He...

He doesn't know how to leave.

He's not sure he should leave.

Hell, he's not even sure he wants to, and how messed up is that?

His jaw had practically hit the floor when Peter had set a bottle of water down on the end table beside him and crawled into the overstuffed armchair sitting kitty corner to the couch. He curled up like a... like a kid, like a puppy who knows he's not supposed to be on the furniture and doesn't make a sound, just turns on the TV and ignores him like it was totally normal for Stiles to be here, when he should be demanding Stiles get the hell out of his house, his... his den.

He's not sure how he feels about that – expecting to be kicked out, not being kicked out, being allowed to sit there in some kind of silent solidarity or... or...

Well the one good thing is that he's able to watch the guy, to out and out stare and not really be called on it. Peter's staring at the flatscreen like old reruns of The Twilight Zone are the greatest thing to ever hit primetime, and he has to feel Stiles' eyes on him, has to, but he doesn't react, doesn't snarl or squirm or blush or... or anything.

Just sits and lets it happen.

He's attractive, yeah, he is.

That's the first thing that hits him, that he can't deny any more. It's weird for Stiles, to be thinking like that, him, who's still a few months away from being a legal adult in this state, who's never been on a real date and who's still a hardcore virgin. Growing up with a soulbond, he'd known there was a chance he might meet his mate, that they could be male or female, that they could be younger or older but the reality of it so much stronger than he'd expected. Peter... Peter is an adult, a full-grown man with a complete, settled life and here's Stiles, just a... just a kid, an interruption, a completely unformed human being.

Human disaster really.

But he's pretty.

Sleek and suave but nothing like Luca, not that way. Rough, tough, entirely masculine, muscled arms and shoulders, neat facial hair, and there's something about his mouth that fascinates Stiles. Sharp, cutting words, sly, cunning grin, strong white teeth that grow long and sharp but... but he's seen him smile too, seen him softer, with Cora.

And here he is, curled up so tight in soft cotton sweats and a t-shirt, so different from how Stiles had first seen him, snarling and snarking and covered in blood that he almost looks... vulnerable.

For the first time he actually wonders what the truth is, wonders what the reason is.

Because, he realizes, there has to be a reason.

A reason why Peter was so angry when the bond was first revealed between them, a reason he's so vehemently opposed to any kind of interaction with Stiles at all.

He seems too smart for simple hatred, too intelligent for unfounded anger.

Stiles isn't sure if that makes him feel better or worse.

All he knows is that very suddenly, very strongly, he wants to curl up next to the werewolf and cuddle.

Just... sit against his side and breathe, experience the heat of his body, the scent at the curve of his throat, not to speak or think or discuss it, just... feel it.

And that scares him, because he doesn't know if it's him or the bond that makes him want it, doesn't know...

He wonders what Peter would do.

And that...

Well.

That more than anything tells him it's time to go, because he knows himself, knows his own curiosity.

Now that the idea's in his head, he'd risk getting snapped at or pissing the guy off again or upsetting himself to learn the answer.

"I have to go," he murmurs, before he knows he's going to speak at all.

Peter doesn't move, just flicks his eyes in Stiles' direction, catches his gaze and holds it, too hard, too long, bright and blue and intense and he can't breathe.

"Sorry."

Stupid, to apologize. He doesn't know what he says it for, what he means, and he hates how confused Peter makes him feel all the time, even though it's not really the guy's fault. As he gets to his feet and heads toward the door he almost wishes Peter would stop him, for any reason, just to break the silence that had gone from being so comforting to being so awful but of course the werewolf doesn't, contrary bastard. He just watches, just stares, just lets the weight of his eyes hang heavy on Stiles' shoulders until he's out the door and away, crossing the grass at a clip. There are werewolves scattered all over the place, the ones from the field, like they're waiting to see if he'll come back out of the house alive, and he forces himself not to run, not to spook.

He walks with purpose, strong, holds his head high.

Fake it till you make it.

Laura meets him on the porch.

"I was just coming to get you," she says, sounding a tiny bit confused. "How did you..."

"I didn't," he replies quickly, and he doesn't even think about it, jsut catches her by the elbow, turns her around, and pulls her inside with him, like that's totally normal and ok. "Where's Isaac?"

"Upstairs with Derek," Laura replies, the two of htem marching up the hallway in some sort of matching lockstep. "He's kind of latched on to him, which is fine by me. Derek will watch out for him, and he... he needs a friend."

"Sounds good," Stiles says carefully. He can feel the extra tension suddenly bubbling around, but if Derek can be Isaac's Jiminy Cricket through all of this it's one less responsibility on his shoulders. "Did you..."

"We went to his house, me and mom," Laura explains, leading Stiles into the empty library and closing the door behind them, sitting down behind her mother's desk. "Spoke to his father."

"How did that go?"

"About as well as you'd expect," Laura huffs, watching Stiles drop into the chair across from her. "A lot of yelling, a lot of threats. He was drunk, really drunk. Your dad tried to calm him down but he didn't shut up until..."

"Until your mom went all Alpha wolf on him?"

"Yeah. She told him, about the reintegration, about how we would be inviting people to join the pack. I... Stiles..."

He narrows his eyes, suddenly realizing how pale Laura has gone, how her hands have started to shake.

"Stiles there was a freezer, in the basement," she chokes, and her eyes are wet and her voice breaks and he feels himself erupt into a cold sweat, goosebumps rushing down his arms. "There were... clawmarks under the lid and..."

"Jesus," he breathes, flicking his eyes at the ceiling, thinking about the boy upstairs and how the hidden bruised were only the half of it.

"I claimed him Stiles."

His eyes snap back to Laura and now she's got tears rolling down her cheeks, her hands gripping the edge of the desk, long, sharp claws popping against the wood.

"We were packing up his stuff, and his dad was screaming that we couldn't just take his son. And I... I told him..."

Leaning forward, Stiles reached slowly across the desk and covered her hand with his own, laced their fingers together when she turned it over and held on.

"What did you tell him Laura?"

"I told him Isaac wasn't his anymore," she says, suddenly cold and flat and calm, lifting her gaze to meet his with eyes that burned gold. "He's mine."

Stiles feels the pause of silence against his ears like a concussive drum beat, a flinch of his nerves because this is it. This is the moment when everything starts, when the first of the pieces begin to click together, and how strange that it's Laura and not Peter. But it is her, the next generation, the new alpha, and Isaac her first chosen, and Stiles very suddenly feels like he's been knighted, appointed position in a pack that hasn't quite taken shape yet.

He grips Laura's hand and they hold each other's gaze and a subtle understanding seems to pass between them, an acknowledgement that this exists, that this had begun. He sees himself at her right hand and Peter on her left, and that thought intrigues and terrifies him in turns, but before he can open his mouth, before he can confess the door to the library opens and Talia Hale steps in, stalls in the doorway with a look of shock on her face before it passes and turns to something too much like maternal pride for Stiles' comfort.

"Stiles," she nods in greeting as he slowly lets go of Laura's hand, sits back in his chair, and it's so different, the way he feels now as compared to their first meeting that he can't ever believe he'd knelt for her, even if it was only a week or so ago, even if this new sense of position is only seconds old.

"Alpha Hale," he replies, because there's no need to get a big head, no need to get stupid. "I hope things went well with Mr. Lahey?"

"No, not well," she huffs, the ghost of a bitter chuckle, but she stands there next to the desk without shooing Laura from her chair, appears to speak to them both as equals which is just trippy, and Stiles' head is already upside down. "But all the proper paperwork is filed and the rules followed. Isaac is our responsibility until such time he chooses otherwise. The Hale pack are his legal guardian until this day one year from now, when he'll determine if he takes the bite."

"His dad gets that?"

"I doubt it," she says, and there's the slightest sneer on her face, the barest hint of disgust. "The man was drunker than a skunk; it was disgusting. Didn't even know where his child was. He took a swing at your father – he's in the BHPD drunk tank."

Stiles sighs, scrubs his hands through his hair.

"He's not going to take this well in the morning."

"No."

"Are we ready for this?" Laura asks quietly, and she's looking at Stiles, not her mother. "Are you ready for this?"

"I'm ready," he nods. "He's gonna throw a fit, yeah, absolutely, but... people know what he's like. They know... they think they know what he did to his kid. They'll be glad Isaac's safe, even if it takes them a while to... wrap their heads around the rest."

"Your father said he'll be doing a press junket in four days," Talia says, crossing to one of the bookcases and rifling through the titles. "Once news has had time to spread."

"It won't take that long," Stiles scoffs, "But yeah, I know. I've got a speech." Then, considering as he looks at Laura, "How's your public speaking?"

"I'm studying for the bar," she answers, her grin suddenly sharp, her eyes bright. "I know how to win a jury."

"It's a jury you'll need to win," he sighs. "You'd be going up on trial up there, we both would be, and my dad. I..."

He stops, bites his lip, looks at both Laura and Talia, who stares back.

"I think you should talk to Allison," he says. "I think she should be there. I know... I know you guys don't have a reason to trust the Argents but..."

"But times are changing," Talia finishes.

Laura's gone small and quiet and doesn't reply.

"We'll consider it," she says, stepping across the room to place a book on the desk in front of her daughter, to place her hand on her shoulder. "I need to find Calvin – Stiles, if you'd like a ride home..."

"Think I'll walk," he declines, and now that she's mentioned it he is ready to go home. "Thanks."

Flicking a glance at her daughter, Talia nods once and leaves them, the tension lessening as she goes.

"Holy crap," he breathes, slumping down in his chair as is muscles go noodly. "This is..."

"Yeah," Laura mutteres before clearing her throat, wiping her cheeks and sitting up straight. "Betcha never thought you'd be doing this."

"I wondered."

Laura cocks an eyebrow, gets up and crosses around to sit on the edge of the desk, right next to him.

"How's that going?"

"Pfft, I don't even know," he grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest and looking away. "I mean, I get that I'm a fucking interruption, ok, but nobody will tell me why he hates me so much."

"He doesn't hate you."

She says it quietly, sounds sheepish and sorry, but Stiles isn't feeling terribly charitable and he rolls his eyes.

"He doesn't Stiles. I... I know it must suck, not knowing, but... it's his story ok? It's not fair for me to tell you, or my dad or Nicky or anyone but Uncle Peter. Hell, I'm not even sure if I'm right about... what I think this all is. Just... this is weird for you? Scary? Well it is for him too. He might be... prickly about it, but that's what it really is. He's just scared."

"Of what?" Stiles scowls miserably, heart-heavy. "Of me? I'm not..."

"I know," she says, and then her hands are on his shoulders and she's pulling him up and hugging him, her face tucked beneath his chin in the curve of his throat. "And he will too. Just... try to give him some time ok? This thing with the Argents... it'll be hard for him. More than... maybe more than for any of us. He'll take it out on you but don't let him ok? He does better when you call him out, is better."

"I don't wanna hurt him," Stiles whispers, horrified to find his heart in his throat and his eyes stinging.

"Then don't," Laura says simply, pulling back and patting him on the cheek. "Talk to him. Or... at him, if that works better. Bring food. He doesn't like to show it but pack matters to him, family, especially Cora. Be a part of this Stiles. I'm not... asking you to marry him or anything but... I like you. You... you could be a part of us."

She's picked up the book now, the one Talia had placed in front of her on the desk, a slim, leather-bound volume and she's turning it nervously in her hands. Stiles' heart is thundering against the walls of his chest and he knows, he knows what found-family means, has grown up in the precinct with dozens of 'aunts' and 'uncles' and 'brothers.' He knows what this means.

So he takes it, slips it gently from her hands and tucks it under his arm.

"I think you should do the press conference with me," he says. "I think the two of us..."

"Yeah," she says with a wet smile, and very suddenly she's the prettiest, shiniest girl he's ever seen. "Yeah I think so too."

"Cool. I'm uh... I'm gonna go then. I've uh... got some reading to do."

Laura chuckles, hugs him again, quick and light, two friends saying goodbye for now.

"You're sure you're good to walk home?" she asks as they head back down the hallway toward the door. "I need to check in on Isaac."

"Yeah, I'm good. It's not that far, and my dad's probably got a deputy lurking around that blind corner on Lake Road. Can always bum a ride."

"Sounds good. Listen text me ok?" she says, flicking a glance at the book under his arm. "Or Uncle Vinny."

"Sure."

He hesitates then, lifts his hand and drops it before finally reaching up to touch her cheek, the curve of her shoulder. He does it lightning quick, not sure if it's the right thing to do, but she smiles at him and waves as he steps out the door and It's enough. She didn't take his arm off anyway. Like maybe he was suppo...

"Ooph."

Reaching out, he snags the arm of the guy he's just crashed into, steadies himself before he lands on his ass.

"Aw come on man, haven't I..."

But it's not Calvin like he thought, it's Peter, and fuck but there's electricity shooting up his arm from his fingertips where they're curled around his bare forearm, thick and solid in his grip.

Stiles drops him like a livewire – cause hell that's what it feels like – takes a step back and licks his lips.

Peter's rumbling, low, deep in his chest, but it's an idle sound, like he doesn't even know he's making it, his eyes on Stiles' shoulder where the tears of his jacket have been stitched together, hiding his soul mark and he abruptly feels more naked than he ever has in his life.

His heart stops in his chest when Peter grabs him by the back of the neck, drags him in close. He doesn't bury his face in Stiles' neck the way Laura does, doesn't touch him at all but for those burning points of contact, his fingers tight on his nape, but he can feel the werewolf's breath on his throat, gentle puffs against hyper-sensitive skin, the fine hair all standing straight up. Low snarl rumbling in his ear, the scent of him, clean and cool like wild mint, his hand sliding around the front of Stiles throat, too close, not close enough...

And then he's gone, screen door slamming behind him, leaving Stiles behind to try and catch his breath.