They stay at Hale House that night, all of them together. Derek's rebuilt the basement into a sort of home theater, a den packed full of pillows and couches and soft places to curl up together. It should put send a shiver up Peter's spine to be down there again, trapped in the earth, the same room he'd been trapped in before, but Lydia sits down beside him close enough to lean against his ribs, Jackson's head in her lap, and Stiles sacks out on the floor between his feet. Liam whimpers and whines before flopping down into the armchair closest to his corner of the couch, and suddenly he's all surrounded by pack and family and it's enough, enough to keep the ghosts and the memories at bay.

They stay up late, marathoning Star Wars and eating popcorn, and they all ignore the way that Isaac hisses through the movie, muttering to Scott under his breath while Ripley glares. Peter doesn't like that – the role of the Left Hand is already settling around his shoulders like a mantle, and he can feel the fur between his shoulders stand up as he scents descension in the ranks – but Stiles' hand is wrapped tight around his ankle and Lydia is falling asleep against his shoulder and it can wait.

Tomorrow, tomorrow they'll start to plan, and if it's only the three of them and Derek in the War Room deciding what should be done, well, then that's how it should be. He'll do his duty as enforcer, alert them to the threat, and then together they'll decide.

Peter shifts uncomfortably on the couch, turning it into a casual, smirking, stretch-yawn-and-cuddle with the banshee, who arches an eyebrow at him when he wraps his arm around her shoulders along the back of the couch, smart and too all-knowing. He smirks back and she rolls her eyes, but doesn't call him out, so he mostly gets away with it, but...

Is this what he wants?

Peter swallows down a growl, tells his subconscious to fuck off.

So what if he likes being the sly, clever one, the dangerous one that keeps everybody else on their toes?

He can still do that, can still be the slick, manipulative bastard he loves to play.

It's not like he's changing who he is, just... how he uses those talents.

Right?

At his feet, Stiles slouches lower against the couch, leans heavily against his knee.

Peter's always loved playing the antihero, he knows that. He likes to look like a bad guy, smarmy and untrustworthy as he does his quiet work in the background. Even before it had become a defense mechanism, before he'd started using it as a mask to keep others away and keep himself safe, it had been something he'd played at happily. Only thing was there had always been people to see through it, to welcome him home and lavish him with pride and praise and affection for a job well done.

He hadn't let many that close, even then, but there had been Sarah and his brother-in-law, Derek's father, his little nephew himself, Cora and one of his older cousins...

People who knew the real him, who knew what he did for the pack.

He is a dangerous, manipulative bastard, but pack, family...

They had always been more important to him than anything else.

That was only right – you couldn't be a good enforcer, couldn't throw yourself onto the front lines for your pack if you didn't care.

But this new pack, these kids...

As much as he hates to admit it, they've impressed him.

Most of them anyway.

That they've survived this long, against all the odds...

They've earned some respect from him.

Breathing easier, Peter relaxes back against the couch and refocuses on the movie, on the bonds that hum and vibrate in his chest. He has plans to make, concerns to organize, and tomorrow, tomorrow they'll start again.

Writing battle plans in his head has never felt so much like a baptism.

XXX

Stiles wakes up the next morning with his fingers full of warm tingles, energized like he's been charged by lightening. He comes to slowly, dreams of running with another wolf side-by-side through the trees filling up his head, and he thinks that he can feel the pounding heartbeats of his pack brush against his skin. Yawning, he rubs his cheek against... whatever's under it, only to sit up and realize that he's curled up around one of Peter's shins, face pressed heavily against the denim of his jeans.

The werewolf had fallen asleep slouched down into the corner of the couch, Lydia slouched over into his lap and Jackson slouched over into hers, like a line of dominoes all toppled over. They're all three of them sleeping soundly, and Stiles breathes a sigh that's full of relief and pride and hope. When he'd thought about what it would mean for Scott to give up his Alpha spark he'd never gone so far as to dream of this, of them all coming together as a pack the way they should, with clearly defined roles and expectations. He'd hoped maybe, that they could get to something half this good, but this is more, so much more.

Liam's zonked out in the chair next to Peter as close as he can get. Derek is on the floor at his feet, close enough that if he wanted to Stiles' could reach out and kick the guy's ankle. Kira's curled up neatly in his lap and Scott's...

Well, apparently Scott is gone.

Groaning, Stiles gets to his feet and stretches long and hard, arching his back to pop the kinks out of his spine. When he straightens up again, he finds Peter staring at him quietly with glowing blue eyes, and his gaze traces him from head to toe with a hunger that starts a fire burning in Stiles' belly.

Grinning sharply, showing his teeth, he returns the favor and lets the warmth of arousal wash through him, thanks god that he's not a kid anymore, not a gangly teenager, not a virgin. He's packed on the muscle these last few years, got broad shoulders and a strong chest, has grown into his arms and legs and has plenty of scars to show for his experience.

He's not desperate.

He's not the jumpy, excitable kind of eager that he used to be.

He wants, oh does he want, but he doesn't need to scramble and clutch and hurry the way he would've a few years ago.

This is going to happen.

He knows this is going to happen.

That certainty sits light and easy inside his ribs, makes him relaxed and easy and confident.

He can enjoy the anticipation, the sweet, heated build-up, because he knows he's going to get what he's after.

First things first though – breakfast, then into the war room.

They have battle plans to make.

The others have begun to stir in the few, precious moments he and Peter have been trading glances. Lydia sits up out of his lap and leans into his palm when he cups her cheek, then starts petting Jackson's hair to wake him up. It's a pretty obvious move but Stiles offers him a hand up out of the couch, then jerks him in close once he's on his feet. Peter rumbles, ducks his head into the curve of Stiles' throat, but just because he's sure doesn't mean he has to be easy.

Gripping his belt, Stiles drags him and bumps their hips together, then immediately backs off and turns away, heading for the stairs. Peter's rumble turns to a growl and Stiles hears Derek laugh, hears the sound of someone cuffing someone else and then darting away. Heart light, Stiles takes the steps two at a time and comes up in the open living room, sees Scott outside on the patio standing in front of Isaac and Ripley, who are backed indignantly into the corners of the swing, arms crossed and faces grim.

Ugh.

"Not your job, not your job," he mutters under his breath, heading for the kitchen instead of the French doors.

If Derek and Peter and the rest of them need to learn their new place in this hierarchy, so does he. He can't keep pulling Scott out of every little mess he walks into; he'll just be undermining that structure if he does, and that won't do anyone any good.

Besides, he has other work to do.

One by one the pack emerges from the den and takes their turns in the bathrooms, changing clothes, washing faces, combing out their hair. Lydia and Kira work their magic, arriving in the kitchen fresh-faced and bright-eyed, like they hadn't just spent the whole night in a pile on the couch, and Liam's stolen Stiles' hoodie away from Peter and slipped it on. The older Hale rumbles at him and flashes his eyes but it's more exasperated than angry, so Stiles hides a smirk and starts on breakfast.

It takes almost an hour to finish, what with the whole pack shoved into the kitchen. It's huge, sure, big enough to cook for a bunch of werewolves, but with all of them lingering, bumping and brushing and sharing scents, it takes longer than it should. Stiles gets his french toast bake into the oven, Lydia stirs a massive pan of scrambled eggs with Jackson beside her, adding salt, ham, peppers, and cheese, and Derek dutifully turns bacon and sausage on an electric griddle. Peter shoves Liam away from him and down onto a barstool, dropping a sack of oranges into his lap, then escapes around the island to set the table while Kira helps with the juicing. It's all stupidly domestic and he absolutely loves it.

"We should invite the parents, on Sundays," Derek says out of nowhere, and there's a burst of happy agreement from the pack. "We could do a brunch, or cookouts when it's nice."

The suggestion starts a lively conversation and Stiles feels himself breathing easier, flicking Peter a glance that's returned with an expression he can't read. Everyone knows how important his dad is to him, of course, but there's also Melissa and Liam's parents and Kira's. The pack has grown up a bit sure, but Liam's still a senior in high school, still mostly lives at home. Opening up the pack, widening their support system, that can't be bad right?

As they carry heaping platters of food to the long wooden table, Derek dries his hands on a dish towel and steps to the patio doors, pulls them open. Stiles keeps an ear tuned that way but doesn't interfere, watches Peter's shoulder's drop as he watches his nephew with an alert eye.

"Scott, come inside and eat," Derek says, calm and steady.

"In a minute," Scott replies, "We're..."

"No, now. You've been out here long enough."

He interrupts in that same calm voice, sure of himself and his command in a way that Stiles has never heard him be, not even that first time the Alpha spark had been burning up his heart. He's not arrogant or cruel about it – there's almost something apologetic in his tone, like he's sorry Scott's fighting this losing battle – but he's successful either way. To Stiles' great surprise, Scott heaves a sigh, his shoulders drooping, then he nods and shuffles inside. Derek wraps his fingers around the back of his neck as he passes, then turns to Isaac and Ripley.

"You're welcome to join us if you'd like," he says.

And that's all.

He just... turns away, comes back inside and sits down at the head of the table, Lydia across from him at the other end and Stiles and Peter to his right and his left respectively. He picks up the first dish and serves himself before Isaac and Ripley have even argued it out between them and come slinking inside, ignores them as he passes the pan around. Stiles chews at the inside of his cheek, doesn't smirk, but Peter's looking at him from across the table and there's blue around the edges of his pupils.

Derek eats first; pops a huge bite of scrambled eggs into his mouth and watches as hands suddenly dart in and out, grabbing butter and syrup and ketchup, because Liam really is a monster who puts ketchup on nearly everything. There's chatter and laughing and the clink of silverware, and in the midst of it all he just sits at the head of the table and watches.

Stiles is pretty sure there's something like amusement lurking around the corners of his mouth, painful relief in the curve of his spine.

With a chuffing sound he doesn't recognize, Stiles digs into his own breakfast, mind already leaping ahead to the work still left to do. They'll need to rope Scott into the planning, which is always tricky, need to find a spot for the Rubious to snatch him. With any luck they'll have a few days to strengthen the bond, maybe get Liam used to tracking the thing...

Stiles tests the edges of his teeth against the tines of his fork, tries not to bare them in a sly growl as he listens to Peter start a quiet conversation with his nephew, listens to him speak aloud all the same things he was thinking. His blood burns in his veins and he can feel his spark burning there too, in his chest and in his fingers, screaming for a release, any kind of release, and it's coming, he knows it.

Sliding his foot forward, he finds Peter's ankle, rubs across the arch of his foot and up the inside of his calf. The werewolf doesn't move, doesn't react at all, and oh, if that isn't a challenge he's going to enjoy winning. Twirling his butter knife between his fingers, he stuffs another bite of french toast into his mouth and grins ferally.

Oh yes, he's going to enjoy this very much.

XXX

"One thing at a time," Peter counsels, stacking his silverware on top of his plate while Derek drains the last of his orange juice. "Don't get distracted."

His nephew nods as they get to their feet and Peter is disgustingly, painfully proud, of him and of himself. If anyone had told him that he and Derek could come to a compromise, that they could work together and get back even a fraction of the relationship they'd had once he'd have full-out laughed in their face, and yet here they are, doing just that. He tries to comfort himself with the fact that no one could have predicted this, no one could have guessed, but as he carries his plate toward the kitchen he catches Stiles' gaze and feels his eyes flare a heated, electric blue.

Stiles holds that gaze, chin tipped up the barest millimeter, a smirk curling at the edge of his mouth, and heat floods through Peter's body down toward his belt buckle. Little shit, playing footsie with him under the table – Peter had wanted to smack him. Shove him against the wall maybe... bury his face in his...

He rolls his eyes, blatantly obvious as Scott whines at Stiles about a ride to the airport for Isaac and his fiancé, since the Kitsune finally grew a pair and isn't speaking to him. Stiles bites his lip, his own eyes dancing, and Peter turns away.

"Yeah, that's gonna have to wait buddy," he hears the spark say as he heads down the hall. "We have work to do remember? They can either stick around and make themselves useful or they can call a cab, but we can't be splitting up right now."

Quiet grumbling follows but Peter tunes it out, slipping silently through the house toward the war room. It's all coming together isn't it, everyone falling into line, things clicking into place the way they should have so long ago, and the ease of it all makes him nauseas. There's something sickly sweet about them all playing at one big happy family, and he can't think what it will do to him, to Derek – the only born wolves in the pack – if it all comes tumbling down in two- or three-months' time.

Very, very suddenly he wants for a vacation, an escape, and when Stiles comes walking easily down the hallway a second later Peter pounces on it with impunity and without a plan.

Grabbing him by the arm, fingers tipped with claws, Peter spins him around and shoves him against the wall, presses in close and runs sharp teeth over his throat, pants against his skin, eyes squeezed shut.

"Still hungry then?" Stiles snarks, his voice slick and deep and humming up through his chest where Peter can feel it pulse beneath his hands.

He rumbles, nips at Stiles' earlobe and rolls his hips into the cradle of his thighs where they're pressed tight together, all muscle and heat and hard bodies.

"You asking me to dinner?"

"I do owe you one," he grits out, his hands biting into Peter's sides as he starts to suck at the soft skin beneath Stiles' jaw, tastes maple syrup and spearmint and the scent of clean flannel. "But I was thinking it could be more like a date than a debt."

"Thought I told you to stop feeding me," Peter says stupidly, the scent and the taste and the feel of mate all rolled up and wrapping him in cotton, clouding up his senses.

Stiles goes cold and still beneath him and then his hands are on Peter's chest, giving him a short, sharp shove that sets him back on his heels.

"Well if that's the way you feel about it," he says, but his words are all heat and he's leaning forward, grin predatory and eyes dark as they run all over Peter's body, lingering in certain places longer than others. "Then we should probably just skip right to the dessert."

Peter stares, can't find his tongue as his heart pounds hard in his chest, but then Derek is coming up the hall with his nose wrinkled in disgust and Stiles is laughing, clapping him on the shoulder and walking away with him, leaving him behind to try to figure out what the hell just happened and why every instinct he had was screaming at him to sink his teeth deep into Stiles' shoulder.