The sheriff's office was quiet.
Normally John liked having a little peace in his own space when nothing was happening, he liked being left to his thoughts, revisiting the week and taking note of his accomplishments. It was nice alone time. This week though... Hell, just the last few days had been chocked full with more crazy than he cared to try and assess, even during his precious thinking time. If he ever decided to share his woes with Parrish, he'd probably get John committed...
He was settled at his desk, a half drank, lukewarm cup of coffee to his right, and a small stack of unfinished reports at his left. Normally by now, he'd have gone to refill his empty coffee cup, and the finished reports would be neatly filed away, the chunk of his desk empty and ready for the next day. But today, instead of working, he was staring dumbly at the time table Stiles had drawn out for him.
They'd gone back and filled in Peter's schedule, noticeably more bare than his own, and circled days and times that were always clear for both of them. It was nerve wracking to look at, really. Just a silly little piece of paper with Stiles' doodles and multi-colored writings, but it still set John on edge. Of course, John assumed things would stay mostly platonic- well... not platonic exactly, but not sexual. The first night had been a fluke on Peter's part, and apparently... he didn't plan for a repeat. That had been made clear enough by his attitude. He was grumpy about it, but John didn't exactly blame him.
He wasn't in control of himself. Peter hadn't actually wanted John like that.
John huffed. It wasn't necessarily that he wanted Peter to want him... like that... but the rejection still hurt, conjuring a small sting in his chest. It had been good. Amazing-for John anyway... but maybe Peter hadn't thought of it the same way. Hell, Peter might have hated it, mandated by his biology to go ahead with holding John down anyway... to... to do those things... He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. These were pointless thoughts with no real solutions and he was never going to get any work done sitting around the office waiting for the end of his shift; when he would inevitably meet up with a werewolf that wanted to smell his neck and cuddle the shit out of him, but didn't actually want him.
Jesus. This was his life now. He should be writing it down, send it in for a new soap special.
"God." John grumbled.
He stood, grabbed his cold coffee, and headed out of his office to get a new cup. Maybe he'd get a kick start from a fresh shot of caffeine.
Peter was waiting for him by the station's front desk when John's watch finally ticked over to five o'clock. Leaning casually over the desk, flashing a charming smile at the secretary who grinned brilliantly up at him, chin propped up on her arm. It rubbed John the wrong way. He couldn't tell if it was jealousy, anger, or just flat annoyance that made his hair stand on end, but whatever it was, he didn't enjoy it.
He wandered over, careful to keep a polite disposition, "Peter." he greeted, watching the man turn, his smile growing and looking more genuine than it had a minute ago.
"John." he nodded, stepping away from the desk and ignoring the secretary.
It made John feel a little more at ease to see it, but he was far from admitting that. He kicked himself mentally and nodded back to Peter.
"Are you hungry?" Peter asked, crossing the counter and entering the loft's kitchen.
John huffed, "You're going to cook me something?"
Yanking the fridge open, Peter grinned. He pulled out a carton of eggs and a packet of bacon, ignoring the way John chuckled at him, "Andbreakfast too?"
"I'm afraid I only know how to make "morning after eggs"."
"You grabbed bacon too though." John pointed out, plopping himself down at the table anyway and pointedly ignoring Peter's offhanded sex life comment.
As Peter set to work pulling out a few dishes and a stray pan hiding under the counters, he shrugged, placing a few eggs next to the stove, "I like it raw myself... but it's just cooked, right? Toss it in a pan and it should be simple. What could go wrong?"
Derek's kitchen was tiny, with about half a counter between the stove and the fridge. The table looked busted and worn, the washed-out wood chipping at the ends, sloppy, mismatched chairs set up in a set of six around it. It wasn't a big table either. John tried to imagine all the teenagers stuffed together around it, Derek and Peter would probably be the oldest ones at the table. He imagined a warm, family atmosphere. One his son was a part of.
"Happy?"
John stumbled out of his thoughts, jerking his head up in time to see Peter peeking at him over his shoulder questioningly, cracking eggs into the pan, "Oh, uh, yeah. Kind of." he chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck before grinning, "Thinking about what it's like with all the members of Mystery Inc. here."
Peter outright laughed, flipping on the stove on, "I can't believe I hadn't thought of that one myself yet."
John smirked back at him, encouraged, "Moon rises and they all turn into Scooby Doo."
"Oh, John," he grinned, shaking his head with a tsk, an awfully delighted smile on his face, "don't let the pups hear you call them Great Danes. Erica will claw your eyes out just to prove a point."
"She can be Scrappy then."
"Ha!" Peter brought a hand to his head, laughter bubbling up through him and causing a warm sound to flounder through the loft. It made John simper. "You sound just like your son! I can see where he gets it now."
John huffed, dropping his arms onto the table and leaning over them, "I'm not sure if that's a compliment, or if you're mocking my son's sense of humor." he paused, "Or mine for that matter."
The pan started to sizzle, and Peter scraped a rubber spatula along it's bottom, peeling the egg up from the bottom before stabbing a piece of still-raw bacon with a fork and lifting it into his mouth. "It's wonderful." He replied, swallowing down his chunk of raw pig and reveling in John's little, slightly disgusted grimace. "It must be a Stilinski gift."
John snorted, "Actually, I think he gets most of it from his-" he paused and Peter stilled beside the counter.
He hadn't exactly meant to say that. Talking about your dead wife with a man you'd slept with a few nights previous was certainly a way to kick off conversation though. He hadn't meant to say it, it had just slipped out... He let his head hang, just a fraction, before lifting it once more, determined to keep a level head and remain steel, "Claudia was an amazing woman." he said, determination filling his voice, "I think Stiles gets a lot of his good qualities from her." he watched silently as Peter nodded, dutifully returning to the stove.
The smallest tint of guilt flowed through him again, pulling at him to continue. No matter how much he loved her, it was probably still fairly cruel to bring it up to Peter of all people. John sighed, raking a hand over the back of his neck, "Sorry." he offered.
"There's no need to apologize." Peter chided, "I'm no stranger to grief, or loss."
Oh. Right. John remembered the Hale fire, he'd been assigned to the case. He'd read the files, seen all the bodies... Though, he supposed they weren't just bodies to Peter. They were his family, people he knew, they were Claudias and Stiles. "Did you ever catch who really set that fire?" he asked, hoping it was an alright topic, while they were on it, "Now that I know Derek wasn't responsible..."
"He was." Peter bit, then shook his head, almost fighting with himself, "In a way, he was... It wasn't exactly his fault, but you could say he was the first domino. Poor idiot decided to take all the blame on himself just because of it." Peter scrambled the eggs again, "A hunter. Pretty creature, much too old for him, too brash. We didn't like her, but... he seemed happy. At the time."
"He dated a hunter?" John questioned, voice raising in pitch, surprised.
"She tricked him." Peter growled, snarling down at the dead chicks sizzling in his pan, like they were to blame, " It wasn't the same as dating. She seduced him. She and her self-righteous family set that fire, but there's not exactly anything we can do about it." he grunted, "Can't prove it." with a teasing grin, he lifted his head in John's direction, "And we certainly can't kill them, not with such honor bound sheriffs running around, being model citizens and all."
John decided not to press it any further, and didn't rise to Peter's bait. As much as he would have liked to, it seemed humor was how Peter liked to defuse the blow of important moments. He'd done it the other day at John's house, and here again, now. Knowing the pain and anger of such loss himself, he knew that treating such manners lightly, even with depreciating jokes, had the potential to make it worse.
In Claudia's case, sickness had killed her, not a person. But if John thought for one second he could have reached in and pulled the sickness out from her head, had something solid wriggling in his hands to suffocate and take revenge on, he damn well would have. He couldn't even imagine what it was like knowing who killed your family, and being unable to do a thing about it.
Well, he could understand the latter. At least their deaths weren't drawn out over the span of months... He didn't have to watch them slowly lose themselves.
"Fun fact about werewolves," Peter announced, scraping half the eggs onto a plate John hadn't realized had been set out, "we can smell emotions."
John stared, frowning as Peter placed the messy pile of eggs in front of him, leaning against the table in favor of returning to the stove, "That's... nice?"
"I can smell yours." Peter continued, leaning forward, into John's space and giving an abrasive sniff, "And I don't like the way grief smells on you."
Before John had the chance to reply, Peter's foot hooked one of the legs of his chair, dragging him closer. Peter's body remained to the side of John's, he wasn't necessarily looming over him in the same fashion he had the first time, but his head strayed forward, across John's chin and into the juncture of neck on his opposite side. If John tried to stand, he'd bump right into Peter's chest, blocking his escape. It was so reminiscent of the night Peter had barged in and- John felt images stir in his brain.
With a huff, Peter extended an arm to the back of John's chair, clutching the wood near his shoulder and using it for leverage to keep himself upright. He sniffed along the line of John's neck, a pleasant rumble building in his chest, almost like a purr, "Better," Peter mumbled, "but not quite there yet."
The unspoken question dying on his lips, John jerked with a gasp when Peter's (unnaturally sharp) teeth bit a quick line into his earlobe, a low growl in his ear as Peter licked a stripe from the edge of John's shirt to just under his ear, still purring happily. John didn't know what he was supposed to do, shellshocked. He shifted just a little in his seat when Peter began to mouth at what he could of John's neck, the pleasant rumblings he was hearing translating into a dim vibration on the sensitive points of his neck. It amazed him that Peter, yet again, knew exactlywhich bits of his skin responded to sensations. It amazed him even more just how quickly an old fart like himself had been turned on by it.
John gripped the seat where he sat with tight knuckles.
"There it is." Peter hummed, sucking in a deep breath through his nose, "Much better."
John's eyes ruefully cracked open. He wasn't even aware he'd closed them, "What is-? Peter, the bacon!"
The momentary confusion on Peters face flickered into a tight look of dread as he pulled away from John, flipping himself off and around the table before quickly darting to the stove, "Shit." he cursed, the stinging spray of bacon drippings flying left and right, catching his hand a few times as he tried to quiet the raging flame that had taken over while he'd been paying attention to John.
He tossed the pan back and forth a few times between his hands before unceremoniously plopping it into the ratty sink, flipping on the water quick as he could and dousing the flame. Peter's back was to John, the wolf staring down into the sink with slumping shoulders. "What?" John asked, "Did you ruin the pan?"
Shaking his head, peter turned, his hand emerging from the cover of the sink holding what looked like a wet piece of char. "I know it's supposed to be crispy, but..." he huffed, a self depreciating laugh jostling his arms as he held out the burnt offering to John. He grumped, waiting until John had chuckled at the dripping piece of burnt bacon before chucking it back into the sink with it's dead brethren, a determined pout on his face. "I'll make you some more."
John rose from his seat, latching loosely onto Peter's arm before he could go for the bacon package, laughing, "E-heh-Eggs is just fine, Peter." he chortled, "Stiles has been hounding me to eat less red meat anyway."
Peter huffed, obviously miffed, but nodded, leaning his nose into John's space and rubbing his face against his cheek, even as John chuckled. "Happy. I can provide for my mate," Peter muttered, so low under his breath that John wondered if he was even aware of his own words, "will prove it next time." he said.
John decided not to question it, just chalked it up to the strange behavioral habits of werewolves and gave Peter one small returning scrape of stubble before leading him back to the table. He was rather hungry, but the food was good enough that he didn't really miss the bacon. They ate their eggs with a few jokes, some war stories from Peter's cooking past, and Stiles' menu horrors that made Peter cringe and sympathetically side with John's case. Asparagus, celery, peppers and spinach were not meant to be cooked in an omelette. It was companionable; their time, comfortable, and John felt himself grinning around his fork most of their meal. He hadn't smiled so much in quite a while.
He was happy, and maybe that meant this whole thing wouldn't be so bad. Maybe they could be friends.