Peter sighs.
It's the third consecutive one in less than five minutes. For him, that's almost a record of some kind. Usually, Peter takes pride in having the ability to wait — in having patience enough to wait for the prey to come to him, in knowing the right moment to strike and kill, in understanding that he should only do so much before leaving the rest to pan out as it would.
Right then and there, however, lying in a fucking twin bed, with his feet dangling over the edge, Peter can't help but wonder when exactly had he lost all his precious self-control.
Certainly, not before Stiles.
Not before his mate.
Not before finding himself tied to a child. A six-years-old. A small human, who had absolutely no clue about the hole he had just fallen into.
It's a Saturday night. Not even eleven, really, and yet, there Peter lies — in the fucking twin bed.
It's before midnight of a weekend night, and Peter should be out there, enjoying his fucking life, dancing and drinking at some exclusive club in New York, handpicking the person — people — he would take home with him. He should be wearing one of his designer suits and drawing eyes wherever he went — the scent of arousal following him as he walked by.
It's Saturday night, and Peter misses having sex. Getting laid. Fucking. Receiving a blowjob and having a goddamn pair of tits bouncing in front of his face, just inches away from his mouth. Right there.
A wet cunt and a wetter mouth. Peter needs that. Could be having that with the snap of his fingers, really, if only he could be out of the Stilinski's house instead of being trapped in a kid's bed.
A kid who is sleeping, of course.
It's way past Stiles' bedtime. His mate's bedtime.
His mate. Who has a bedtime.
His tiny, tiny mate, who sleeps soundly besides Peter, completely ignorant to the lewd thoughts running through Peter's mind and how they keep getting worse by the second.
It's ridiculous.
Pathetic.
Unacceptable, really.
Peter Hale doesn't lie down and stands still for no one. Not his mother, not his sister, not any Alpha he has ever met in his life, and he refuses to change that for a small human. An unconscious, little human, at that.
Which is why, with one last deep sigh, Peter swings to the side and gets up from the stupid bed — honestly, had he ever even owned such a ridiculous bed himself?
Stiles doesn't even stir. Not a single sign that he has noticed the absence of his mate, despite the earlier claims that he would never be able to fall asleep without Peter there. Strong claims that, at the time, had sounded so plausible, so understandable.
God, Peter is truly losing his shit.
"You pathetic, old mutt," Peter murmurs under his breath as he leaves the bedroom, closing the door softly behind him.
So lost he is in his own self-recrimination, that he doesn't notice he's taking the stairs instead of jumping out the window, nor the bright lights and soft noises coming from the kitchen, and thus, almost stumbles in surprise when he comes face-to-face with the sheriff drinking alone at the table.
The man raises an eyebrow when their eyes meet. "Sneaking out, Hale?" He asks over the rim of his glass, sounding way less surprised than Peter would've expected given the circumstances.
On any other night, it would have been the perfect opportunity to get more information about the father of his soulmate.
Too bad Peter isn't in the mood to indulge the man's delusions of cleverness. "Merely leaving, actually. Stiles is fast asleep — I see no reason to spend the night," Peter says, barely holding back the urge to shrug as he utters the words.
If possible, the sheriff's eyebrow raises even further. "Is that so?" He questions, lowering the glass to the table, his eyes glued to Peter. His body language says he's searching for some kind of answer on Peter's face. "That never stopped you before."
"Excuse me?" Peter balks, taken by surprise. He had never been invited to spend the night with Stiles before. Not one single time.
Invited being the important word, obviously.
"Give me some credit, Hale. It doesn't take a werewolf to know you crawl inside my kid's room at night," the Sherrif says, almost daring Peter to contradict him. "You leave in the morning, I'll give you that, yes, but never in the middle of the night. I would know, believe me. So, yeah, wanna explain the walk of shame here?"
And the thing is: normally, Peter wouldn't respond to the taunt. He would — should — charm his way out and leave with his reputation still intact.
But it's Saturday night.
It's also far too close to the full moon, and right now, there's more wolf than human running in Peter's blood. Where there's usually finesse and soft words and charm and wicked smiles, well, now there's only unrest and irritation and desire.
Peter is fucking pissed at the situation, at himself, and unfortunately for the sheriff, in his mind, that too often means getting angry at others instead. Transfering the guilt, the rage, the frustrations… Peter is a goddamn master at that.
It comes with being a Hale, he understands.
Just one more amazing perk of being born in his oh-so-privileged family.
So Peter allows his mouth to run wild, the words twisting wickedly around his tongue, getting coated in piss and vinegar, only for them to come out in the worst way possible.
"Walk of shame?" Peter repeats. Mocks, really. Too sharp, too blatant. "Peculiar term to use when it comes to one's child. No?"
The result is immediate.
The words hang around the room, thick and unchangeable, seeming to only get worse by the second as John's face gets redder and redder in his anger.
The man tightens his fingers around the glass until his knuckles turn white. "You son of a bi-" He curses, swallowing the insult down before he can finish it.
He doesn't even get up or goes for his gun.
Peter respects this sort of self-control. Envies it, even.
Still.
It doesn't stop him from walking out the door without a single glance back.
Peter sighs.
He's sitting at the bar, nursing a half-empty glass of an expensive whisky that would not get him drunk, doing his best to block out the horrible excuse of a music blasting all across the room. It's still his second glass, and Peter is already wondering why he bothered to come in the first place.
Somehow, after months and months of staying away from such places, Peter had allowed himself to forget how much he used to hate most parts of it. Sure, he enjoys the hunt, the seduction, the game of picking the most unavailable person in the room and working his magic until they ended up begging for more.
It's what gets him off. Knowing he can have whomever he wants, no matter how difficult it may seem at first or how bad of a lay they turned out to be. Peter is the apex predator and he enjoys basking in the afterglow of a well-played night.
Only Stiles came along and turned Peter's life upside down, and somehow along the way, sitting at a bar alone just to get sex from some nobody ceased to make sense. Especially when he knows he could step outside, get into his car, and drive all the way back to his mate.
He could go back to his infant mate.
The six-year-old.
The kid who is currently sleeping, and with whom Peter has no interest in having sex. That's who he can drive back to. If he so desires.
Peter takes another sip, wondering what the hell is wrong with him. How can he be at his mate's house and feel so damn suffocated, so desperate to leave and go anywhere else, and yet still hate being in the place he has chosen to go to.
It's impossible.
He should be satisfied after getting what he wanted, but weirdly enough, his wolf seems even more restless now than it had been before, and he starts to miss the scent of oranges and wet grass. The scent of his mate.
Maybe what he needs is a good fuck.
To find some random adult who can satisfy his needs — give him a nice blowjob and a hard fuck, with absolutely no small talk in between those acts. It's a Saturday night at a bar, how difficult can it be to find someone looking for those exact things?
As he's contemplating his choices, a familiar scent draws his attention as somebody sits on the seat next to him at the bar.
Great.
Just what he needs.
"And what are you doing here?" Peter sneers. He briefly wonders if the man is following him, only to quickly reject the idea. McCall doesn't have the ability to track Peter without him knowing so.
"It's a bar," McCall points out, speaking in a way that suggests Peter might be a bit slow on the uptake. "I'm sure I don't need to explain to you why people go to bars."
"No," Peter concedes, but gestures to the man's empty hand, "but I would like to know why you're not wearing your wedding ring."
A glint of anger flashes in McCall's eyes. "Fuck off, Hale."
"Tsk, tsk. So sensitive. Touched a nerve, have I?"
"I'll be touching something else in a moment if you don't shut the hell up," the man says, then seems to realize how awful his phrase sounds out-loud and winces, looking away. "You know what I mean."
"Sure," Peter agrees, a wicked smile in place. He takes a sip from his drink. "A man of your capabilities… Very well-spoken, of course. Nothing to misinterpreter."
"You do sometimes beg for a bullet in the kneecap," he says, but it lacks any sort of real heat behind the words, and he stays where he is, sitting right next to Peter despite having plenty of options around the bar.
"I try my very best," Peter drawls, amused against his will.
There's something different about McCall. Perhaps the clothes he's wearing, or the way he's sitting, or the way his lips are wrapping around the words, so very unlike the way he usually behaves around Peter.
The agent even smells different.
"I'm sure you do," he says, his eyes discretely traveling up and down Peter's body.
And suddenly, Peter sees the whole picture clearly. McCall wants him. Yes, he despises Peter and everything he represents — despite knowing very little about his actual life — and yet, against all odds, the man is lusting after Peter.
He's clumsy, of course. No doubt he has no experience with same-sex relationships, and to be honest, the full scope of his knowledge of sex as a whole can probably fit in a single paragraph with room to spare. Still, Peter sees it the second their eyes meet. The same look of interest he has seen in the face of countless strangers before.
The look of a person who is ready to risk it all for the chance to have the wildest night of their lives with Peter, falling prey to his carefully cultivated aesthetic of someone who's both dangerous and—
And, oh, this is so perfect.
Peter can use this in so many ways, and instantly the possibilities begin to float around his mind, twisting and changing as he tries to come up with the best-case scenario for his own personal gains. It shouldn't be too difficult. In fact, it would be almost too easy for him.
An insecure, married F.B.I agent who has never been with another man? Christ, Peter can ruin him forever. Whispering just the right words into his ears, touching him in all the right places he has never been touched before, suggesting a few new positions, giving him only a taste of the things Peter can do… yeah, it would be all too easy.
If he wants to, Peter has the power to end McCall's life forever and walk away from it unscathed, with no one more the wiser.
It's all within his reach, and he needs only to seize it.
The anticipation is almost enough to make Peter salivate, and for several minutes he entertains the idea, already patting himself on the back for the job well done. It is, after all, a million times better than any other scenario he had imagined when he had driven to that disgusting place.
Before he can strike, though, his cell phone rings, and Peter knows that ringtone. Without stopping to think about it, he fishes the phone from his pocket and accepts the calls. "I thought we agreed the phone was for emergencies only," he greets, amused against his will.
"This is an emergency," Stiles whines, his voice so familiar and clear even with the loud music blasting from the speakers. "I woke up and you weren't here. The bed is cold; you left the window open."
"I'm sure you can close it without my help."
"I cannot. It's impossible."
"Is it?" Peter asks, his fingers skimming the rim of his glass. He can feel a smile starting to make its way into his face. "I'm pretty sure I've seen you do it before."
"Lies!" Stiles says, making a noise of protest. "Where are you? You are supposed to be here when I wake up."
And it's so demanding.
Peter is a lawyer. A werewolf. Member of the biggest pack in North America, according to his stuck-up sister. Young, handsome, millionaire, and in possession of a trained, well-groomed body capable of both gruesome murders and non-stop hours of sex.
Since when has he been reduced to a sleep buddy?
"I do have other commitments, Stiles," Peter says, but it doesn't sound like it's a protest, and it also doesn't sound like a refusal. "I'm sure it hasn't escaped your notice."
Stiles huffs. "My dad says only cops, doctors, and bad people are out of their houses at this time."
Peter knows which of these roles fits him best. "That's an oversimplification. Many people work during the night."
"You don't."
"I do — sometimes."
"So you are working?" Stiles asks, and yet his voice implies that he already knows the answer.
And well, Peter wouldn't call what he's doing work. Not really.
"Sort of." It's what he goes with.
Stiles huffs. Again. "That's a lie."
"It's not."
"I know when you lie," Stiles says, clearly unimpressed with his attempts at dodging the subject.
Peter can feel his smile stretching wider and wider with each passing word, without his permission. Stiles's voice just evokes a lightness in him that's impossible to ignore.
"You can't possibly," he reasons. Stiles has claimed that before, but Peter knows that the bond is not yet in a place where his mate should be able to feel whether he's being truthful or not.
"Yes, I can."
"Impossible."
"Possible," Stiles shoots back, and for some reason, Peter knows that his mate would be sticking his tongue out if they were in the same room together.
Which they should be.
Why had Peter left?
If he had stayed put, once Stiles woke up they could've found something fun to do together. The groggy shit Stiles says when he's in between rounds of sleep is one of Peter's favorite things in life. There's always something about Batman involved, somehow, and it keeps being amusing regardless of how many times it happens.
How could Peter have forgotten that?
"You'll understand when you're older," Peter says, teasing, already knowing it will drive Stiles crazy. His little mate hates when an adult tells him that, and it's always worse when that adult is Peter.
Maybe because Stiles stills struggles to see Peter as an adult in quite the same way as he sees his parents or his teachers. For him, Peter has always been just Peter — someone who protects him, and feeds him, and takes care of his needs while also allowing him to have all sorts of fun.
"Ughhh," Stiles groans, as if on cue. "You know that's stupid!"
"I know nothing of the sort."
"Whatever — it's stupid and you know," he says, and Peter can hear the pouting from the other end of the line. "When will you come back?"
When, he asks. Not if.
Stiles has no doubts that Peter will go back. And he also probably knows that if he asks prettily enough, it will rush things along, because somewhere along the way, Peter Hale turned out to be a pushover for a child who knows how to manipulate him.
Thankfully, there's only one kid who knows how to do that.
His kid.
Peter raises his eyes to where McCall is sitting, awkwardly looking at the drink in his hands while he waits for Peter to finish his call. The man is still there, suffering through the indignation of ranking lower in priority than an unruly child, which means he really wants it — he wants to be persuaded, to be convinced, to be seduced, to cede the control and the blame to somebody else.
Peter won't have another opportunity like this — he understands that. If he leaves, that's it. McCall will hate him for it, and the chance to use the man for his own personal gain will slips through his fingers, never to be seen again. Which would be a huge shame. If nothing else, Peter Hale is an opportunist.
And yet…
No matter how alluring the idea might be, or how badly Peter needs to a hard fuck, he's hesitating. He's allowing his mate's voice to seep into his brain, convincing him that perhaps his time would be better spent back at the Stilinski's place. In Stiles' room — with the horrible, small twin bed that doesn't even have a fucking good mattress.
"Peter?" Stiles asks, only this time it sounds less sure. His voice cracks the tiniest bit at the end there, as if he's no longer that sure of the answer, and for fuck's sake, that's it.
Peter chooses.
"I'll be there in a bit, kid," he says, hearing the way his voice goes so goddamn soft, and feeling McCall's eyes burning in his direction, and yet past the point of giving a fuck. "Go back to bed. I'll wake you when I get there."
Peter won't, but Stiles doesn't need to know that.
The kid needs sleep, anyways.
"Promise?" Stiles says, and Peter instinctively knows what he means.
"I'll be there, Stiles. I promise."
And that's it. His words are enough to calm his mate. "Okay. Will you keep talking to me until I go to sleep?"
"Sure," Peter agrees, already fishing his wallet from his back pocket while calling the bartender's attention with a gesture. "Give me a minute, okay?"
"One minute," his mate concedes, always so very generous. "I'll count. One, two—"
Laughing to himself, Peter covers his phone with one hand and turns to his companion. It really is a shame to turn McCall down, even if the sex would've inevitably turned out to be a disappointment.
"Sorry, Special Agent," Peter says, and yet he sounds not one bit sorry. It should alarm him how much he doesn't give a fuck. It should. "Duty calls. Raincheck?"
"Stiles?" McCall asks, gritting the words past his teeth, acting as if he can hardly comprehend that one would dismiss a chance to sleep with him to go see a child. Someone else's child. And yeah, seeing as he can barely be trusted to take care of his own spawn, Peter can understand the shock.
"Yes," Peter agrees, savoring the words. Even after months, he still can't get over the satisfaction of claiming his mate in whichever way he can. "Stiles."
"Are you fucking Claudia?" McCall demands all of a sudden, crossing his arm in front of his chest. Very intimidating, of course. "Because if you are, I should warn you that—"
And Peter wishes he could give that precious accusation the attention it deserves — he really, really does — but he can hear Stiles reaching the end of his countdown, and he truly needs to go. So Peter cuts the man off before he can embarrass himself any further.
"Don't be jealous," he says, already getting up and giving the bartender a few twenties to pay for his drinks. He looks at the agent and winks. "No one will replace you in my heart."
Not even pausing to see the man get red, blue, purple, in response, Peter walks away from the bar — one hand going for his car keys and one hand holding his phone secure against his ear.
"— fifty-six, fifty-seven, fifty-eight—"
Christ.
This kid.
"Alright, Mister numbers, I'm back," he interrupts, laughing at the careful way Stiles had been saying each number, as though he was afraid to get one wrong. "You can stop now."
"Finally! You took forever."
Peter turned on his car, putting his phone in speaker mode. As always, he ignores the offensive child seat Claudia insisted he installed on his passenger seat. It's a crime against his precious Jag, and Peter is still in the process of mourning the beauty that has been lost.
"Technically, less than a minute." Well, not really. It probably took Stiles five minutes to say all those numbers that carefully, but still…
"Same thing," Stiles complains. "You know, the trees look so weird in the dark. Do you think I could go outside and grab some leaves?"
What?
Peter presses in the accelerator.
"Do not go outside on your own, Stiles. Do you hear me?"
"It's just to grab a few— I could just jump... Do you think it would hurt if I—"
Fuck.
Peter presses harder.
"Yes! It will hurt. Do not under any circumstances attempt to jump from your window," he rushes to say. "Stiles? Do you hear me?"
"Yeah," Stiles finally says after a few terrible moments of silence. "You're right. It would probably hurt."
Peter released a mouthful of air he hadn't realized he had been holding. Thank fuck for small mercies. "Yes! Of course I'm right."
Stiles hums in agreement, and there's a few glorious moments of peace, and Peter makes the grave mistake of daring to believe his mate had gone back to bed.
"Oh, I know! Peter, what if I threw my pillows first—"
That night, Peter discovers just how fast his Jaguar can go once you touch the pedal to the floor.