If Control Is Not Enough

by Kindre Turnany

Stiles doesn't talk about the darkness around his heart. He doesn't talk about the nogitsune that possessed him or the young man he killed. He doesn't talk about the night he said he didn't want to be a monster like Peter Hale. He doesn't talk about how Peter said he was lying. Or, at least, he didn't when he was human.

7. Are You a Threat?

This one makes me nervous tbh. My cat is annoyed with how long I've been working on it today.

Chapter Seven: Are You a Threat?

Sunday, December 21, 2014

Peter didn't bother with a shirt this time, just a pair of basketball shorts. Stiles dressed in the same clothes he'd used for their last anchor test. The blood stains made them useless for anything else.

"You can manage most interactions without worse than inappropriate growling," Peter said. "I think it's time we see how you respond to a threat."

"Are you a threat?"

"Do you believe I want to be alpha?" Peter waited for Stiles to nod. "Do you believe I'd cross anyone, or at least anyone but Malia, if I thought it was in my best interest?" Again, he waited for confirmation. "Good. We're alone. No one is coming. You're less important to me than Malia, and you have what I want. Am I a threat yet?"

"You're wearing nerd socks."

They were no different than the pair he'd worn before, but the longer shorts made him look sillier.

"I thought nerd socks had science fiction characters on them now. These are normal socks."

Stiles just pointed at the strip of skin showing on Peter's shins and shook his head.

"I'm not ruining my pants for you, Stiles."

"But you own these in the first place."

"I thought we were supposed to make you mad."

Stiles shrugged, but he felt the shit-eating grin spread over his face. Peter rolled his eyes.

Peter motioned to Stiles. "You have no room to talk. You wear the same brown pants and a red t-shirt every day."

Stiles ignored that. "You're like someone's dad trying to prove he's the cool dad who can play basketball."

"I am someone's dad."

"Can you play basketball?"

"I played in high school. Are you stalling on purpose?"

"No, you're just adorable. I bet you try to use slang but keep getting it a decade out of date while you embarrass your daughter in front of all her friends."

"In this imaginary basketball dad scenario in your head." Peter crossed his arms. He narrowed his eyes. "I remember you running for your life to escape me more than once. Why are you describing me the same way you might a cross between a bunny and sitcom character?"

"So the first thing that comes to mind for adorable is a bunny?"

"I guess." Peter shook his head. "This is a waste of time."

He spun and kicked Stiles in the face. Stiles hit the floor so fast he didn't know which impact broke his nose. He tried to feel the break but jerked his hand back with a wince. Peter had made it look easy. It hurt more than when Scott had broken his nose the day before.

"I'll get that," Peter said.

He knelt in front of Stiles and reached for his face slowly, giving Stiles plenty of time to pull back. He braced Stiles' head with one hand and smashed Stiles' nose into place with the other. Stiles cried out and jerked away in pain.

"Let me make sure I got it straight," Peter said.

He pulled Stiles back toward him by his hair and ran a finger along the bridge of Stiles' nose. Peter nodded and pulled Stiles to his feet.

"I'll go easier," Peter said. "Pain can reverse the shift, so that was counterproductive."

Stiles narrowed his eyes, or tried to. They'd already been squinted against the pain. "Is this for making fun of your clothes or for breaking your nose?"

Peter set a hand against his chest, appalled. "Stiles! I'm trying to help."

"That sounded faker than the time I hurt my shoulder and tried to tell Lydia it was my elbow."

"Your speech is pretty clear now, but there's not much I can do for your personality."

Peter had a smug grin on his face and held his head at a cocky angle. He wasn't sweating yet, but his heartbeat and breathing had quickened in anticipation of a workout. As much as Stiles wanted to mock him, Peter didn't look like a joke. Peter might pass for a goofy sitcom dad better if Stiles didn't have to stare at his abs.

"Can't you put on a fucking shirt?" Stiles muttered.

"You ruined my shirt."

"You own more than one shirt."

"I like my other shirts."

With a frown, Stiles stood. Peter wasn't embarrassing enough for a sitcom anyway. He was conniving and selfish enough for a soap opera, maybe. And hot enough for anything on the CW or MTV.

Stiles growled at himself and punched Peter in his stupid handsome face. Peter stumbled back but didn't fall.

"That seemed intentional," Peter said.

"It was."

"Good. We need to know you can use your power, not just suppress it." Peter grinned and spat blood.

Then they fought. Peter was fast and strong. They both held back, but if they hadn't, Stiles doubted he could beat Peter, alpha or not. More than once, Peter shouted advice because Stiles had never learned to fight. He didn't know to keep his hands up or anything about footwork.

They were both panting and sweaty when Peter got Stiles into a headlock. Stiles shoved against him, but Peter didn't budge. He tugged at Peter's arm but couldn't free himself. He dug his claws into Peter's arm, but Peter hardly seemed to feel the pain.

Stiles felt his control begin to slip as rage built in his chest. He snarled.

"You were smart before you were strong," Peter reminded him. "Always use that."

Stiles dropped his weight forward to lower his center of balance. When Peter stumbled, Stiles swung him by his loosening arm to smash Peter against the ground. Stiles straddled him and set his claws to Peter's throat. Stiles held back from slashing his throat, barely.

"Much better," Peter gasped. He had one arm pinned under Stiles since he'd reached instinctively for the ground to catch himself after falling, but he used the other to tap Stiles' thigh. "Don't forget to pin both arms."

Stiles took him by the wrist and leaned forward to hold Peter's arm against the floor. "Like this?"

Peter nodded. His eyes glowed steadily, though they had finished sparring.

Peter's scent had warmed. It softened, though his scent was fierce, even at ease, losing its edge no more than a sword did when sheathed. Stiles had smelled Peter like this before. This was still Peter's natural scent, but intensified. It was beautiful, not like the smell of a rose was beautiful, but like a warm campfire. Stiles wondered if Peter had always smelled of burning, or if he had never really escaped the fire.

"Stiles," Peter whispered.

Stiles' eyes snapped open. He hadn't realized he'd closed them. He had leaned forward to drink in Peter's scent with his nose in the crook of Peter's neck. Stiles' hand had slid out of the way, down Peter's chest.

Peter's eyes still shone. Stiles realized his own did too. He wasn't sure he could stop them.

"Does everyone smell like this?" Stiles gasped. He thought Peter would understand.

"Everyone smells different, but in my experience, it's always good. The more interested you are, the more their scent appeals to you; it's like wanting it makes it so." Peter closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. "You smell like cedar and cinnamon, rigid and spiced but sweet without becoming gentle. It's nearly as sharp as your wit. You also smell like blood."

Stiles hadn't noticed past the pain, but his broken nose had gushed blood over his face and chest. His shirt was wrecked. Stiles stood and helped Peter to his feet, too afraid to ask if he'd shifted the mood on purpose. Or had Stiles started it before they even fought?

Peter said, "If this went well, Scott was hoping to have the pack over for dinner. He wants you to re-bond with all of them."

Peter surveyed the cracks and bloodstains they'd left with a frown. His hair was mussed even before he ran a hand through it.

"I almost lost it," Stiles said.

"But you didn't," Peter pointed out.

"Just my dad," Stiles decided.

"If Scott argues?"

"Tell him I'm an alpha now too, and I'll decide my own dinner guests and bedtime."

Peter smirked. God, he smelled good. The smirk deepened. "Do you need to shower first?"

Stiles wanted to make a witty retort, but he was too busy trying to figure out if fire was a scent. He nodded.

.

Stiles had a hard time looking Peter in the eye as they ate. He focused on his father instead. Noah grinned at just the sight of his son. He kept reaching over the clap Stiles on the shoulder, like he needed to make sure he was real.

"It's good to see you, son," Noah said for maybe the twentieth time.

Stiles grinned anyway. "You too, Dad."

"I know with the new moon tomorrow, it'll only get harder for you over the next couple weeks, so I understand I may not see you every day."

Stiles was lucky he'd been bitten when the moon was waning. This was the easiest part of its cycle for a werewolf.

"I'm only really worried about the full moon," Stiles said. "I've seen how it affected the others, especially at first."

Noah nodded. "Scott promised they'd be with you."

"I will have a protective army, I'm sure." Stiles gesticulated with his fork for emphasis.

"They were hoping to see you tonight, you know."

Stiles grimaced. "I know. I wanted to see you."

"I'd have been here anyway."

"Dad, just let me have this."

He chuckled. "Okay, Stiles. So how has school been?"

Stiles made a face. "It's painfully like school. I have to go to classes and take notes and tests. They expect me to do homework and write essays. But I can turn in a lot of them electronically, so jammed printers fuck my life less than in high school."

"You know, I'm not sure what I expected you to say."

"Did Lydia put the presents under the tree for me?"

"I think she stared at Scott until he did it, but they're there."

"That counts." Stiles laughed.

"Will you be home for Christmas?"

"That might depend on if people are still trying to kidnap me. We told you there are three of them now, right?"

"Yes, but Stiles, it's—"

"I'll do my best to make it over Christmas morning. Only a fool would think I'd give up all chance of presents."

"One year you refused to come downstairs because you were investigating how fast Santa would have to move to cover the whole world in one night. You even accounted for the Earth's rotation, sort of. You didn't know much math yet. Your mother had to tell you Santa wasn't real just to get you to open your presents."

"Okay, but it was still Christmas-themed. And Mom let me have cookies for breakfast. Knowing Santa was fake only made me more determined because I didn't see how so many people could have been fooled."

"I knew she was hiding something." Noah laughed. "How old were you?"

"Seven. It was the last Christmas she spent at home."

Noah nodded. They'd brought presents to the hospital the next year. There hadn't been many. Claudia's treatment was expensive.

Peter slid tiny bowls of fluffy brown goop in front of them.

"What's this?" Noah asked, sounding more intrigued than worried.

"Is it pudding?" Stiles asked.

"It's chocolate mousse," Peter said.

With a shrug, Stiles grabbed a spoon, but Peter tapped his hand away and pointed to another, smaller spoon.

"Sorry, Grandma," Stiles muttered. He grabbed the 'correct' spoon and tasted the not-pudding. "Oh my God, Granny Peter, why are you so good at this?"

"Don't talk with your mouth full, dear," Peter chastised.

Stiles stuck his tongue at him and shoveled as much mouse into his mouth as would fit on his undersized dessert spoon.

"I am starting to think Stiles is staying here for the food instead of safety," Noah said, though Stiles noted he was eating his dessert just as intently.

"I'm sure he'd leave if I insisted on teaching him to cook too," Peter replied.

"You should have done it while he still lived with me," Noah said.

"He was usually trying to kill me while I was in high school," Stiles reminded him.

"One time," Peter insisted. "Indirectly."

"Well, would it have killed Peter to attack you with a cookbook every now and then?" Noah grinned as he spoke.

Peter visibly held back a laugh while Stiles sputtered.

"I can't believe you'd abandon your own son over a tiny bowl of mousse," Stiles complained.

"There's more in the kitchen," Peter said.

"I hate you." Stiles pretended to glower.

Noah laughed. "I didn't believe Malia and Scott at first when they assured me you'd be fine with Peter." He turned to Peter and said so earnestly that Stiles nearly lost his dinner and dessert, "Thank you for helping my son."

"Of course."

How Noah didn't see the evil glint behind Peter's eyes when he smiled was beyond Stiles.

Then again, maybe he did see it because Noah responded, "Make sure I don't have reason to regret trusting you."

"Of course," Peter repeated blandly.

Stiles went to the kitchen and retrieved a regular-sized bowl of mousse.

"Save some for Malia," Peter said.

"Make some more." Stiles shoved mousse into his mouth with a regular-sized spoon.

"Stiles," Noah warned.

"I'll share with you."

"Better start another batch, Peter." Noah grinned as he said it.

"I see now where Stiles gets it."

Noah shrugged and followed Stiles to the couch with his spoon. Peter started clearing the table, but Noah waved at him with his free hand.

"Hold up, we'll clear that. You cooked."

"You haven't seen your son in months. This is an excuse to stay out of the way. I'll make Stiles pay me back later."

"You will not," Stiles tried to say, but it came out mushy. He was mostly certain Peter understood.

"So, classes are boring," Noah said, "but you must do something for fun."

"Dungeons and Dragons."

"Seriously?"

"Sometimes I do research for the pack, but things were quiet this semester."

"Nothing exciting has happened in the last semester?"

"The new Dragon Age game came out last month."

"You haven't met a single girl the entire time you've been in DC?"

"I don't think there are girls in DC. Or boys. Just statues. Everywhere, statues. Except the National Zoo. There are definitely cranes there. One of them tried to fight me through the fence."

They had finished the mousse, leaving none for Malia, and Noah held the bowl out absently for Peter.

"Please tell me you didn't fight the animals at the zoo," Noah said.

"I didn't. There was a fence."

"If there hadn't been a fence?"

"I would have run for my life. Have you ever met a crane?"

Noah sighed.

"I'm not seeing anyone," Stiles said. "Shouldn't you be happy I'm focusing on my studies?"

"You are not capable of focusing on your studies without distractions."

"I can be distracted by things other than romance."

"Just be safe when you're distracted without romance."

"Dad!"

"I'm not naive enough to think just because you're single, you're always alone."

"We had this talk in high school. Other people weren't around."

"You mean Peter? I'm sure he's absolutely dedicated to cleaning that bowl."

"Dad, he's a werewolf."

"Meaning he has the power to clean a bowl and eavesdrop?"

"Why are you doing this?" Stiles groaned. "I'm going to wither and die right here."

"You're an adult now, Stiles, which means I can look out for you while repaying a tiny portion of the shit you've given me for the past two decades."

"Is this because I'm not coming home yet?"

"I know you're just trying to protect me," Noah said. "But I may not need it as much as you think."

"Maybe I'm protecting the house. Have you seen how much property damage werewolf fights can do?"

Noah nodded. "That is an excellent point."

Stiles narrowed his eyes. His dad had backed down too easily.

"So I ran into Henry Tate earlier," Noah said.

Stiles tilted his head, sure this was leading somewhere.

"Apparently, Malia found her biological father."

"You already know it's Peter," Stiles said.

Noah nodded. "I pretended to be surprised when he told me, but I also admitted I know Peter. Henry said he spoke carelessly when they met for the first time, and he feels bad about it."

"If this is something you wanted to tell Peter, you could just... tell Peter," Stiles said.

"I promised not to meddle."

"Did you," Stiles said flatly.

"But if I were going to meddle, I'd say that it might be worth it to try to talk things out for their daughter's sake."

"Dad, you are ridiculous."

"I just know you're the most important thing in the world to me, Stiles. I wish I could say I don't know what I'd do if I lost you, but the answer is create an evil ghost Claudia because I can't stand the hole you left behind. If there was something I could do for you, and I wasn't, even if it was for a good reason, I'd feel terrible."

"You can stop now," Peter said, leaning over the couch to speak directly into Noah's ear.

Noah jumped.

"You couldn't have warned me?" Noah asked Stiles.

"I was distracted by your heartfelt declaration of paternal adoration."

"I earned that," Noah admitted.

"If we're gossip-meddling," Stiles said, "is anyone going to tell me what Henry said?"

Noah shook his head. "He didn't actually tell me."

"You weren't there because it's not any of your business," Peter said, dropping into the armchair on Stiles' side of the couch.

"Why didn't you get a TV?" Stiles asked, pointing forward to where a TV or fireplace would sit in a real living room.

"I don't watch it, so I don't need it. Derek doesn't watch it, so it'd be a terrible gift."

"Okay, but have you considered... watching TV?"

"Once, long ago, it ended poorly for all involved."

"You know there's a cooking channel."

"You know I don't care."

Stiles pouted.

"There's a TV at home," Noah reminded him.

"But if I went home, Peter wouldn't cook for us."

"I'm sure he accepts bribes of some kind."

"You can't afford me," Peter said. When Noah gave him a look, Peter shrugged. When Noah turned away to pinch the bridge of his nose, Peter winked at Stiles.

Stiles shook his head.

It was nice to sit and chat with his dad again, but it grew late. Noah needed to go home and sleep. He would be up early in the morning to visit Deaton before heading into the station. Stiles didn't ask for details. It could wait until Deaton had answers for them tomorrow.

.

Only when Noah was long gone did Peter say, "Aggression isn't the only thing amplified by the full moon." The way he leered made his meaning all-too clear.

Stiles scrunched his face up. "Please don't tell me about it."

"You shouldn't be embarrassed. Living with werewolves makes it all but impossible to hide when you need... release." He smirked at the end to emphasize the euphemism.

"You tried to hide it too, jerking off late at night when I was asleep."

"Since your response was to run away and get shot at, I'm going to say I was right and only misjudged the timing."

Stiles' face couldn't possibly be as red as it felt. "I don't know how to block out my senses yet. I tried to not notice."

"I don't mind you noticing."

Stiles' mouth went dry. "That does not help."

"It's not supposed to."

"I can't tell if you're teasing me or hitting on me."

"Both."

Stiles' brain stopped making new thoughts long enough for Peter to step forward and put his hands on Stiles' hips.

"What about you, Stiles? Are you afraid to look at me because you reacted to a scent on someone you have no interest in or because..." He stepped closer.

Stiles jerked back and stumbled.

Peter caught him but stepped back once Stiles was steady.

"Relax," Peter said. "You're okay."

Stiles shook his head.

"I'm not going to force—"

"That's not what I mean," Stiles interrupted. "You're laying it on a little thick, but that's sort of what I'm used to at this point. The closest I've had to a relationship for a while is a lot like this. I find someone who finds me, and we enjoy that for a night, maybe a few nights, separately, not continuously. Whatever. The difference is I know you."

"Stiles, that was almost poetic until you lost track of it."

"Peter," Stiles complained.

"If we were enemies, you wouldn't be staying with me. I know we haven't been friends, but we are allies. I'm not going to ruin your life, whatever happens or doesn't."

"I don't know what I want to happen."

"Nothing has to."

Stiles couldn't tell if Peter meant that as reassurance or threat.

"What do you want to happen?" Stiles asked.

Peter paused, eyeing Stiles like he suspected a trick. He tilted his head and licked his lips before answering, "I didn't take advantage of the shower like you did, so I'm going to go to my room. You do what you want, but what I want is for you to listen. I want you to smell me and think about me wanting you. And I want you to give me something worth wanting too."

Stiles clenched his jaw shut, but Peter walked away without waiting for a response. Stiles eyed the stairs. The December air would be cold. He could wait it out and cool down.

He glanced back at Peter, who winked before disappearing behind his door. Stiles imagined standing alone on the cold roof. He imagined Peter on the floor between Stiles' legs, this time without the blood. He imagined how disappointed in him his friends and father would be.

He didn't have to imagine Peter's scent or his voice taunting, "Are you going to stay with me, Stiles?"

There was a nightstand by the bed with a box of tissues that Stiles didn't remember being there before. Stiles left his pants on the floor and hoped this wasn't a prank because he'd fallen for it.

"Don't worry," Peter whispered. "You smell better when you don't worry."

Stiles could wait till morning to worry.