Stiles found himself quite delighted with the fact that Mama ChaCha's hadn't changed in the years he'd been away. The brightly painted walls were a little duller, the vinyl booths a little more cracked and the wooden tabletops a little more scratched, but all-in-all it was exactly the same and it felt a bit like home when he stepped inside. He and Scott had spent a lot of afternoons here, stuffing themselves with bottomless tostada chips as they worked their way through innumerable teen-aged problems; algebraic and mythical alike. In later years the pack had joined them, a loud and rowdy group that, oddly enough, had always been welcomed by the family that owned the place despite their ability to be messy and obnoxious to the tenth degree.
Waiting for Peter to climb out from the back seat of the jeep, Lydia curled a hand around the older man's elbow and led the way to a booth near the window while Stiles trailed behind, gazing around in reminiscence as he went. Dropping onto the bench seat across from them he let out a long breath of relief, let the leash on his light slip as it seeped out towards Peter's presence, rolled around in it like a pup in the sun. He might not have recognize it as such but Stiles could tell that the werewolf could feel it too, his shoulders dropping just a little, his face softening around the eyes, and that felt nice as well, providing relief the way he was meant to.
Felt good.
Without meaning to he opened his mouth to do something that probably would've been stupid, like thank the guy for existing, for being what he was like he'd had a choice in the thing, but he was saved that embarrassment by a young girl in a bright green apron who placed a huge basket of house-made chips on the middle of the table and asked for their drink orders.
"You guys want a beer?" he asked, and Lydia nodded, though Peter only shrugged indifferently. Chuckling to himself, Stiles order three in fluent Spanish before requesting the sampler special, waiting until his companions had also placed their orders and the waitress had retreated to the kitchen before digging into his jacket pockets.
"Well your Spanish has definitely improved," Lydia commented as he pushed a tiny vial of red powder across the table to Peter, who's eyes lit up in obvious recognition of the substance, the base of the intoxicating candy he, Pheelan, and Jackson had enjoyed at the club earlier that week.
"Thanks," he smiled, unable to hold it back as he was quite proud of the linguistics skills he'd worked so long and hard to effect.
"Are you fluent in anything else?" Peter asked, a familiar, calculating curiosity on his face.
"Polish," he answered, ticking them off on his fingers, "But I always knew that one. Romanian. A little bit of German. Some French. Portuguese and Italian are close enough to Spanish that I can get by. And Gaelic of course."
"Of course," Peter hummed, a devilish sort of smirk on his face and Stiles rolled his eyes.
"Shut up," he huffed amicably, pushing out of the booth. Lydia snickered but slid out of her seat as well, following Stiles over to the buffet where they loaded up on six different bowls of salsa, balancing them precariously back to the table. Their beers had been dropped off in their absence and Peter was surreptitiously swirling a measured amount of wolfsbane extract into his own before handing the vial back to him and lifting his glass in a toast.
"Cheers," he grinned wickedly, and Stiles barked a laugh, clinking his glass first with Peter's, then Lydia's in turn.
"Sláinte," he smiled back, amused and somewhat heartened by the fact that Peter didn't appear to have changed at all in the last five years. They hadn't been as close as Stiles and Lydia had been when he'd left, but he found himself enjoying the wolf's company more and more now that he was back.
But perhaps that was due to the fact that Stiles had changed in the time he'd been gone. He'd found his self-confidence, knew exactly what he was capable of, it and was never as clear as it was during the hour he spent scarfing down chips and enchiladas, tacos and chiles rellenos with the only two pack members he'd never spent a minute hating. They laughed and talked, even reminisced a little, and the whole time Stiles felt on even footing, never bowing or backing off to knowledge or experience greater than his was. He appreciated what Peter and Lydia brought to the table without being threatened or belittled by it, and that was what drove the difference home.
And for their part they treated him just the same, for which he was surprisingly grateful. They treated him like they always had, not dancing around anything or going out of their way to avoid the tough stuff. Lydia was still a little holier-than-thou but she'd earned it, and Stiles was happy to concede the prize to her when it came to things like chemistry and mathematics. She'd always tempered her smarts with a strange sort of shyness, so even when haughty she was humble, something he still wasn't sure was possible for anyone to pull off. Peter was a little calmer, a little smoother along the edges, but still the same sassy, snarky s.o.b. he always was. Every once in a while he gave Stiles a good jolt of predator and bad-touch that raised the hair on the back of his neck, but where before it was the kind that made him want to reach for a Molotov and ensure that Peter was never at his back, now it made him grin wickedly, told him with certainty that the wolf was a fighter, cunning, deadly - an asset to his pack.
Stiles chuckled to himself, shook his head when Peter and Lydia looked to him in question.
He had no intention of building a pack, no matter what Peter felt like.
Even if his light was lunging for the wolf, even if it wanted him.
Wanted to fix him.
Swallowing against the sudden guilt that bit at the edges of his stomach, Stiles grabbed another fistful of chips and used salsa to bury it - spicy red salsa, salsa verde, mango salsa... He was going to give himself a stomach ache, but better that than the nausea-inducing swirl of haunting emotions hidden deep at the back of Peter's psyche.
Pheelan had been right when he'd said the wolf was still messed up. Only his mask was perfect after all these years. The pain was still there, quieted, hidden, but the warning that hummed along Stiles' chakras, inside the tattoos at his wrists and along his spine, told him that if he dug any deeper it would be a worse pain than any he had ever come across.
Something to think about.
Finishing their lunch when Stiles couldn't fit another bite of salsa down his throat, he and Peter squabbled briefly over the bill, the older man insisting on leaving a hefty cash tip when Stiles treated. Rolling himself out of the booth with a groan, he handed the keys over to the werewolf as they walked out to the parking lot alone, Lydia leaving them to detour towards the lady's room. He was unable to even think about squeezing himself behind the steering wheel - instead already looking forward to unbuttoning his jeans and sprawling across the back seat on the way back to the Hale house, successfully ignoring the fact that he would only get a few minutes respite before having to drive himself home.
Slumping against the passenger door with a sigh, he squinted against the bright afternoon sunlight and grinned when Peter dropped back beside him, their shoulders brushing even as he shoved his hands deep into his pockets.
The contact wasn't something he would've allowed himself before, Stiles was sure of that, remembered that, but he had to wonder if it was his light causing the wolf to seek it out now or if it was something that he wanted on his own, without Stiles' influence.
"So," he started, slouching lower and crossing his ankles when Peter tensed up beside him. "What's with you and the flower girl?"
Beside him the wolf turned, looked at him with half a second's surprise before he snorted, chuckling under his breath.
"Nothing," he said lightly. "Two for one deal when Isaac decided to fall in love. She was interested, I'm… not."
"Really?" Stiles asked with surprise, wondering if he'd read things wrong.
"Really."
"Why not?"
Peter frowned, pushed off the edge of the jeep and scraped his boots against the pavement, sighing through his nose as he turned back to the doors of the restaurant where Lydia was emerging into the sunlight.
"We wanted different things," he said in a low voice, and Stiles cocked an eyebrow, glancing back and forth between the two.
"And besides," he said gruffly, turning on Stiles with a toothy grin and looking him up and down lasciviously, "You know me Stiles. Knew me anyway. But I haven't changed. I'm a cold-hearted bastard, not interested in tying myself down. And besides," he smiled, spreading his arms and taking a step back towards the red-headed Banshee closing in on them. "I love myself too much to love anyone else the way they deserve."
XXX
Ten minutes later Stiles was lying sideways in the back of the jeep, his legs thrown over into the trunk, groaning exaggeratedly as Peter drove them toward the Hale house.
"Lydiaaaaa," he whimpered, attempting to cajole the banshee into the backseat so that he could put his head in her lap and force her hands into his hair.
"No," came the singsong reply from the front seat, and then Peter was laughing at him so he pulled his feet around to kick the back of the werewolf's seat.
"You're mean now," he accused of her in a pouting tone. "You're spending too much time with him. He's rubbing off on you."
This time they both laughed.
"Too bad Pheelan hasn't rubbed off on you," Lydia mused, ignoring Peter's crass 'bet he has.' "He's a sweetheart."
"Nah," Stiles scoffed, squirming with a strange discomfort at the mention of the big, Irish blonde. "Phee's a good guy but I was always a sarcastic shit. Can't change who we are."
Lydia made a humming, considering sort of sound but Peter caught his eye in the rearview mirror, and Stiles could practically see words he didn't want to hear sitting in the wolf's mouth, but he was saved when his phone started to beep in his pocket. Wiggling around on the narrow bench seat until he got his hand into his pocket, his stomach dropped when he saw the name flashing at him from the screen.
"Shawna."
"Hi sweetie," she replied, and his heart plunged down to join his stomach. "Can you talk?"
"Shit," Stiles muttered. That wasn't good. "What did you find?"
As soon as he spoke both Lydia and Peter jerked around in their seats to stare, and Stiles flailed frantically until Peter turned back around and put his eyes back on the road.
"Honey are you sitting down?" Shawna asked, and the second endearment told Stiles everything he needed to know.
"Give me ten minutes," he side, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. "I've got a feeling the resident pack needs to hear this too."
"That might be best."
"Great. Thanks. Call you back."
"We're five minutes away," Peter said quietly from the driver's seat before the jeep lurched forward and the engine snarled. "Make that three."
"Great," Stiles replied distractedly, already sending out a text to Jackson and Phee. "Lydia, can you…"
"Already on it," she replied, tapping furiously at her phone. "I've got Boyd, Scott, and Allison on their way."
The rest of those three minutes were tense and silent until Peter pulled in with a skid and a crunch of gravel, jumping out and immediately dropping his seat so that Stiles could squeeze from behind it. Lydia was already marching up the walk but as he moved to follow, the werewolf caught his elbow and began dragging him off to the side of the house, hauling him into the trees.
"Dude, what…" Stiles squawked, but Peter just shook his head.
"Run," he replied, thrusting his chin deeper into the Preserve, and then he was gone, the pale olive of his jacket disappearing into the brush.
Growling with frustration, pulling his belt back up over his salsa baby, Stiles took off after him, unwilling to be left behind and more than a little curious about what he wanted. He caught up quickly but the older man kept going, deeper into the woods until they were almost a mile off before he stopped.
"What… the hell," Stiles panted, leaning over to lean his weight against his knees and catch his breath. He was fast, as fast as a wolf, faster than Peter, but the Mexican food in his stomach made him want to curl up in a ball and nap. Peter, or the other hand, appeared restless, stalking around the small clearing he'd paused in with a predatory air.
"I don't love that girl," he said suddenly, harshly, and Stiles stood up quickly to his full height, confused.
"Wha…"
"I don't love her," he repeated, hard, cold, flat. "She… reminds me of Cora, sometimes. That's all."
"Peter why are you telling me this?" Stiles asked.
"And I'm not in love with the Banshee either," he said insistently, ignoring the question.
"Lydia," Stiles said slowly, more to force him to admit to the name than to confirm what he meant. Peter'd moved past referring to them by labels and nicknames a long time ago, even before Stiles had left. If he wanted to do this, Stiles wasn't letting him off the hook - he was damn well going to say it.
Casting him a nasty glare, Peter sneered, but answered.
"Lydia. But I wasn't wrong, didn't lie," he declared, his eyes going a cold, dull blue with the intensity of the statement. "About that at least. You know me. Knew me. And you knew the rest of them too, didn't you."
Exhaling harshly, Peter dragged clawed hands through his perfectly styled hair.
"Far be it from me to speak well of my nephew," he continued, and Stiles cocked an eyebrow at the change in subject before schooling his face blank when the werewolf whirled on him and stabbed a finger in his direction. "And I'll kill you if you tell anyone I did," he threatened. "But he's not… malicious. Never was unfortunately. Just stupid. A disappointment really, but we are who we are."
"Why are you telling me this?" Stiles demanded a second time, anger starting to build in his fingertips, but it wasn't the same as it was, not as hot, not as sharp. Still, he was wary of the agitated werewolf before him.
Peter snarled, pushed violently away from him and began to pace.
"I don't know," he growled, not even casting a glance in the Touchstone's direction. "But this thing, whatever it is that's coming…"
Stiles felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up as Peter slowed, turned on him with deadly precision and glowing eyes before stalking towards him, one calculated step at a time.
"You feel it," Peter said quietly, his voice low and rumbling. "You're the clever one - you always were. You know this is going to be bad."
Stiles swallowed, breathed his answer.
"Yes."
"And you're going to need us," Peter said, though to Stiles' ears it sounded a little more like a question than a statement. "The pack. Or we'll need you. I would have that be as… painless as possible for you."
"Don't you mean as painless as possible for you?" Stiles asked, the tension going out of his shoulders when Peter pulled back abruptly, his eyes dimming and a grin spreading across his face.
"That too," he chuckled, but there was something on his face, quickly hidden away that told Stiles this little rendezvous was more important than he was playing it off to be.
"Did you want to actually ask me something while we were out here?" he asked, gesturing around them at the silence of the woods.
"If I did it might be that you give the idiots in my nephew's pack a chance," he shrugged, turning to stroll casually back in the direction of the house.
"Did you drink any Kool Aid while I was gone?" Stiles asked, jostling Peter roughly with his shoulder as they walked. "Never thought you'd be one for pack pride. Werewolf solidarity - rah, rah, rah."
Beside him Peter chuckled, grinned. "They've grown up a bit, surprisingly," he offered, leaping lightly over a fallen log and waiting for Stiles to clamber awkwardly across. "And…"
"And what?" he cajoled casually, though he was pretty sure what he was going to say.
Peter shrugged, looked away.
"They're pack."
Yup.
There it was.
The reason for all the words, the blue eyes, the agitation and the big hush-hush.
Peter had found his place, found himself a pack again, even if he didn't want to admit to it.
It was the reason he was so close to Lydia, the reason he was protective of Lily, and the reason he was pressuring Stiles to make peace with Derek. He didn't believe that Peter would ask it of him otherwise. But he needed his pack safe, couldn't lose it again, and he needed Stiles' help to do that.
They were coming to the edge of the Preserve now, the house just visible through the trees, and Stiles had fallen behind as he put pieces together in his brain. Now he stopped, widened his stance to balance his weight.
"Peter!" he called, and the wolf stopped, turned to look back at him.
When Stiles stayed silent, looked over his shoulder at the house, Peter sighed heavily but came trudging back, stomping his irritation. Coming to a stop only inches in front of him, making a laughable attempt to intimidate by looming, he opened his arms in a gesture that clearly said Well?
Smirking, Stiles reached up and laid his hand across the base of Peter's throat, reveling in the look of shock that flicked across his face before rubbing firmly around his neck and across his collarbones, up beneath his jaw. He didn't think about the scent marking too much, just did it, because it felt natural and because Peter immediately relaxed beneath his touch, his shoulders sagging like he hadn't been touched in years, and Stiles had to wonder if he hadn't.
Finishing up with a light push to Peter's shoulder, he stood perfectly still when the wolf's hand came up in return, automatic, instinctual, and from the look on Peter's face he was certain that the man hadn't been prepared for the reaction. He forced his way through it though, in a way that almost seemed uncomfortable. His touch was rough and uncoordinated, clearly out of practice, but still he rubbed his scent thoroughly into Stiles' neck and jaw. For a moment he was worried about how they would break, how they would walk away from this without ungodly awkwardness, but then Peter slapped him playfully on the side of the head and gave him a shove, one he wasn't prepared for and which consequently sent him toppling backward into the dirt. By the time he'd landed with a yelp and looked up again, Peter was already halfway across the backyard and laughing raucously, watching Stiles over his shoulder.
"Asshole!"
