AN: Sadly lacking Derek. Made up for by massive plot!
Enjoy!
Peter Hale. Monster.
Stiles had known this from the first time he'd seen Peter standing up rather than comatose, and it was insane to think of this as a betrayal. The weird-ass creepy faux-concern should never have fooled Stiles. He was furious with himself.
He made his way downstairs, mulling over his options. He knew he was no match for Peter. He wasn't going to win a physical fight with any of the werewolves, and Peter was clever too. He was clearly a number of steps ahead of Stiles, and Stiles wondered how long he'd been planning… whatever this was.
He saw Isaac sitting on the couch, frowning at him, and watching him. Isaac was tall, but slim. His hair was curled like a fucking renaissance painting of angels. He'd held his own against the twins, but he'd been under the influence of other forces at the time. If Stiles warned him, could he beat Peter in a fight?
"Stiles?" Isaac was frowning in his direction, "You OK?"
"No," said Stiles, trying to remember all the things that made Isaac a dick.
Isaac nodded, "They'll be OK, you know?" he said, quietly and with little doubt.
Stiles could only hum in response, trying to remember the negative crap Isaac had said at the wrong moment, trying to remember how Isaac had pursued Allison when Scott was probably still in love with her. Except, Scott was already with Kira by then, wasn't he?
"They're Scott and Derek," said Isaac, "they always are."
He wore scarves in the summer. That was stupid. Except, probably not really worthy of the punishment of death.
"Hey, son," his dad called from the kitchen.
His dad. The most important man in his life. If his dad died… he couldn't even finish the thought. It was too horrid, too hideous, too vile. His dad was his dad.
"Hey, Dad," he said.
Dad gave him a small smile, maybe trying to be nice to him, "You want something to eat?"
"Er… I'll make it," Stiles offered, stumbling towards the kitchen.
"It's OK," said his dad, "I can…"
"Please, I need… something to do," said Stiles.
"Ok," said dad, eyes kind and soft. God, Stiles loved him.
Isaac would probably not die if Stiles did as Peter asked. Probably.
He looked at his phone once more. He'd received a new message from Peter.
"News from Deaton?" asked dad.
Stiles shook his head.
'I know you will be thinking about how to outwit me. Know that you can't. I can already hear what is going on in your house. If you try anything, your dad will suffer for it.'
Stiles concentrated on keeping his heartbeat steady.
He could text Deaton. Tell him about Peter. Except, Scott and Derek were in a not entirely real realm. If Deaton got distracted, could it put them at more risk of being stuck there? Was that a risk Stiles was willing to take?
He made his way into the kitchen and started to make three cups of coffee. Dad and Isaac were watching TV now, but Stiles knew Isaac would be listening to him too. He had to be stealthy. He disguised the noise of the pouch, as tiny as it could be, by trying to use the sugar at the same time. He put sugar into the one for his dad, and white powder into the one for Isaac.
He wondered if Isaac would smell it. He didn't know if he hoped he would or not.
He considered the remaining wolfs bane. Was there a way to maybe shoot Peter when he arrived? These weren't bullets but... could Stiles coat some bullets in it? He thought back to when Derek was shot with a bullet packed with wolfs bane. It had taken hours to bring him down, and he'd been stronger than Stiles for most of that. Could the three of them take Peter down if he was fighting the effects?
No, that wouldn't work. Peter would know. He would smell or hear that Stiles had disobeyed him. They'd never get the chance to shoot him. He'd sneak attack, take them out one at a time, and get whatever it was he wanted anyway.
'Seven minutes. Be careful, the powder takes a few minutes to work. You want to hurry.'
Fighting back the wave of nausea, knowing that right now, with the psycho counting down, his options were massively limited. He should have stocked up on mountain ash as Scott had, but he suspected Peter would have considered that anyway. And it would only take a passing natural creature to break such protection anyway. And it was no protection against projectiles.
'Isaac was never deserving of the bite. I can hear every word he says and he doesn't even know I'm here.'
Stiles threw open the refrigerator. He made a show of getting milk, but quickly found what he was really after. He pulled out a bottle of water, quickly opening it and throwing in a generous pinch of Peter's white powder. Whatever it was, and whatever it did to Isaac, surely it could do the same to Peter. Stiles just had to be clever. He shoved the bottle into the pocket of his hoody and picked up the coffees for his dad and Isaac, carefully keeping them the right way round in his head. He handed them over wordlessly, getting thanks from them both, and making himself feel awful, then went back into the kitchen pulling out his phone once more.
'Well done, Stiles. I know that was difficult for you. I promise you it was the right decision.'
Stiles noticed there were no promises that no one else would get hurt. No promises that his dad would be OK. He'd already made his threat, repeating it would only stop Peter believing it. He needed a weapon. A proper one.
He pulled open one of the draws, and chose one of the knives, finding a balance between being able to hide it and it being enough to damage Peter. "I'm making a sandwich," he called out, in case Peter could hear and was wondering what he was up to. He turned on the faucet and held the knife in the stream of water for a few seconds, then rolled it in Peter's powder. It clung better than it would have to a dry knife, but it wasn't enough. Nothing was enough.
He wrapped the knife in a towel and shoved it down his pants, trying to cover it with his shirt just in time for the doorbell to ring.
He heard his dad mumbling about not expecting anyone. Isaac didn't reply, but Dad didn't notice. Stiles did. He burned with shame, couldn't bear to look at Isaac. Instead he watched his dad as the sheriff started making his way to the front door.
Which he realized he couldn't let him open.
"I'll get it!" Stiles shouted, running past his dad and into the hall.
"Son, you need to get a grip," said his dad, not turning around. Stiles reached the door and just stared at it.
"Well, are you going to open it?" asked dad, sounding slightly amused.
Stiles could barely hear him over his own heartbeat.
"I..." What did Peter want? It was possible he just wanted to kill everyone. And that Stiles had just made it easier for him. "I don't think we should..." Stiles breathed, knowing that Peter would hear, knowing that his dad would struggle.
"What?" said his dad, as Stiles stepped back from the door, ready to run.
"I think we should... make a run for the car... or ... shit... I don't know!" He could hear his own breathing, loud and getting ragged, "You got any wolfs bane bullets?"
"What are you... do you think it's ... it? The fae?" his dad's hand flew to his holster, grabbed his gun.
"No... I think it's Peter," said Stiles. "Dad, please, run. I'll... hold him off, but please..."
"What are you talking about Stiles?" his dad demanded, gun aimed steadily at the door now, but confused eyes on Stiles.
"He's gone psycho again or something, I don't know! Please Dad! I don't want him to hurt you!"
"Stiles, I'm not going to leave you to deal with a werewolf by yourself," said Dad, as though it were Stiles being unreasonable right now.
"Dad!" Stiles moaned, "You don't know what he's capable of! He killed his own niece! He's a psycho! He spent eight years doing nothing but imagine killing people! Please!"
"Oh, Stiles, that's most unfair!" called the coldest voice from the living room. Stiles let the wave of despair swell over him, and hoped to let it pass. He again sprinted in front of his dad, even though Dad had his gun pointing at the door of the living room. "I did far more than imagine killing people," Peter continued, sounding quite proud of himself, "I planned how I'd do it."
Dad tried to push Stiles out of the way with one hand, but Stiles could only stare at Isaac who was still sat on the couch, his head drooping to one side. He'd have looked comfortable if it weren't for heavy chains now wrapped around him, locking his arms to his sides and his feet together.
Stiles could have wept with relief. Peter wouldn't have bothered chaining up a dead man.
"What do you want?" Stiles demanded.
Peter was stood over Isaac, casual as anything, looking calm and smug. "I gave you my instructions Stiles. I think you half fulfilled them. Does that mean I only have to half kill your dad?"
Dad shot him. The bullet hit Peter on the chest, knocking him off his feet. He looked surprised as he landed on one of the chairs, splayed awkwardly.
"Oh my god!" shouted Stiles.
Dad lowered the gun, "He threatened my life, and gave me reason to suspect he would kill my son. There's not a court in the country that would convict me."
Stiles' mind was racing. Peter looked pretty dead with the blood staining his shirt and the glassy expression. But could he be? "But... but… werewolf… did it... wolfs bane?" he managed.
Dad looked at him puzzled, just as Peter sprang back to his feet, arriving at Dad's side in a fraction of a second. He plucked the gun from his hands as though Dad was a baby, and bent the barrel as the bottom fell from Stiles' stomach.
"That really hurt, you know," said Peter, conversationally to Dad's slack-jaw and wide eyes. "This would be so much more satisfying if you were just dead now."
"No!" Stiles shouted. "I did as you asked!"
"And then you tried to get him to rum away, and then he shot me," Peter replied, calmly, as though he had reason on his side.
"OK!" Stiles threw his hands in the air, "We won't try that again, no shooting the zombie werewolf, we get it! You told me if I helped you, you wouldn't hurt him!"
"No, I said no one would have their throat cut," said Peter, "then I said, if anything was amiss, your father would pay the price. I'd say there was much amiss right now."
Dad, who had been staring in shock at the once more resurrected werewolf, seemed to finally remember he was the sheriff.
"Peter Hale, I am arresting you for… agh!"
Peter, without seeming to move, was now holding Stiles' dad's wrist at an impossible angle, almost definitely breaking it. Stiles shouted, wordless fury and fear, as Dad went very still.
"Peter, stop," said Dad, now using his negotiator voice, quiet but still authoritative and yet kind. "Think about what you're doing. You've made some mistakes, I understand a lot of them, really I do, but…"
Peter interrupted with an eye roll, "Sheriff, the only reason you're alive is that Stiles will be less cooperative if you weren't. Your arm is broken because you shot me."
Dad grunted in pain, "Assault and breaking and entering are …"
Peter eased him away from Stiles, "I'm sorry to interrupt what will no doubt be a very moving speech about how I can change my ways after a short stay in prison, et cetera, et cetera, but I have more important…"
Stiles pulled the knife out of his jeans and thrust it at Peter's neck. Peter caught his wrist easily, and threw him against the wall so fast he bumped his head. In the few seconds it took him to catch himself and turn back, Peter had his dad on the floor, the knife Stiles had prepared with wolfs bane held against his dad's throat.
"Foolish, Stiles," said Peter, "foolish."
He stabbed Dad. Stiles screamed before he recognised that the knife was sinking slowly into the muscles of his upper arm. He rushed forwards, landing on his knees by his dad, seeing the blood well to the surface.
"Don't worry, it hasn't touched any of his major arteries there," said Peter, "no damage has been done, just as it would have been for me had you somehow succeeded in your ill-thought-out attack. Do you get it now, Stiles? Your dad pays for your mistakes."
Stiles stared at him. He hadn't needed a demonstration of Peter's brutality. He already knew what the man was capable of. He'd seen Laura's body, seen Lydia covered in blood. But he knew he should not just go along with a plan that Peter came up with. He'd had to do something.
"Stiles, run," gasped his dad, "get to Deaton…"
"He knows I'd outrun him in a second," said Peter, "Now, Stiles, you're going to stay exactly where you are while I handcuff your dad to the stairs."
"Please, he needs a doctor…" Stiles protested.
"You can call Scott's mom as soon as we're out of town," said Peter, pulling up the sheriff as though he were a child. The sheriff offered little resistance with two wounded arms. "Sit on the stairs," he instructed.
"Out of town?" the sheriff repeated. "You're not taking my son!"
"If it helps, I will probably return him eventually," said Peter, "He's an incredible boy, but I suspect I shall find him annoying on a personal level after a while."
"Don't hurt him," said Dad, "Please, don't hurt my son."
"I have no intention of hurting him," said Peter, pushing Dad down to sit on the stairs, then putting his arms around two spindles on the stair, and cuffing them with cuffs from his own pocket, "I know no one believes me, but I actually genuinely like him."
"Then let him stay with his family," Dad pleaded, "If you like him you want wants best for him!"
"Your name is John, isn't it?" Peter asked.
"That's right Peter," said Dad, "talk to me, let me help you."
"John, I have been planning this for a long time," said Peter, "You won't be able to talk me out of it. Stiles will call Melissa McCall once we reach the town line, she will come and treat your arms. You made need stitches and a cast."
"And Isaac?" Dad asked, gaze drifting to the sleeping boy.
"I told Stiles the truth," said Peter, "It's a mild type wolfs bane. He'll wake up in about an hour with a massive headache."
"Peter, please," Dad pleaded, "Stiles is my son."
"That's enough," said Peter, "Stiles, say good bye to your father."
"When will I see him again?" Stiles asked, in barely more than a whisper.
"Stiles, you want to hurry," Peter said, instead of replying, "The sooner your father gets medical attention, the better."
Consoling himself in the knowledge that once they had called Melissa, Peter would have no leverage over him, Stiles bent to hug his dad, being careful of his wounded arms.
"I love you," he told the sheriff.
"I love you too," said Dad, "You be careful, you hear? The only thing I care about is you coming back safe."
"I know," said Stiles, because he didn't think his Dad wanted to know that the most important thing to Stiles was to stop Peter hurting anyone else.
"No heroics!" Dad ordered, because he did know Stiles, "You hear me?"
"Love you," Stiles repeated.
Peter decided they'd finished and took Stiles' upper arm. Stiles stumbled as he was dragged, mostly to annoy Peter slightly more, and then they were out of the house, making their way to Peter's car. Peter held a hand out, and Stiles pretended not to know he was after Stiles' phone. Peter gave him a moment before he went straight for Stiles' pocket, dragged out the phone, and threw it back across the sheriff's lawn. Then he ordered Stiles into the front seat.
Stiles looked around, as Peter nonchalantly made his way to the driver's seat. He knew he had to do as instructed or Peter would make him. There was nowhere to hide, no way to escape.
Yet.
AN Reviews?