Author's Note: Hello, people! I'm back... this time with feels? A little fluff and a lot of feels. Sorry?

Peter hears the footsteps long before there's a knock on his door. He knows who it is, and he also knows that he has nothing to say to her.

Still, despite his personal regards on the matter, he opens the door, knowing better than to ignore his sister in hopes of getting her to fuck off right back to where she came from. That would require a level of self-awareness that Talia does not have.

"What are you doing here, Talia? I don't have time for this," Peter drawls, blocking her way, stopping her from entering the apartment and interrupting his day. He has things to do, and none of these things include entertaining his sister and listening to whatever bullshit she has to say.

"I haven't said why I'm here," Talia points out, raising an eyebrow and giving him a pointed look.

"Exactly," he agrees, moving to close the door in her face.

Talia, being the insufferable person she is, prevents it with a single finger, barely exerting pressure — the show-off. "Peter," is all she says, in a stern tone, and it's enough.

"Whatever," Peter concedes, going back to the kitchen and leaving her to close the door behind her. If Talia wants to intrude his house, she can very well lock the door herself — Peter is busy putting away all the food he bought for the weekend. "Don't take anything out of place."

"I wasn't aware you had developed OCD since the last time we spoke."

"I haven't, and it's not polite to belittle people's mental illness," he corrects, failing to admit that everything in his apartment is arranged to cater to a six-year-old, who often wakes up before Peter in the mornings and, as such, needs things to be reachable to him. To distract her, he asks: "You want coffee?"

Talia sighs. "Yes, please," she accepts, pulling a chair from his kitchen table to sit.

Keeping his back to her, Peter turns on the coffee machine and, while the soft noise of it echoes across the room, he carries on with his task, opening the fridge and filling the bottom shelves only with things he knows Stiles will want, keeping his 'health-adult-things' separate on the top shelf. Peter arranges things methodically, precisely in the same way as he always does, organizing Stiles favorite juices with the type of care that he never applied to his own stuff, wanting everything to be perfect.

Surprisingly, Talia respects his silence and remains where she is, watching him with a heavy stare but keeping her thoughts to herself, for the time being. It's only when Peter puts the last tub of ice-cream away in the freezer, and the machine turns off, the smell of fresh coffee filling the kitchen air, that he resigns himself to the task ahead. It's better this way, anyway — the sooner he gets rid of her, the sooner he can go back to focusing on what's important.

With that in mind, Peter grabs two mugs from his cupboard — mugs he stole from her house when he moved out — and fills them to the brim with piping hot black coffee, forgoing sugar altogether, and sits at the table, carefully sliding the green mug to his sister. Talia accepts the offer with a nod of the head, cupping the mug with both hands but making no further move to take a sip.

For a moment, they both remain in silence — studying the other, waiting to see who would crack first, who would falter under pressure. It's a game they've been playing for all their lives, and Peter is, as always, determined to win.

Perhaps, however, Peter is gripping the mug of coffee in his hand slightly tighter than he should, because he can hear the ceramic grinding in protest, which means that so can Talia.

"I need you back at the house," she finally says, her eyes zeroing in his hands, making a point, telling Peter what he already knew. "I know you decided to have your own apartment—"

"Not this again," Peter groans in protest, thinking about the door to his left and silently wondering if Talia would bother to chase after him if he decided to make a run for it.

Talia knows him too well. "Don't force me to drag you by the neck," she threatens. "And ease up on the mug, Peter. That one is Laura's favorite — I'm taking it back, actually."

Somehow that just makes Peter wants to crush it even more, purely out of pettiness, only so the little brat no longer has it and has to suffer alongside the peasants, who must drink their beverage from an ordinary mug. He doesn't, though, cause he's already saying no to Talia and Peter knows how to pick his battles.

"Naturally." Peter cannot help himself, and his voice gets a little higher when he mocks his sister's brat, but he does pry his fingers off the mug, one by one, slowly and steady. "Wouldn't want to deprive Laura of her favorite things in life, now, would we?"

"No, we would not," she says, ignoring his attempt at rilling her up, and it's always annoying when Talia is in one of those days. Peter likes her indefinitely more when she's in a pissy mood. "And I still need you there this weekend," she says it again — as if Peter had developed some mental problem that required her to keep repeating shit.

"That's too bad. I have previous commitments this weekend, my dear sister."

"More important than your pack?" She asks, tilting her head.

Peter grins. "Yep."

"Your mate—"

"Don't talk about him," Peter snaps, hard and serious. Stiles is not up to debate — he never had been.

"Peter," Talia sighs, seeming to deflate as the word left her mouth. She grabs the mug and takes a long sip. "You keep him hidden from the pack — I don't understand why. He's your mate. Do you think we wouldn't treat him well?"

Peter can't keep the venom from slipping into his tongue, poisoning his words. "Like you treated me?" He asks, narrowing his eyes and leaning back against the chair, putting more distance between them, making his position clear.

"You chose your own path, brother. No one resents you for it, but maybe it's time you stop pretending that it wasn't you who chose to deny your family."

"How dare I act like being born a Hale isn't the best thing that could've happened to me, right?"

"We are the biggest pack in North-America, Peter," Talia says with that reasonable tone of hers that sounds too much like nails screeching on a chalkboard. "You never lacked anything."

It's a lie. It's such a gigantic lie that Peter stills for a moment, wondering if she had really gone there or if his mind is playing some sort of trick on him, but ultimately decides to allow the comment to slide. He has a lot to say, a whole book of evidence to prove her wrong, to dismantle the shiny image of the Hales, but it's Friday and Stiles is about to arrive, and Peter wants nothing more than for her to leave, to disappear from his place and stop infecting the whole area with her scent.

"What do you want, Talia?" He asks instead, taking a sip from the still hot coffee and trying to ignore the whisper in his mind that says his question is far too close to a defeat, an opening.

"Deaton will carve new runes around the preserve during the weekend," she explains, tense. "He'll need blood from all family members. I need you to be there."

Ah, there it is.

"Couldn't you have led with that?" He mocks, although he already knows he'll give Talia what she wants.

Predictably, her eyes flash. "No, I couldn't have," she snaps, her voice sharper. "Will you come?"

"Sunday," Peter concedes. "I'll take Stiles back to his house and drive straight to the preserve." When Talia opens her mouth to protest, he raises a hand to stop her. "You only need my blood, dear sister. There's no need for me to be present for the whole ceremony, and you know that, so let's cut the sentimental bullshit. I'll give you all the blood you want on Sunday — you have my word."

"Perhaps I would've liked to have more than your blood," she murmurs like she's confessing something, like Peter's breaking her heart, like she gives a crap.

And, that's it. Peter stands up, pushing his chair back and dropping his mug on the table in his rush, the liquid sloshing around and spilling over the rim a little.

How dare she?

"Leave," he orders, feeling his own eyes flashing. "Leave. Now."

Talia winces, taking her hands off her mug and also standing up. "Peter—"

"I don't give a shit. I won't ask again. Leave, or I'll throw you out the window." And he would, too. At the moment, he certainly wants to — badly.

His sister opens her mouth to say something — to shove her foot in her mouth again, no doubts — but stops when they both hear the clear noise of a car approaching the building and Stiles' voice babbling loud enough to be heard over the sound of the engine. It's a cue — if there had ever been one.

"Yeah, I—Of course. I should be going," Talia mumbles, obviously smelling Peter's anger clouding the air. "Tell St—Nevermind. I'll see you Sunday, Peter."

The car stops, and two heartbeats can be heard entering the building. "I'll be there," he confirms, waving a hand to the door, waiting for her to see herself out, unwilling to play the magnanimous host after the shit show that her visit had been.

To her credit, Talia knows how to make a quiet exit. She nods, accepting his silent criticism without another word and turns to leave, unlocking the door, opening it and walking away with not as much as a parting glance, softly closing the door and going down the stairs. Peter appreciates that, at least. She's purposely avoiding the elevator and Stiles, and it's an act of respect to his wish to keep his mate away from Pack business.

Only two minutes separated the moment Talia leaves his apartment to the moment Claudia knocks on his door, and Peter uses them to take a few deep breaths and get his act back together. The last thing he needs is for Claudia to think he's in no condition to watch her child.

The good news is that Peter has always been a master at faking his way to success.

So, when Claudia Stilinski does knock, Peter already has a mask firmly settled into place — a wide smile stretching his lips and a glint in his eyes that never failed him when it came to women.

"Hey," Peter greets as he opens the door, his eyes immediately going to his mate, who's standing next to his mother, freshly showered and smelling like oranges, as he always did, and it does something to Peter. Maybe it's the necklace hanging in plain sight from his neck, or the strong, clean scent coming from him in waves, or the way those golden eyes lock with Peter's straight away, seeming as though they see far too much.

"Up!" Stiles demands without even a word of greeting, making grabby hands at Peter, acting like he's still two instead of six, but his voice is strong, and Peter is helpless to resist it.

He scoops up his mate, expertly settling him on his hip and keeping him there with only one arm. "Hello, my little troublemaker," Peter greets again, only way softer this time, whispering the words to his mate only, trying to keep his fake smile in place, to erase his sister's visit from his mind.

Stiles' heartbeat is fast and he smells of excitement, but there's a knowing look in those eyes, and he goes straight to the kill. "What's going on, Peter?" He asks, his hands reaching to cup Peter's cheeks without hesitation, and the werewolf holds back a flinch.

God, he's an idiot for lying to mate.

"Nothing, kid," he says, wanting to kiss Stiles' forehead, but knowing better than to close any more of the distance between them when he had so much to hide, to protect. "We usually say hi when we arrive at someone's house."

Stiles' mouth opens to retort, to give a smart comeback, no doubts, but Peter is smart enough to avoid that at all costs, so he grabs one of Stiles' hand in his and turns to face Claudia.

"Hey, I'm sorry about this," he says, giving her a wide smile. "Please, come in."

Claudia is smiling, though, not bothered by the less than polite welcome. "It's okay," she says, waving away his apology. "To be honest, I find it cute how he goes straight to you — he's usually such a reserved kid around adults."

And it's a testament to Stiles' focus that he doesn't say anything about that, and, instead, keeps his eyes firmly glued to Peter's face. It's unnerving, his stare, so Peter tries to ignore it.

"It's the bond," Peter mouths quietly to her, although he's sure she already knows that. "And it's so recent, too. I fear it won't stop being that way for a while." And it's another lie, 'cause he fears nothing — he craves it, wants it, seeks it like a madman, hoarding Stiles' attention all to himself without a single apology.

"I'm sure," Claudia agrees with a small smile, sounding as though Peter's unspoken words were heard loud and clear. "Well, I'll be on my way. Jonh is taking me to dinner today," she confesses, and her heart skips a beat. She raises an arm and gives him Stiles' bag. "Here — I don't think we forgot anything, but you can always call me if you need something."

They've gone through that same speech a few times. "I know," Peter says, nodding. "We'll be fine, though. Don't worry — enjoy your date. I know Jonh doesn't have many days off like this."

Claudia huffs. "You can say that again. Anyway, I'll be going. Good luck with this one," she says, reaching to ruffle Stiles' hair and Peter has to resist the impulse to take a step back and let her hand fall in the empty space. He cannot deny the woman her own child — no matter how much he wants to. "Stiles, mommy's going. You'll be okay?"

His mate takes his eyes off him for a moment. "Yep. Bye, mommy." He leans forward to hug her. "Don't mess with my puzzle pieces. I'm still putting them—"

"Okay, okay. I'm aware of your important puzzle — calm your jets. I won't take anything out of place, I promise. Everything will be just as you left when you come back."

"Mom, I'm serious!" Stiles whined, pouting in protest to Claudia's amused face.

"God, you get that dramatic side from your father — I swear, Stiles," she jokes, kissing him softly on the cheek. "I'm not joking, relax. It'll be fine. See you Sunday, baby." She turns and squeezes Peter free arm. "Take care, Peter. Anything you need—"

"Of course," Peter agrees. "We'll be great, though. No need to worry."

And with that, she bids her farewell and leaves, which means there's only Peter and Stiles, alone in the apartment, with no buffer or distractions, and his mate pounces like a wolf. In another situation, Peter might've been proud.

"You're smiling funny," Stiles accuses, freeing his hand to settle it on Peter's face again. "I don't like it."

"You don't like my smile?" Peter tries, walking them to the living room, bypassing the kitchen entirely, not wanting to think about Talia again. He drops Stiles' bag on the center table. "I paid some money on my dentist to have teeth this white — It would be a shame to have wasted it."

Peter's speaking — his mouth is moving, and the words are coming out of it — but it's harder than it should've been to brush aside his mate's serious concern, and he has to bite his tongue to keep the other words he wants to say trapped inside his mouth. There's a magnetic energy about Stiles — a powerful calling that comes from his very soul, and it draws Peter in like a moth to a flame.

"Are you upset?" Stiles asks, ignoring his rambling about white teeth, his eyes darkened with concern. "We can order curly fries if you are — they always make me happy."

God, he's so fucking precious. Peter wants to rip Talia apart, piece by piece, with his bare hands for daring to come minutes before his mate's arrival. Their time together is precious and sacred, and Talia had no right to sour his mood when he should be on top of his game for Stiles.

"We can order curly fries if you want, kid, but I'm alright. Don't worry about me, 'kay? How about you tell me about your day at school, instead?"

Peter feels the couch digging at the back of his knees, and so, he allows his body to sag, to relax. He sits down, letting Stiles loose on his lap. The skin proximity helps, even if there are layers and layers of clothes separating their skin — all which Peter desperately want to rip away, so he can squeeze Stiles to his chest, feeling his heartbeat against his own. He doesn't do that, though, 'cause he's Peter Hale, and control is his first, second and last name.

Stiles is not amused. "You're lying," he points out, matter factly and without a blink. He's not fucking around. "I can feel it."

"What?" Peter asks, disoriented. That's new. He can feel it?

"I can tell when you're lying. I just know it," he says, then orders. "Tell me."

"People can't feel other people's feelings, Stiles," Peter corrects, hoping his pounding heartbeat isn't noticeable. He has to set things straight, though. Even if Stiles is his mate — and God, he is — Peter's whole being rebelled against the idea of someone knowing him so well, feeling his shit, knowing when he was lying. That's too close to restrains, to conditions, to the kind of openness that Peter ran away from his entire life.

Stiles doesn't understand any of that. "I can," he repeats, deadly serious, and Peter can't do that, not right then, not with Stiles.

So Peter chooses the easy way out — he lifts Stiles from his lap, places the kid on the couch and gets up, taking a few steps back for good measure. "No, you can't, kid," Peter says, his voice syrupy and patronizing. It's a denial, a foot down, a demarcation line in the proverbial sand, and from there, Peter knows what to expect. He can deal with tempers, or whines, or anger, or any other shit Stiles throws his way, much better than he can deal with searching stares, concerned voices, and attempts at helping.

Only Stiles goes the opposite way. He looks confused and, somehow, even more concerned. "Are you gonna cry?"

What? Cry? No, Peter isn't gonna cry.

How could Stiles think that?

"No—I, of course I ain't—Stiles, what are you saying? I'm good, kid," Peter stumbles over the words, blindsided by the honest question. It's only then that Peter notices that his wolf is prowling at his insides, desperate to come out, to search, to hunt, to attack, to protect, to fight something. Anything.

Stiles gets out of the couch and starts to close the distance between them, and for some reason, Peter takes a step back to each one Stiles takes forward. It's close enough to running away that it bothers him, that it triggers something inside him, a memory, perhaps.

Stiles keeps on coming, though. "What happened?"

"Nothing happened," Peter says, tasting the lie, feeling a certain tightness in his chest that can only mean one thing. He doesn't want it, however. Peter spent too much time perfecting his control to just give it away to—

"You're still lying."

Peter back reaches a wall, and he's trapped. He's a werewolf, a lawyer, a genius, an adult, and he's trapped by a kid. "Stiles, let's just—"

"What does this necklace means?" Stiles asks, pulling on the chain, stopping when they are close enough to touch, to taste the other in the air.

And the wolf is too close to the surface, watching, demanding, flashing behind his eyes, so Peter grows the answer in a low and rumbling voice. "It means that you're mine. Only mine." The words taste like a victory in his tongue — probably because they are the truth.

The possessiveness doesn't seem to bother or surprise his mate, who's still being unusually quiet and thoughtful. "I think it means that you are mine, too," he confesses, and he's so young, so innocent, and he knows absolutely nothing about what it means to belong and to have a man like Peter. How could he, when he's still a child who has only seen the very best Peter had to offer thus far. "Doesn't that kinda mean you have to not lie to me?"

It doesn't. Peter's allowed to lie to his heart content if he wants to — until his voice dies out and his throat closes — only it doesn't feel like it to him. Not right there, not with Stiles so close to him.

It's a conundrum, and there's no right answer.

Peter knows which one he wants, though.

The one crawling up his skin, up his spine, all the way to the recesses of his brain. And it's that one which makes him goes down to his knees, so they are face to face, at the same height, looking right inside the other's eyes. That answer is the one that compels Peter to reach out to touch the onyx triskelion.

"The truth is not always the best answer," Peter warns, ignoring the side of his brain that tells him that's not the correct thing to say to a kid.

"Try me." Stiles is all bravado, probably repeating the words that he heard someone say in another circumstance. It's enough for Peter's wolf to cave like a little bitch, though.

"I didn't have the best day," he admits, and his voice cracks as his mind registers a feeling akin to pain. "My sister came to visit me, and we don't always get along. It's hard to see her, I guess. I—I... It's nothing, though—"

"You don't like her?"

Like her? Peter loves Talia, but that's not what this is about.

"I do like her, kiddo. But she's not an easy person to like, and neither am I — if we're being honest here. My parents…" Shit, was Peter speaking about his parents? "They raised us to be competitors, to always try to be the best."

"And who's the best?" Stiles asks, and it burns. The question is a dagger ripping through Peter's chest, tearing him open, cutting him apart.

It's unbearable — the truth.

"The best?" Peter repeats, breathing the question into the air separating them both, letting the words hang for a while, blinking away the heat in his eyes. What kind of torture was that? What sort of humiliation was that, which had him on his knees, confessing to his mate, his soulmate, his kid? "My parents chose Talia, Stiles. They chose her instead of me, alright? It was… a long time ago. Too long, sometimes."

Long enough for Peter to know that there had never been a doubt in their minds about who was to become the Alpha of the family, to be precise. That long.

He's so lost in his thoughts, in his overwhelming feelings and sensations, that he doesn't see Stiles moving, Stiles throwing his arms around Peter's neck, Stiles hugging him close — hard and tight. He does, however, feel the moment Stiles kisses his cheek, pressing his lips against Peter groomed stubble.

"I think you're the best, Peter," Stiles whispers, using his inside voice for once, which is honest to God a miracle for him, but Peter is too busy to notice that. Too busy paying attention. "Not better than your sister. Just… the best, 'kay?" He pauses, and Peter holds his stupid breath. "You're my favorite, Peter. My best friend. Don't be sad."

The crazy thing is: Stiles means it. He does. He thinks Peter is the best person to walk across the earth, and it's humbling in a way that Peter cannot describe using the vast vocabulary he has at his disposal — perhaps 'cause it's a brand new feeling for him.

A new spark that ignites in his soul for his mate alone.

"You're my favorite, too," Peter mumbles, hugging Stiles as tight as he dares, breathing in his scent, and even though the words are true, they're also so insignificant next to what he really means, to the words locked in the back of his throat. They are enough for now, though.

They have time.