Stiles spent the next three days at the station, scribbling out draft after draft of speeches, plans, and strategies for what he'd dubbed Operation MoonMoon. The deputies and detectives had taken well to his presence – they always did – and so far none of them had asked why he was hanging around making a nuisance of himself and generally getting underfoot when he should be out tearing around enjoying the last few weeks of summer. He suspected Tara might have something to do with that, and he'd brought in three loaves of her favorite banana bread as a thank you, making sure he tucked them safely away where only she would find them. She'd shared later, but it was the thought that counted, and she'd returned the gratitude in much the same way Melissa had by pressing a kiss to his forehead before heading out on patrol.
His dad tried. He made sure that Stiles was eating, made an effort to get in something healthy with every meal without any blackmail or extortion. He took to keeping one of Stiles' special pillows on the couch in his office, just in case he ever got overwhelmed with a case of the yawns and actually managed to drift off for a while around mid-afternoon, too tired from sleepless nights too keep going. Overall he was just busy, getting things together to write up the legal dockets, contacting the Mayor and a few other higher-ups who would do no more than click in their electronic signature without actually reading what he'd sent them. With Stiles' help on the media end of things he'd made up a pretty decent press-release, which would go out after the meeting with the Hales and the offer they would make to Isaac, so on that end things were going smoothly.
The rest of it, not so much.
He still wasn't sleeping well. He had almost no appetite, interspersed with sudden pangs of ravenous hunger that left him raiding Parrish's secret snack drawer, an eclectic and somewhat confounding mix of homemade health food and sugar-filled junk. It put a little bit of a shiver down his spine that even while he was working himself up to a cavity with Rootbeer Barrels and mango fruit leather, all he really wanted was a nice, rare steak.
Stiles didn't do rare steak.
Stiles like his beef well done, thank you very much, medium well at its pinkest.
He didn't want to feel like he was killing his food a second time when he cut into it and it bled all over the plate.
On the bright side all of Parrish's Twizzlers and peanut butter protein bites were a distraction from the cravings and the god awful aftertaste of precinct coffee, and the guy hadn't even blinked that first day when he came in from working the speed traps to find Stiles slumped over his desk, flicking crumpled balls of notebook paper at the trashcan disconsolately with wrappers scattered all around him like fallen snow. Instead he'd just pulled up a second chair, actually folded a triangular paper football, and flicked it right at Stiles' forehead.
Somehow he'd managed to be the most helpful through all of this. Weird, because he hadn't really done anything at all. But maybe that was exactly it – he wasn't acting like anything had happened, like Stiles was any different from who he'd always been. Instead he just went about his day, worked around Stiles when it was convenient and giving him the literal boot when it wasn't, planting his black steel-toes against the edge of Stiles' chair and sending him spinning away across the station floor, slipping behind the desk in his place and sweeping off the candy wrappers and the discarded notes and the eraser shavings without a word. He stayed the same old Parrish, all smiles and laughs and the occasional clever riddle, the fresh-faced rookie who smelled like peppermint because he always carried a pocketful in case he ran into a teary-eyed kid during the course of his day.
He was exhausting to be around – god knew how the Sheriff put up with him.
Honestly, who was that cheerful all the time? Like, even in the morning before he'd had his coffee?
It wasn't natural.
Still, Stiles appreciated it. It was like getting out into the springtime after being depressed all winter and not even knowing you were until suddenly the dark and the cold and the damp burned away and you were like, oh yeah! I remember this. This is nice.
So for a while Parrish became Stiles' little sun, and he orbited around the guy whenever he was on the station floor, making a pest of himself interrupting the guy's paperwork and asking if he could try out the deputy's Taser. So far no dice, but he'd been slowly wearing him down, and he wasn't sure if the guy really was that kind-hearted or if his father had put him up to it or if he just didn't mind having Stiles around all that much, but either way, he knew he was lucky the guy was around. To have all of them in fact - every officer who nodded at him in the morning or offered to grab lunch for him when they went out or let him stand behind the mirror to listen in on one of their interrogations. They didn't know exactly why he was hanging around so much but it was clear that they all knew something was wrong and were doing their best to help, because even with Parish spreading sunshine and smiles like a contagious disease, Stiles still had his rainclouds lingering overhead.
It was never anything as bad as that first time in his father's office. Never anything as… intense. But every once in a while there was something, something slick and cool brushing up against his skin like a wild pelt, emotions that didn't quite fit inside him, weren't quite right as the scent of wood and winter filled his nose, pine and ice and loam. It made him shiver, the want to lash out, the sudden need to bite, and the very alienness of it, the other nearly drove him to paranoia, as though if he dared look over his shoulder Peter Hale would be standing right there, blue eyes blazing and mouth soaked in blood.
Christ, his bonded was one pissy son of a bitch.
Hah.
Son of a bitch.
Get it?
Sitting in the passenger seat of his father's cruiser Stiles rolled his eyes.
Dear god, he couldn't even improvise a good pun right now.
Self-consciously, anxiously, Stiles fingered the tattered corners of the notebook paper in his pocket, folded tight into a tiny football like Parrish had taught him. In all the days since he'd come back out of the Preserve, out of all the drafts he'd scribbled down and then promptly scrapped, this was all he had to show for it, one slightly smudged and well-worn list of dog-jokes.
He'd originally thought to use them on Peter.
Calvin hadn't said he couldn't, just that he might not want to open with one, and Stiles was just 147 pounds of pale skin and fragile bone. Sarcasm was his only defense, that and some mystical werewolf law that prevented his bonded from gutting him like lake-trout.
Still, probably best not to provoke the murdering psychopath, right Stiles?
Right.
Besides, Calvin seemed like he might appreciate them more – at least that guy had a sense of humor.
That Nick guy seemed ok too, and David Hale.
Talia was just terrifying, though not like her brother was.
And Laura, well, he hadn't figured her out yet. There was something a little bit scary about her - not like her mother but like she knew too much, saw too much.
Hell, maybe she just reminded him of himself.
Not that he was feeling all the much like himself anyway these last few days. Even without the occasional wave of not-my-anger floating around, he'd spent so many hours psyching himself up to go back into the woods that he may have actually done too good a job. As his father pulled the cruiser onto the shoulder of the dirt road that ran along the length of the Preserve, he felt cold, empty, shut off even from his own emotions as he geared himself up to face down the pack.
To face down Peter.
That asshole may have gotten the upper hand the last time, but Stiles had lost enough of his dignity that he wouldn't be letting it happen again.
He might not be ready, but he was damn well going in prepared.
Armor.
Parrish's black t-shirt that had the word DEPUTY stamped over the shoulders in white block letters and branded him with the protection of the Beacon Hills Police Department. Tough paired with dark wash jeans that actually fit and a pair of battered boots, and defiant in the absence of a jacket or a hoodie, no extra layers hiding the words on his skin or protecting his neck, nothing more to cover the bond mark than a single, thin layer of worn cotton.
Weapons.
Not the wolfsbane pepper spray that had appeared on his keychain two days ago, or the baseball bat made of rowan wood that his anxiety-fueled brain had begun researching estimates for.
No, he had his father for that part, his father, who would be carrying his service pistol this time even if Tara and Parrish were leaving theirs behind. Talia Hale was just going to have to deal with it because there was no way the Sheriff was taking chances with his only son after what had happened last time. That made him smirk a little, because it felt like they had a few up on the werewolves at this point.
Climbing out of the car, he pulled a round, red lollipop out of his pocket, ripped off the cellophane and threw it onto the seat before he slammed the door. His father frowned at him over the roof of the vehicle as he stuffed it into his mouth, the artificial cherry flavor bursting across his tongue as he wiggled it into the pocket of his cheek. It was one of those huge ones the size of a golf ball, and should last him till the end of this meeting as long as he didn't start cracking his teeth on it.
Weapons.
"Why?" his dad deadpanned, and Stiles narrowed his eyes at the man, because he could guess at exactly what the Sheriff was thinking.
"Because I'd rather smell like cough syrup than anxiety," he grumbled around the candy, shoving his hands into his pockets as he rounded the bumper. "Let the dick choke on that."
"Jesus Stiles," his father grumbled with exasperation, dragging his hand over his face. "Watch your mouth. I don't want to have to shoot him."
"Liar."
Silence met his accusation and Stiles smirked smugly, wandered away toward his father's deputies, who'd each driven separately and parked behind them on the edge of the road.
"Ready kid?" Parrish asked with a grin, grabbing him round the neck and dragging him in to scrub a hand through his hair.
Stiles frowned and slapped at his hands but didn't shrug him off, fell in behind Tara and his dad who led the way down the little trail into the trees. It was the same one they'd taken on their way out, the one that connected with the little-used drive that led out of the Preserve on the opposite side, leaving the wolves with access to the highway. Somehow it felt more appropriate than driving in like anyone else might. All four of them were silent walking in and the trees above them felt too still, and the instinct to run fast and far away was tickling at the back of Stiles' neck but the weight of Parrish's arm slung across his shoulders grounded him, stopped his flight.
He wasn't sure if he was grateful or pissed about that.
Didn't matter though, because there was the path and there was Talia Hale looking pale and regal and maybe a little pissed herself, waiting for them as they trudged slowly out of the brush and onto the path. Calvin stood behind her and Stiles was a little surprised to find himself feeling something not entirely terrible settle inside him at the sight of the scarred, half-blind wolf. He was dressed a lot like Stiles was, heavy boots and dark jeans, and a black sweater with the sleeves shoved up to his elbows, a white t-shirt glowing beneath the v-neck collar, and Stiles didn't hate that he was there, even as he hated absolutely everything else about the situation.
"Sheriff," Talia greeted, shaking his father's hand and making no comment whatsoever about his sidearm. "Deputies."
Turning toward him, she made a half-aborted move forward as if to shake his hand too, but when Stiles didn't move out from beneath Parrish's arm she seemed to think better of it, stepping her feet together and clasping her hands in front of her.
"Stiles," she said, calmly, respectfully. "I appreciate you coming; I'm sure this can't have been easy for you. How have you been feeling?"
"Fine," he ground out, refusing to drop his eyes or take the candy out of his mouth, and it wasn't a lie because in the last ten minutes he had been fine, shut down as he was. And respectively, he'd been a hell of a lot worse, so, yeah…
Fine.
Talia's eyebrows twitched and Stiles bit down on a sneering grin, tamped down the pride that surged in his chest knowing he'd thrown her even that much off her stride.
Behind the Alpha's back, Calvin smirked for him.
"Shall we?" she asked, gesturing with one hand, and his dad nodded gruffly, falling into step beside her with Tara a silent presence on his other side.
Parrish cocked an eyebrow in question and Stiles shrugged, oddly chilled when the deputy took his arm back and so they could follow after. He liked the guy and so did his dad, so for him it was little like having an older brother around, and Parrish seemed to have an uncanny knack for stepping up when Stiles needed a little support. Even now, with Calvin falling in on his left Jordan stayed close, matching Stiles' stride so that their elbows bumped as they walked, just one more point of stability and protective presence that he suddenly, desperately needed as they moved closer and closer to his own personal version of this could be hell.
"You smell like cough drops," Calvin observed quietly as they walked, and Stiles flicked a glance at him, calmed by the blatant amusement on the man's face.
Pulling the sucker from his mouth with a pop, he gave the stick a twirl and jammed it back in.
"Imagine that," he said flatly, and Calvin barked a laugh.
XXX
Oh, he was a clever little shit wasn't he?
Coming in with a strong police presence - one of whom was a young, attractive deputy keeping close and laying his scent on thick…
It was smart.
Sniffing the air subtly, Calvin could find no trace of attraction between the two, just a close concern, much like brothers would share, like he and Peter used to share. That was good - Peter might be stupid enough to flaunt Luca around, but if Stiles took the same route things could get bloody. His little brother didn't share well and wasn't likely to start now, even if he planned on rejecting his bonded.
Still, it was a good tactic - what little of Stiles' own natural scent was getting through that was sufficiently covered by the thick, cloying, sweet smell of corn syrup and artificial cherries, his lips stained red and his cheek bulging where he'd slipped the sucker between his teeth. It was almost a little bit obscene - and there was no doubt in Calvin's mind that Peter would be able to think up half a dozen filthy innuendos on first glance - but the greater purpose of it was clear.
No anxiety, no fear, no emotions were coming through at all, and somehow he'd miraculously been able to control his heartbeat when he'd told Talia that he was fine.
Because it had to be a lie.
There was no way he was actually fine with this. How could anyone be fine with this? The whole process of being bonded was jarring, just in its nature. Even Talia had taken a few weeks to get herself together after bonding with David - and they'd had their eyes on each other for some time before they'd ever spoken to each other, before they'd found out that they were fated to be.
Calvin liked the kid, but damn if he wasn't glad it wasn't him.
The valley was empty as they approached the main house. Talia had hustled her own family out early that morning, sending Derek and Cora along with David for the day. Laura had stayed behind of course, and Nicky was around too, keeping an unobtrusive eye on things and playing guard dog while his mother ignored his presence out of habit. Everyone else had been warned well away, everyone except Peter - and Calvin had no idea where he was.
As his Alpha sister led the small procession inside to the dining room, where today's meeting would take place in a less formal, more welcoming setting, Calvin dropped to the back, shooting Stiles a casual, dismissive grin when the boy looked back over his shoulder for him. Scenting the air, listening hard, he cast around for his pack bonds, the thin, silent, gleaming threads of consciousness that tied him to his family, the men and women, the wolves that made up his pack, but Peter's familiar thread was elusive and gave him no clue as to his little brother's whereabouts. He certainly wasn't inside where he was supposed to be, and that was only going to piss Talia off.
Sighing, he took the steps in a single leap and slipped inside, shaking his head as he went.
If his sister thought that Peter would apologize for his behavior - even if only because she'd ordered him to - she was going to be disappointed.
Well.
That wasn't quite right.
Calvin doubted that she truly expected Peter to do as he was told.
She'd just be quietly furious when he didn't.
Which left Calvin in the position of playing peacemaker.
It wasn't a part he was naturally suited to - he was a fighter, a brawler, as his scars and his milk-blind eye attested to - and the mere thought of the task darkened his mood, causing him to flash his eyes and rumble irritably to himself as he entered the dining room. The lot of them were sitting quietly around the long, worn-wood trestle table; the Sheriff and his deputies grouped at one end, Stiles tucked neatly between his father and the young blonde deputy - Parrish, if the plaque on his uniform were correct. Talia and their great aunt Cilla sat at the other end, two spaces left open between them and the elder Stilinski. Laura was already seated on the right, a subtle bridge between the two factions, and Calvin bristled at being forced to sit next to his brother, whether to babysit or be a physical barrier between his brother's claws and the man's bonded.
Talia eyed him suspiciously when he came in, immediately alerted to his agitated state, and from the look Stiles was shooting him he was too, but Calvin just shrugged them both off and took his seat, the one nearest the Sheriff but still far enough away that he could jam it sideways and face the humans. He caught Talia glancing at the clock out of the corner of his eye, saw her lip twitch with an aborted snarl before she collected herself, folding her hands on the table and taking a settling breath.
"Sheriff, thank you again for coming," she said, and her tone calm and level, even though her heartbeat was just a little fast and there was a spark of desperation in her scent, the smallest shadow of sweet, bloody want. "We're here to discuss the dissolution of the standing treaty between the Hale pack and the town of Beacon Hills, do you agree?"
"I do," the Sheriff responded stiffly, and beside him his son rolled his eyes, only prevented from scoffing aloud by the sucker wedged in his mouth.
"Very good," Talia continued. "After careful consideration and a discussion with some of my pack members, I'd like to formally accept your offer to negotiate terms. We look forward to coming to a satisfactory compromise between us."
"As do we Alpha Hale," the Sheriff replied. "As presiding Sheriff and primary authority in Beacon Hills I can honestly say that I'm looking forward to a peaceful resolution myself."
"Excellent," Talia said emphatically, and something in her eased, the tension around her softening, so much so that Calvin and Laura too visibly relaxed. Aunt Cilla remained as still and silent as she ever was. "I have a copy of the treaty here," Talia continued, spreading the document over the table, and smiling just a little when the female deputy leaned forward and handed an identical document to the Sheriff before turning her attention in Stiles' direction. "I suppose the first step is to outline the terms and conditions of this renegotiation?"
"You take Isaac," Stiles said immediately, pulling the candy from his mouth with a slurp. "Non-negotiable."
"You do realize that your friend might refuse," Talia said, and Calvin snorted.
It was more likely than not that he would. Ignore the fact that no one trusted the werewolves, that fear and slander had run rampant for years, this Isaac Lahey was still a scared, battered kid who had been conditioned to keep his mouth shut and his head down. He hadn't been able to go to the police either. None of that boded well for his taking a chance.
"You let me deal with Isaac," Stiles said flatly, and there was something dark and cold in his voice that made Calvin's wolf sit up and pay attention. "You just make the offer."
Talia looked him up and down, considered, nodded.
"I will. According to our laws, if your friend accepts, he'll be considered prospective pack and entitled to the protection we can provide him, against his father and anyone else. He will be welcome to stay with us for up to a year, at which time he must determine whether or not he will take the bite."
"Acceptable," the Sheriff answered, but that much was standard protocol as far as the near-primeval law allowed. "I'd be more comfortable if we could bring the kid down to the station, make the offer there. Anywhere but his house really. Get him away from that father of his - somewhere he'd feel safer, more comfortable making an honest decision."
"I would be happy to extend the offer at your station Sheriff," Talia replied.
"Good. And then I guess we could let Stiles break the news to him, explain it a little bit. Since he'll be…"
Doing something that no one was happy he'd be doing, if facial expressions were anything to go by, but Calvin couldn't say for certain because down the hall the screen door slammed and every person, human and wolf with the exception of Laura, tensed up, eyes on the door as Peter came stalking in. His hair was a mess and he looked like he'd just dragged on a pair of sweats and a torn t-shirt off-hand, his neck and arms marked with dirt and grass stains. There was a bruise running like black and blue watercolors beneath the sleeve and collar of his shirt, likely poured over his shoulder and down his ribcage, and his face was set like pissed-off fury even though there was a nasty, smug sort of satisfaction glinting in his shock-blue eyes.
"Jesus Uncle Peter," Laura coughed, her nose scrunched tight as he passed her and moved around behind Talia to get to his seat next to Calvin, and he had to agree.
His little brother smelled like a fucking brothel - all sweat and sex and filth.
So that was where he'd been - out in the woods in the practice ring, where the younger wolves trained and took rough-and-tumble swipes at each other while more circled up to watch. He must've found one of their younger cousins willing to go a round with him, or maybe several, enough to give him something of a real fight. His blood was always up after a scuffle, and no doubt Luca had been ringside, panting like a dog and salivating to cater to whatever itches Peter wanted scratched.
No doubt the representative from Ohio would be limping the next day, for more than one reason.
"Aren't you getting a little old for this shit?" Calvin snarled under his breath.
The only answer he got was an elbow being driven discreetly into the side of his skull as Peter took his seat.
