Stiles thought that Peter Hale seemed a little surprised when he didn't immediately break down into another panic attack, maybe even a little disappointed. Seemed surprised that he met his eyes too, that he didn't cower or tremble or look away, just glared and sneered at him as best he could around the rock of candy in his mouth. Electric blue flickered in the man's eyes and fangs showed under his lip, a low, menacing rumble rising up out of his chest, but Stiles just raised an eyebrow, unwilling to concede the staring match.

Surprised and pissed then.

Good.

First impressions aside, Stiles didn't consider himself a wuss. He could be brave, up to and beyond the point of stupidity (see exhibit A - the present situation), and as much as he might bitch and moan he was a pragmatic little bastard at heart, one who could quietly devote himself to a problem and work it steadily and relentlessly, from every angle until he found the solution.

So yeah, in the last few days he'd done his share of bitching and moaning, but he'd also come to a few decisions, a few realizations, and he'd accepted the situation for no more and no less than what it was.

He was soul bonded to Peter Hale - psychotic, pissed off werewolf.

Fine, done.

Now work the problem.

He'd already gotten to work on step one - never show fear.

Now did that mean he wasn't feeling it? Absolutely not. He had distinct, detailed, and recent memories of exactly what it felt like to be thrown against a wall by someone bigger and stronger and angrier than he was and held there, with teeth snapping inches from his throat and no hope of escaping whatever was about to happen. That plus the fact that he was a self-conscious, gangly, misfit of a high-schooler made him acutely aware of the gazes of others.

Stiles Stilinski knew when he was being sized up, when he was being targeted.

Maybe Peter had really done him a favor - forewarned was forearmed and all that jazz.

So.

Step one - feel it, don't show it - his new motto.

Cover up the scent, keep your shoulders back and your head high, black and boots to put a little badass in your bearing…

Don't drop your eyes.

Fake it till you make it.

He could do that.

Smirking, huffing a little laugh, he rolled his eyes and directed his attention back to the conversation that had already gotten to the down and dirty details between his father and Talia Hale. They were both dug in - he could tell by the set of his father's mouth and the sharpness in the Alpha werewolf's gaze, not red yet but gleaming with intent. As they bandied legal terms and conditions back and forth across the table it seemed that they were both intentionally ignoring everyone else in the room - ignoring Peter and Stiles at least - and he wasn't sure how he felt about that. It made him feel… isolated somehow, like he was alone in a narrow hallway with the guy even though Calvin was right there beside him, flicking glances back and forth between them and shifting every once in a while like he was maybe kicking Peter under the table.

And that was… weird, because Stiles sure as hell wouldn't be risking his neck against Peter like that - but it was kinda nice and kinda hilarious too, and he couldn't help snorting half a chuckle under his breath when Peter muttered something under his breath and Calvin responded by giving him a good slap upside the head. The two immediately turned on each other with snarls and flashing eyes, twisting toward each other in their chairs as hands gripped at shoulders and forearms, looking for all the world like two kids about to throw down behind the jungle gym - minus that fangs and claws of course.

"Would you two knock it off?" Talia snapped, and this time Stiles laughed straight out, because if that wasn't a mom-voice nothing was, and the two men left off with glares and lingering shoves, surreptitious slaps that weren't sneaky at all.

"God give me strength," the Alpha complained, lifting her eyes briefly to the ceiling, and beside her Laura clamped a hand over her mouth, catching Stiles' eyes and shaking her head minutely, eyes sparkling with mischief. Calvin caught her trying not to laugh and stuck his tongue out in her direction, leading to a burst of giggling that had Talia pinching the bridge of her nose.

These people were insane.

"Christ kid, you're gonna fit right in here," the Sheriff muttered, and Stiles turned on him with narrowed eyes.

"Excuse you?" he demanded, raising an eyebrow and drawing the sucker out of his mouth with a pop. "I am a delight, thank you very much."

"Just pay attention," his father grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Please?"

"What did I do?" he yelped indignantly.

"If we could return to the topic at hand?" Talia suggested. "I'm satisfied with the precautions you've laid out here Sheriff, however I still have some significant concerns."

"Such as?"

"The Argents."

The chill that fell on the other side of the table when that name tripped out of Talia Hale's mouth was palpable, and Stiles had never felt anything like it in his life. It went all the way to the bone, sank down inside him and made him sick to his stomach. He couldn't tell how much of it was coming from his new bond with Peter and how much was just sitting across from the rest of them but it was gripping and harsh and stinging, like putting bare skin against dry, freezing metal. A deep, low growl was coming from Peter and Calvin both this time, their jaws tight as fangs showed beneath their lips, and across from them Laura seemed to have shrunk in on herself, gotten smaller and younger and not nearly as sure of herself.

"Alpha Hale, I can promise you that neither I nor the law in Beacon Hills has any tolerance for any form of vigilante justice," his father said, formally, carefully, and Stiles had a sudden flashback to the time he'd had to give the press release about the original treaty going into effect, older and heavier and more serious than he ever was. "If you'd like to facilitate a discussion with the Argents…"

The Alpha didn't respond, only frowned slightly as if considering, and beside her Peter went abruptly still and silent.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" he hissed, claws biting into the tabletop with a screeching crack. "You're actually considering this? Well that's just fucking great Talia - I'm sure that'll go just as well as it did the last…"

"That's enough Peter," Talia snapped, and Stiles was more grateful than he could express that the firm, quiet demand brought her brother back under control, because he suddenly felt like he was about to faint. His heart was hammering in his chest and he couldn't feel his fingers, and the hate that had swamped his veins was so strong he felt like he could actually kill someone in that moment.

Peter made barking, snarling sort of sound, an angry sound, but settled slowly back again, his claws ticking ominously against the splintered table. He was clearly agitated and Stiles too felt on edge, felt like all the hair on the back of his neck was standing on end. He could feel his teeth grinding down on the candy in his mouth and heard himself making a rough growling sound of his own deep in the back of his throat, a sound that had all the wolves turning to him with shocked, unnerved expressions.

All of them except Peter.

Peter tilted his head, narrowed his eyes, and Stiles swallowed hard, suddenly sure that he'd just given away a major vulnerability. His father's hand on the back of his neck, gripping tightly, helped to snap him out of the staring contest, the strange haze of hot, suffocating anger that blanked his mind, and after blinking rapidly a few times, he shook his head, tried to focus.

"I can help with the Argents," he said, addressing Talia but all too aware that Peter's gaze was still sharp, honed in on him with deadly precision. "I know Allison - we go to school together. I can talk to her, maybe have her come down to the station to talk with you."

Peter was growling again now, low and threatening, but this time everyone ignored him, Talia choosing to address the situation at hand instead.

"While I appreciate the offer Stiles," she said, "I'm not sure how speaking with your friend will do any good."

"Oh, so the fact that she's the heir apparent to the family isn't helpful?" he snapped, then squeezed his eyes shut, flinched like he'd been hit.

Jesus, focus, don't let him get to you

"The Argents are a matriarchal family, yeah?" he tried again, not bothering to wait for an answer, concentrating instead on keeping his tone level. He knew what he was talking about this time, and he knew Allison. "Chris Argent's wife Victoria died two years ago, supposed suicide. That left Chris in charge until Allison reached age of majority. She's in our grade but she's already seventeen. She's been the deciding family vote for the last eight months."

"We'd heard rumors about Victoria," Talia said slowly, looking to the Sheriff for confirmation. "Christopher's daughter is the new head of the family?"

"Yeah, I guess it was supposed to go to her aunt, but apparently she went cuckoo for cocoa puffs a while back and everybody thought it was best to get off that train before it wrecked."

The werewolves stiffened, Talia's face carefully blank, then another brush of anger-hate came across the table, concentrated this time, and Stiles swallowed down a wave of nausea.

Oh that fucker.

He was doing it on purpose now.

While trying to look like he was at least paying a little attention to whatever Talia Hale was saying, Stiles quickly began constructing a mental bubble, one made of thick, clear, imaginary plastic like the stuff his old boa snake's tank was made of. Layer after layer, strong and solid, he pictured Peter's emotions as bright blue laser beams being shot in his direction that hit the surface and bounced back off again, sound and light and everything else deadened inside the bubble as it got thicker and thicker.

When he was finally able to breathe a little easier, he turned to interrupt the conversation he'd tuned out of.

"Look I know you guys have some seriously shitty history with some of the Argent family," he said, "But Allison's different. Outside of being, like, disgustingly sweet, she's a huge proponent of equal rights, breaking down barriers, saving the baby seals… She talks about "righting wrongs" in Beacon Hills all the time, does her reports and her papers on it, leads clubs. She's like this huge activist that no one listens too. You need to bring her in on this - if only to head off the boatload of issues you're gonna have as soon as someone makes accusations that we're going behind their backs."

"He's got a point," The Sheriff frowned, sounding unfairly surprised. "If we don't involve them at all there will be someone out there who makes a problem out of it. Better to be proactive…"

A stinging sensation flickered over Stiles' face, like being snapped by a rubber band, and he bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, trying not to show that he'd noticed. Jesus it was like getting his pigtails pulled - how old was this guy again?

Whatever, if he wanted to be a dick, two could play that game.

Settling back in his chair, Stiles closed his eyes and thanked his dad for all those therapy sessions after his mom died. He'd hated Dr. Moore at the time but the man had had his uses - Stiles came out of it having learned to compartmentalize like a champ. Wasn't what he was supposed to be doing, but he'd spent his appointments learning how to tune in and out, how to lock his emotions away neatly and access them at will. Visualization was also a tactic he'd been encouraged to develop, so now it was easy to pull up the memory of every panic attack he'd ever had right up to the one Peter himself had caused. Knotting up every twisted rope of anger, fear, and anxiety, every gasping breathe of oh-shit-I'm-gonna-die, he packed them together like a snowball until they were dense and sharp edged, the kind of snowball he'd always wanted to lob at the back of Jackson's head. Taking a slow breath, he lowered the invisible shield he'd built around himself, felt tentatively for the bonds stretching across the table, drew back, and fired.

Peter's response was instantaneous and supremely satisfying - rocking back in his chair so hard Stiles thought for sure he was going over, he gripped at his chest with one clawed hand as his eyes went wide, pupils blown and teeth bared as he sucked in a hard lungful of air. He looked like he'd been hit with a truck and for a fraction of a second Stiles almost regretted doing it, but the remorse was so fleeting it barely registered. Coughing like he'd swallowed smoke, Peter shoved Calvin's steadying hand off roughly, ignored his sister's calling his name and shoved himself to his feet, fangs bared and eyes blazing.

"You little shit…"

"Peter sit down!"

The Alpha's roar was deep and heavy with bass, making the air between them shimmer and shake, and Stiles felt the strange urge to shudder, to slip out from beneath the sound, but it forced Peter to still, to freeze at the edge of the table before he could come stalking around to slash Stiles open. The volatile reaction from the werewolf had Stiles halfway to his own panic attack for about two seconds before he remembered that hey, soulmate.

He couldn't hurt him, no matter how much he wanted to.

"Damn it Stiles, what did I say?" his father snarled in his ear, but Stiles refused to take his eyes off his bonded, narrowing them instead.

"About what?" he asked sweetly with poorly affected innocence.

"About gaslighting your goddamned soul bonded!"

Oh yeah.

That.

"You laughed," Stiles replied flatly, raising a hand to tick off points because screw it, the man had laughed when Stiles had idly brought the idea up earlier in the week. "You said it was awesome, that you'd love to see it, that it was probably not very smart, it could go horribly wrong, did I really think it was a good idea…"

"Yes, and?"

"And I still thought it was a good idea."

"Oh for the love of… Alpha Hale, I apologize for my son," the Sheriff said, raising both hands in a placating motion that Peter completely ignored - like he shouldn't be the one getting the apology in the first place.

"Peter started it," she shrugged, and Stiles immediately turned his head to widen his eyes at his father, just to emphasize the point as he shook his palm in the Alpha's direction. "Though perhaps Stiles might like to take a walk, tour the valley…"

"Oh great, so now I'm getting sent to the kiddie table," he muttered bitterly under his breath, rolling his eyes and shoving his sucker back into his mouth. "Real cute…"

Talia chuckled and Stiles froze in the act of getting up from his seat.

Idiot - she can hear you!

"Calvin, why don't you join Stiles out at the kiddie table, show him around?" she suggested.

The other werewolf practically leapt to his feet, clearly relieved to be given permission to go. Snaking sideways, he slipped carefully behind Peter to head toward the door, baring his teeth silently when Peter rumbled at him and watched him leave, the challenge lingering between them. Soul bonded or not, Stiles was glad it wasn't him, passing Parrish and his father quietly and giving the former a minute head-shake, declining the unspoken offer of an escort.

"Come on kid, let's leave the adults to their grown-up talk," Calvin grinned, a single tooth still showing sharp and white beneath his lip.

Placing his palm flat between Stiles' shoulder blades, he pushed him gently toward the hallway, but unlike the last time when Stiles had been panicked and freaking and hoping desperately that he and Scott wouldn't be killed he resisted, flopping lazily back against the man's hand and digging in his heels. Laughing, Calvin moved his grip to Stiles' shoulders and started shoving until he'd gotten him out the back door and onto the porch, letting go so fast that Stiles toppled backward onto his ass.

"Ow, dick!" he yelped, rubbing his hip and climbing back to his feet.

"Aw, now, are you sure you're not confusing me with my brother?" Calving chuckled, one eyebrow raised.

"Seriously," Stiles snorted, brushing of the seat of his pants. "Who pissed in that guy's… whoa, wait, rewind!" Turning on the werewolf with a horrified gaze, mouth hanging open, he whizzed through every comment that had been made in the last week and couldn't come up with anything to reassure himself. "He's your brother too?!"

"Unfortunately," Calvin smirked, rolling his eyes. Leaping lightly down the steps onto the grass, he waited for Stiles to follow before walking slowly down a well-worn path toward the center of the valley. "Talia's the oldest, then me, then Peter. My little brother can be an ass, but he's not… terrible. I mean he is, but not like he's been to you."

"That doesn't help dude," Stiles muttered, kicking at the dirt and squirming a little. It was… weird, all of a sudden, knowing that Calvin was related to Peter, closer than just pack. Even if the guy was willing to admit that his brother wasn't exactly a nice man. "Can we talk about something else?"

Calvin shot him a side-eye but shrugged none the less, stopping in the middle of the clearing and pointing back the way they'd come.

"The main house is the Alpha's," he said, "Talia's. She, David, and her kids live there - Laura, Derek, and Cora."

Turning around, he pointed to a smaller cabin just a few yards off to the right, narrow but tall, three, maybe four stories but compact and square, with a steep, slanting roof.

"Nick stays down here with me."

"He doesn't stay with his mom?" Stiles asked.

For a moment Calvin paused, frowning as he looked Stiles up and down, then shrugged once more.

"After the wars," he began slowly, "After Seth died… Nicky needed to get out. Needed space to breathe. I had plenty of room, so he stays down here with me. Hell we've still got plenty of space - we're cleaning up the loft for you."

"For me?" Stiles asked, confused. "You don't have to…"

"Trust me kid," Calvin laughed, "You'll need space to breathe too, especially being soul-bonded to my little brother. Besides, you should have a place anyways, a place that's just yours while you're here. It's only fair."

Shifting from foot to foot, mildly uncomfortable and disconcerted by the permanency of having an actual room of his own here, Stiles swallowed, looked around to avoid the werewolf's gaze.

"What about the rest?" he asked, making a wide, vague gesture, because he would not, on pain of death, ask where Peter stayed.

"The rest of the pack bunks around in the different houses," Calvin explained. "Some leave, find places in cities nearby, places that are more… accepting. Others go to college, like Laura, some leave and don't come back. Most of us stay. The pull of pack is… strong. The bonds tend to keep us close."

Well… great.

Not only soul-bonded to a werewolf, but tied down to the guy too.

Somehow Stiles doubted that Peter would up and move just because his new bond mate got accepted to college on the east coast.

"So we've got families, couples, singles that have bunked up as roomies," Calvin continued, then he turned and pointed down to the far end of the valley, a smaller two-story tucked in beneath a huge spreading oak. "Peter lives by himself," he said slowly, watching Stiles for a reaction, one that he was determined not to give away. "Well, usually."

Don't ask.

It doesn't matter - don't ask.

"Luca's got a guest suite up at the main house," Calvin said, and his tone was rougher, more cavalier, just a little disdainful. "He's a political contact, an envoy from a pack in Ohio. He's treated to the best we can possibly provide under the circumstances, but he seems to have taken it upon himself to make everyone miserable."

"Sounds like a real peach," Stiles scoffed, remembering the tall, slight young man that had come barging in to that first meeting with Talia, bouncing around Peter's heels and yipping like a Chihuahua. Strange that he should remember him with a flare of hot anger, his spine straightening and his stance widening, like he was getting ready to fight.

"Yeah," Calvin muttered, mimicking Stiles' pose and crossing his arms over his chest. "He's a real winner and he's coming this way, so buck up because if you back down for that little runt I'll feed you to Peter myself."

Stiles' eyes went wide and he opened his mouth to splutter, but Calvin wrinkled his nose and bared his teeth in warning and he just had time to get his face back under control before turning to meet the werewolf that had come trotting down to meet them. He was… too much, too much of everything, too skinny and too clean cut, hair too styled and clothes too pressed. He looked like he should be on some runway in Europe, not out in the woods with a bunch of wolves.

Coming to a stop, he arched one neat eyebrow and looked Stiles slowly up and down, a measuring glance that ended with a overtly unimpressed sneer.

"So," he sniffed, putting a hand on his hip, "I suppose you must be Stiles."