang on to it. Above all, Peter doesn't do regret or self-hatred—or that's what he would have said before. Before Stiles. Before the spell.
He can claw his way from the grave with his nephew as a spell-battery. He can transform fear and indifference to true love. He can change the fabric of reality. It is intolerable that he can't go back and fix what's wrong.
It's even more intolerable knowing that he might be responsible.
At the end of June (or twenty-three days after Stiles left), Peter forces himself to leave the house. Not that his disagreement with Stiles has turned him into a shut-in, even if Derek, of all people, brings it up, the concern awkward in his nephew's mouth. Their relationship is too changed for that sort of care to feel comfortable, and the conversation ends as well as they ever do these days. Next time, it will take more than Peter turning into a hermit who obsessively rereads The Count of Monte Cristo for Derek to interfere.
Peter doesn't have any concrete plans – all he knows is that the smell of Stiles is fading more everyday. He needs to get out. See a movie. Perhaps see to the shopping he's put off for the better part of a week.
He showers because he refuses to lower himself to the level of the clichéd lovelorn wreck, but shaving and trimming the goatee require more effort than groceries deserve. If the henley he pulls on had been borrowed by Stiles often enough to carry his scent in the fibers, then who can blame him? More to the point, there's no one to notice and smirk at Peter's hidden sappiness.
If it takes Peter twice the normal time to drive to Trader Joe's, then that's his concern. If he wants to waste the gas, well, that's his god-given right as the owner of an SUV. It is especially his own concern if he bypasses the produce to fill his shopping cart with lobster ravioli, microwavable Indian meals, and every damned Speculoos product that Trader Joe's carries. Peter has just made the momentous decision that, yes, he does need the Rosemary Raisin Crisps and the Fig & Olive Crisps when he smells it. Stiles is here.
A brief tactical retreat behind the coffee grinders reveals his mistake. Peter doesn't know if it's better or worse. Instead of Stiles, it's a beleaguered Sheriff Stilinski in eyeglasses and civilian clothes, standing by a display of sea salt caramels. He looks like a normal father in his rumpled jeans and polo, so different from Peter's usual perception of him. The only thing Stiles had ever said about his father was that he knew about the deal and wouldn't show up to shoot Peter for doing filthy, kinky sex-things to his only child. That's hardly a claim to inspire much faith.
It's not as though Peter will definitely run into the man. It's a big store with a lot of aisles. A quick stop at the cheese section, and he can grab the brie and filled pasta. After that, it's smooth sailing to the checkout. Mission accomplished.
"Peter Hale?"
Of course, it can't be that easy. Carefully arranging his face in an expression of polite interest, Peter turns around. "Oh, hello there, Sheriff. I didn't see you."
The sheer disbelief on the man's face is quite impressive. It reminds him of Stiles' eloquent face.
"Yeah, somehow I don't think that's true with the way you ducked by the grinders," Stilinski snorts. "Besides. I think you ought to call me John with how well you know my kid."
Peter's head bobs in an abortive nod then stills. It's irksome to be caught out so easily, but running into the sheriff – John – has him a bit off-kilter.
"John then. Is there something I can help you with?"
"Sure," John replies in a suspiciously friendly tone. "You can tell me why my kid's screaming nightmares started back up after he stopped seeing you."
Shit. Stiles really had told his father about them. He glances around them, thankful for the witnesses and the sheriff's lack of gun. Subtly, Peter inhales, interpreting the man's scent and adding that to body language, tone, and heart rate. Worry, annoyance, interest, but no anger. Well, that's unexpected. Leave it to the Stilinskis to surprise him.
"As you said, I haven't seen him in weeks," Peter replies. Twenty-three days and twenty hours. "I'm sure I have no idea."
"Is that right?" John lifts a can of coffee in each hand. "What do you think, Peaberry or Sumatran? Stiles has been after me to buy the cold-brewed stuff, but I'm a traditionalist."
"Ah," Peter stalls. This is an increasingly strange conversation, and he gets the feeling that it's not nearly over. "I've always been partial to Kona myself."
"Good choice," he thunks both canisters back on the shelf and grabs the Kona. "So those nightmares. It seems strange that they'd come back as soon as he stops meeting you."
"Circumstantial at best."
"Maybe so." John claps him on the shoulder. "Why don't you walk with me for a while, Peter? I've been wanting to have a talk with you for a few months now." The fingers tighten and slip away. "Stiles gave me a list, but his handwriting is terrible. You might be able to help translate some of it."
Peter glances from the patient face of the sheriff to the microwavable meals in his cart and sighs. "I'd be delighted, Sheriff."
"John. I insist."
Which is how Peter ends up trailing after John as he painstakingly follows the list Stiles gave him. It's surprisingly pleasant to spend time with the man as they wander through the offensively tropical decor and examine produce together. Occasionally, John will squint at the list and mutter things like: "What the hell is a carob?" and "They make flour out of tapioca?". Peter imagines that, given the chance, perhaps they might have learned to like each other. Maybe they'd even be friends, drawn together out of a shared love for Stiles.
He waits for John to finish checking out. What's a few more minutes in the scheme of things? Really, he wants to know why the man dragged him through the entire store – it was hardly for the pleasure of his company. It's clear that John has something to say. It can only be about Stiles.
John picks up his paper bags and nods at Peter. "Let me walk you out to your car."
"Certainly, Sheriff." Finally, his patience is about to be rewarded..
As they step outside of the store, a wave of heat and light assaults his senses. John nods pleasant greetings to passersby as they walk. Peter's beginning to regret parking near the back of the lot to avoid careless dings and scratches on his paint job. When they reach his vehicle without the Sheriff saying anything of substance, it's just slightly annoying. He's pretty sure that the man is using a cheap interrogation tactic on him, and it's working.
Damn it all.
He unlocks the trunk in continued silence, and John joins him in stowing the bags in the grocery net.
"Oh, for crying out loud." John clucks in disapproval. "They put your bread under these glass bottles. And the dry pasta is in with the frozen stuff. Isn't that always the way?" The man shakes his head and waxes on about the importance of proper bagging until Peter can't take it anymore. He came out to buy some groceries and indulge in his Speculoos habit. Not to be shanghaied into grocery shopping with his… what was Stiles? Ex-submissive? Ex-boyfriend? Ex-lover? Regardless of description, Peter didn't come out to have a belated bonding experience with the father of an ex-anything.
Groceries in place, Peter shuts the trunk and faces the man who still isn't angry – though he might smell a bit amused? Peter's eye twitches. The apple certainly didn't fall far from the tree in this case. "John," he interrupts, "as pleasant as this experience was—was there something you wanted to say?"
John breaks into the first genuine smile of their time together. "I wondered how long it'd take. If I tell Stiles I saw you, then I'll have to let him know." Sharp, blue eyes narrow at Peter. "We talk a lot these days. About school, life, his special hobbies, you."
Peter struggles to maintain his neutral expression. He's already figured out that John knew, but hearing it is rather more nerve-wracking that he expected. "I'm surprised you didn't arrest me. I know that Stiles isn't eighteen."
John laughs without much mirth, "I wanted to arrest you. For more than that, but Stiles explained it. One day I noticed the hickies, and he had to confess that he was seeing someone—which I already knew. Then he came back and told me who it was…." John's face tenses, his fingers stretch and curl like they want to be wrapped around Peter's neck. He takes a prudent step back, and John snorts. "Yeah, I wasn't thrilled about you or your age or the spell. It was a goddamned stupid plan, and I'm shocked it went on this long without blowing up in your faces. I love my kid, but he likes to overcomplicate things."
The buried protective streak urges Peter to say, "It was actually my idea."
"Christ! Aren't you supposed to be the adult here?"
"We're all works in progress." The disbelief on John Stilinski's face might be worth the ice cream melting in his trunk.
"You two might deserve each other." John shakes his head. "I don't know if I like you. Even if you had good intentions, you still preyed on an emotionally-compromised teenager. I might never be okay with that, but you were helping. He was happier. Sleeping the whole night through, regaining his interest in school, picking up his hobbies again…." His voice wavers, "You helped my son when I couldn't, and I can't hate you for that, even if I disapprove of how you helped him. Don't think for a second that I missed him coming home three weeks ago with that, ah, necklace."
This isn't the threatening talk Peter was anticipating. In fact, it sounds a lot like he wants Peter to repair his relationship with Stiles. "Excuse me, John, but this isn't quite the angry, shotgun rant I thought I'd hear from you. Why don't we cut to the chase? What do you expect me to do about Stiles' nightmares? He's the one who ended our arrangement."
"Uh-huh. And whose fault was it? I don't know what happened, and I don't want to know unless Stiles tells me. But as angry as Stiles has been, it looks like he's the injured party."
"Is he still angry?" The words are out before Peter can consider or calculate their effect. If he's sweating, then it's because they're standing on the asphalt in a Californian summer.
"He's upset. Hurt. Confused." John's shoulders sag. "Stiles loves you. I don't know how or why, but it's there. It was there when he talked about you at dinner. When he'd mention offhand that you like Russian novels and lemonade and the same trashy TV shows. He still loves you, and what I expect is for you to fix this. It doesn't need to be over for you two." John smells like the particular festering pain of old memories, but nothing in his voice indicates the surge of emotion. "At the very least, I expect you to be kind to him if he forgives you. Even if it was just the spell and you don't love him back, you need to scrape up some shred of decency and give him closure. But he said you do love him. He said it like it was killing him to admit it." Peter startles when John grabs onto his forearm and grips hard. "I won't pretend to understand it, but you loving him hurt him. I expect you to start making that right."
There are few people in the world capable of shocking him. It doesn't surprise him at all that John Stilinski is one of them, so he says, with more honesty than he's accustomed to, "I'll do my best, Sheriff. Thank you for the talk. It was… illuminating."
"Just take care of this, Hale. I expect my kid to be his usual infuriating self before school starts again." As John walks off, juggling his bags and keys, Peter can't deny his respect. Not many parents can put aside their personal feelings to do what's best for their children. Though this might well be the first time Peter's been the best thing for anyone.
A week flies by after his surreal shopping trip with John, and Peter hasn't made progress towards fulfilling his promise. It's not that he lacks the desire or motivation to see Stiles, but the situation is delicate. One wrong move could send it toppling over. This time, the plan needs to be simple, flawless. This time he needs to be honest.
With those requirements, it makes sense he hasn't reached out to Stiles yet.
But while Peter agonizes over the perfect plan, Stiles runs out of patience – or Peter assumes Stiles runs out since he can hear the jeep's tires crunching over the gravel.
It's been a long month without Stiles, but it's too soon. Peter's not ready. He doesn't know the right words to convince Stiles to stay, and he has until Stiles reaches the door to figure it out.
Too soon, Stiles taps out "Shave and a Haircut" on the front door. He doesn't come in.
Oh. He wants an invitation into Peter's space. That's a level of respect more characteristic of a Stiles in rope bondage than the everyday, normal Stiles.
"Come in," Peter calls from the armchair, "I know you still have a key." He smirks when Stiles mutters "lazy asshole" under his breath. Keys jangle against their carabiner and the doorknob, and then Stiles is here.
Stiles looks better than the last time Peter saw him – which isn't a very high standard – but he's wearing all of his clothes right-side out. He's not pale or sickly or shaking. He smells fantastic even if his scent isn't enough like Peter's.
He looks like the last month has been good for him. Peter's not sure how he'll react if John is wrong about Stiles's desires. He tacitly promised to be kind to Stiles no matter what he decides, but it remains to be seen if Peter has the requisite shred of decency to accomplish such a great feat.
Stiles rocks back on his heels, staring critically around the room without even trying to be subtle. Relief floods through Peter at this evidence that Stiles hasn't been replaced by a weirdly polite doppelganger.
"My dad, um," Stiles licks his lips, "he said he saw you at the store. Trader Joe's. He said your cart was full of frozen meals and cookie butter. Isn't that a little lowbrow for you?"
"Cookie butter transcends caste. You're the last person I thought would cast aspersions on anyone's snack choices." Peter can exchange banter in his sleep, but avoiding the elephant in the room won't do them any favors. Strangely, he feels an obligation to live up to the faith John placed in him. His motives are never wholly altruistic, but he did want to be a good thing for Stiles. Before sabotaging his own prospects, Peter had been a positive part of Stiles' life.
Peter wants to be that again, wants to take care of Stiles – if Stiles will allow it.
He inhales, tries to breathe deeply past the vice squeezing his chest. He's a werewolf, werewolves aren't prone to anxiety attacks, but Peter might be the first. "Stiles, we're not exactly friends. You didn't come over to talk about my shopping habits."
Stiles' heart thumps out of rhythm; he smells hurt and ashamed and angry. "We're not friends, huh? What would you call us?"
Peter stays seated – the talk isn't going quite the way he'd envisioned, and the last thing Stiles needs is to feel cornered. He lifts his hands in the universal sign of surrender. "I don't want to fight," he says simply. "But we weren't friends when we began, and the spell – everything that came after – it muddied the waters. You can't deny that much."
"Fine," Stiles bites out. "What about when you said you loved me? How can you love someone if you're not friends with them."
"Don't put words in my mouth," Peter snaps. "I loved you. I still love you. You know that I was telling the truth. We had a spell for that, too."
"Yeah! We did have a spell for that. Because I couldn't trust you, and it looks like I was right. Good thing I was in charge of that one, or you would have broken it too." Red-faced with temper, Stiles stomps up to the chair and yells, "Jesus, it's like all you know how to be is a paranoid, Machiavellian asshole." The top three buttons fly free as Stiles jerks at the placket on his shirt. He pitches his voice lower and sneers in what's obviously an impression of Peter, "Look at me and my serial killer urges. I just can't make the effort to give a fuck about anything unless it gets me something. Oh, I say nightly prayers to Ayn Rand – the greatest philosopher of our time." He pokes Peter hard in the center of his forehead. "You're such a dick. It pisses me off so much because I've seen you act differently. I've seen you be kind. To me. You hurt yourself to give me what I needed. I thought about it all month."
Peter scowls defensively and opens his mouth to say something – he doesn't know what – but Stiles slaps a hand over it. "Nope. You're not going to ruin it with whatever shitty thing you feel compelled to say because this is getting too real. Dad told me that you were supposed to be nice, but he should have known that was asking for too much." He shrugs, and it's almost an apology. "Not that I've got room to talk."
Peter peels Stiles hand off of his face and lifts a brow. He pretends that he doesn't feel an urge to keep Stiles close enough to taste and smell. It would probably be easy to tumble him into bed now, while their tempers are flaring, but they need to talk. They never talked enough before, and maybe this wouldn't be the problem it is now if they'd handled their issues instead of willfully ignoring anything that resembled a serious conversation.
"If I promise not to say 'whatever shitty thing I feel compelled to say' am I allowed to speak?" Peter strokes his thumb over Stiles' rapid pulse. "Or should I let you yell at me some more?"
"Oh. Yeah. Um," Stiles stutters, the red in his face less about anger now and more about embarrassment and Peter's proximity. "Sorry? I told myself not to go off on you, but I just got mad. I thought we were friends."
"I'm sorry," Peter forces out the apology. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, but we're not friends. We would have never been friends. Friendship is a weak, pale word for anything we've felt for each other." He tilts his head back, baring his neck in a mockery of submission. "Tell me I'm wrong."
Stiles furrows his brows and chews on the ragged skin of his lower lip. "You know that's super fucked up, right? Scott and I are friends, and our friendship's one of the most important things in my life. But fine. If it makes you happy. You're right. We're not friends." He turns his palm to curl his fingers around Peter's wrist. "So... what are we then?"
"Your father referred to you as the 'injured party', and he's not entirely wrong." Peter brings Stiles' hand to his face and scrapes his cheek across the smooth skin, tenderly marking him by scent and the faint traces of stubble burn. "What we are isn't up to me. You're the one who left—who had a reason to leave. I don't want to be without you again, Stiles. Tell me what you want, and I'll do it."
Stiles is gobsmacked, his mouth hanging open a bit wider than than usual. "We both fucked it up, Peter, but anything I want? For real?"
"Anything."
"In that case…." Stiles scrambles for the bag he'd dropped on his way to yell at Peter and digs around until he turns up a sealed tupperware container, a red heart, and a cheap-looking paintbrush. He smirks at Peter expectantly and waggles his eyebrows. "I'll need a donation."
He nods slowly. Of course Stiles wants control, wants the spell back. He can work with this; it's more of an opportunity than he thought Stiles would give him – Stiles isn't much for second chances. Peter extends one claw and looks pointedly at the closed container. "If you would," he gestures with his clawed hand.
"Oh, right! Got it." He pries open the lid and pokes at the glop with the plastic end of the brush. Gives everything a few stirs. "Just one drop. Ready when you are."
Peter stabs his thumb just enough to get the blood flowing. One crimson drop wells up, and he lets it fall into the mix. Stiles mutters the same unintelligible words from the only time Peter heard the spell performed. He stirs three times clockwise and three more times counterclockwise. After a moment, the stuff liquefies and takes on an oily sheen. Satisfied with its appearance, Stiles paints the heart all over, and together they watch the heart suck in the liquid, leaving no outward trace of the spell.
"Here you go, Peter. One fresh focus, made to order. Handle with care this time." From his position on the floor, Stiles casually tosses the heart to Peter and asks, "So, how do you feel? Any different?"
"Stiles, we're repeated this spell dozens of times by now."
"And you point is?" he drawls. "Why don't you humor me?"
"What would you like to hear, Stiles? The truth or the lie? Which would comfort you?" Peter sighs and tucks the heart into his shirt pocket. Somehow he's grown weary of lies and half-truths—all the games he found so important. What's the point of winning if he can't have what he wants? "No. I don't feel any different. Perhaps I wouldn't love you so much or so well if we hadn't done it. Maybe the spell taught me how to love someone less selfishly. But with or without magic, I love you. I want to wreck you. I want to see you in my bed, eyes wet with tears because you feel so much." The fresh scent of Stiles' spicy arousal fills the room. He squeezes his eyes shut and fights the urge to reach out and take. Peter grips the back of Stiles' head and tugs him forward so Stiles can lean on Peter's knee if he wants. "I want to own you. I want to take care of you, soothe your hurts, kill your enemies. I just want everything about you, and a spell isn't going to change that."
There's nothing new about their position, but never has Peter been in the role of the supplicant. Stiles may be the one on his knees, yet Peter is the vulnerable one. The one with something to lose. Holding eye contact, Stiles shuffles forward into the spread V of his legs and deliberately lays his head down on Peter's thigh. Then his eyes close, relief and happiness suffusing his scent.
"I was hoping you'd say that. I had this whole plan when I came here. I was going to tell you that I wanted to do this with you again, and I'd tell you to keep the focus safe. One day I'd ask you to break it. When it felt right." His eyes pop open and he leans for his bag again. This time, Stiles pulls out the collar, clutching it like a lifeline. Only the spike of anxiety in his scent and his trembling lips betray his nerves. "But fuck that. We already did the hard part. We're already in love. I don't want to be without you either. Let's just skip to the end where we're fine and go from there." He aims a shaky grin at Peter. "Tell me you don't want this."
Peter cups his jaw and bends over until their foreheads touch. This close Stiles' smell is intoxicating, and his eyes seem backlit by a manic glow. "Are you sure you want this, darling?"
Stiles breathes back, "Yeah. I'm game if you are. Sir." He grins smugly. "Say yes. You know you wanna."
"Brat." Peter tips Stiles' face up for a chaste kiss. "Yes. I do."
"We're gonna be awesome this time. I promise." Stiles puts some space between them to thrust up his arms. He holds out the collar, flat on both palms, and offers it to Peter. An ideal model of submission until he opens his mouth, "Now what's a guy have to do to get his goddamn collar on again?"
Peter can't stop his laugh at Stiles' perfect, inappropriate response. He's willful, disrespectful, and so very dear to him. Peter accepts the collar from his kneeling submissive, and smiles faintly. "You have five minutes to be naked and kneeling on our bed. Your time starts now."
For a moment, Peter thinks he's pushed too far, but Stiles' face splits into a cocky grin. He bounds up, racing for the room after tossing a sloppy salute in Peter's direction.
He'll have to do something about that. In five minutes. For now, Peter sits, one eye on the clock and the other on the heart he's taken out of his pocket. The seconds tick by. At three minutes and thirty-six seconds, Peter crushes the heart to powder and stands.
With a last glance at the clock, Peter brushes the grit from his hands. He's a minute early, but they've waited long enough.
The end.
Happy Fucking Birthday, Taylor.
I have the softest of spots in my heart for this story. This fic took over 20 days of my life, and I still can't believe that I finished it. I couldn't have done it without Bones. Bless you, Bones (and Joe).
The ending gave me fits. This wasn't what I planned, but it felt more true to the characters that Stiles would change his mind on impulse and jump in the deep end. Yeah, their relationship might still end terribly, and there's a lot they didn't resolve... but I think they're going to try.
So much is unexplained that I'm thinking about doing a Stiles POV companion as a sequel to this fic. It would cover roughly the same timeline as Peter's side, but focus on different events.
There is a playlist for this fic on 8tracks. The link is in my profile.