Heart lurching up into his chest, Stiles nearly flails backward as Peter's voice cracks through the air like a bullwhip, so cold and sharp and dry as ice it hurts. He's standing just to the side and behind him in the doorway that leads off to the hall, and Stiles takes an automatic, involuntary step to the right so that he's facing the werewolf as he advances into the room. He's looming, large, glaring and entirely unimpressed, and Stiles is pretty sure he's never felt smaller as Peter steps around him with a sneer, approaching his niece and touching her lightly on the shoulder. The little girl turns around with a 500-mega watt smile for her uncle, raising her arms and bouncing on her toes in clear demand, and what happens next nearly blows his mind.
Like flipping a switch, Peter's entire countenance changes as he goes from growly serial murderer to doting godfather, and Stiles' heart skips a couple beats in his chest. He was attractive before, ok, yeah, Stiles could admit that the deepest, darkest part of his mind had registered that, but this is something completely different and entirely unfair. The guy bends down and scoops the little girl up into his arms, burying his face in her neck and making her giggle as he tickles her cheeks with his stubble and a playful kiss. Shifting her onto one hip, he lifts his hand and speaks slowly, the little girl's eyes watching his mouth and fingers move intently.
"What are you looking for sweetheart?"
Stiles isn't sure – it's been a long time – but he thinks she makes the letters for juice, and as he stands there like a stunned idiot with his mouth hanging open, Peter bends at the waist with a dramatic swoop, causing the toddler to shriek with laughter before he straightens back up with a juice box in his hand. She claps as he kicks the fridge shut and plops her down on the counter to poke the little plastic straw into the box, smiles when he hands it to her. Her fingers move quickly and fluently in the sign for thanks, and Peter presses a kiss to her forehead, his face softer than Stiles could have imagined possible.
He doesn't realize he's drifted closer until Peter suddenly starts to rumble, his eyes glowing steel blue as a growl bubbles up out of his chest. He's leaning forward just a little, his feet spread in a subtle fighting stance as he places himself at an angle to the little girl, ready to pounce, and Stiles comes to a stop with a sharp pang – hurt, shock, jealousy flashing through his body like heat lightning.
Peter's supposed to look at him like that, protect him like that, not...
Oh for god's sake, get a grip Stilinski!
Scowling at his soul-bonded, only just managing not to stick his tongue out, Stiles turns back to Cora who's watching the interaction with uncanny interest. He hasn't practiced his American Sign Language since he was twelve, when his younger cousin moved away to Ohio, but it's just like riding a bike right?
Here goes nothing.
HELLO CORA. MY NAME IS STILES.
He has to think about it, pauses a few times when his fingers refuse to cooperate, but he must manage well enough because the little girl smiles like he's hung the moon and this time she does wave back at him, fast and exuberant with all the innocence of childhood. She fingerspells her own name – - happy to make a new friend, to meet someone else she can communicate with. She doesn't realize that Peter's standing next to her with his mouth open softly, staring at Stiles in confusion, in astonishment, in fear.
It hits him like the ocean, little waves one after the other, there and gone again almost before he can recognize them, but mostly he just gets the idea that Peter's stunned and a suddenly nervous. It's... it's the most human response Stiles has gotten out of him so far, and despite his best efforts he feels something inside of him thaw just the littlest bit toward the werewolf. It makes him want to touch the guy, to reach out and feel something solid instead of these fleeting, unsettling emotions. His eyes land on the wide breadth of Peter's chest, covered this time not by blood but by a long-sleeved v-neck henley, forest green, smudged with earth, and it's a little hard to breathe.
Slowly his gaze trails up to meet the man's eyes, which have faded back to a darker, duller blue, and he doesn't know what shows on his face but Peter licks his lips, stares, and for the space of a moment everything stops. Stiles can feel a mirror of his own heart, a double beat pounding inside his chest, racing before Peter's mouth ticks up at the corner in a sneer, a silent little snarl. Scooping Cora into his arms again, he skirts around him before carrying her across the kitchen and down the hallway, disappearing into the backyard.
Stiles can only breathe again when the screen door slams behind them.
What... was that?
Jesus, was that their version of a... a moment?!
"Hey Stiles."
"Damn it!" he yelps, whipping around and clutching at his chest as one more werewolf sneaks up on him. "Bells! Bells for all of you!"
Laura lifts an eyebrow, clearly biting back a laugh.
"What, uh... whatcha doin?"
Sighing, breathing against his pulse, he flops into a dining chair and drops his head into his hands, scrubs them through his hair.
"I don't even know," he groans, folding his arms on the table and burying his face in his sleeves. He's not wearing the slashed and sewn hoodie, just a black and grey one because it hadn't really felt right, but now he's not really sure if he regrets that decision or not.
Wearing armor, sure it would help him feel stronger, more prepared, but it's an aggressive opening play and he has no idea how Peter would react to it.
And... as much as he wants to hate the guy, or even just ignore him, he... he doesn't.
A part of him, and yeah, it was probably a part that was largely swayed by the soul bond, that part of him wanted...
God, he didn't know what he wanted.
It was almost easier when Peter was there in the room, close enough to feel. Kind of a cop out, but the emotions were clearer when he was around, identifiable. Stiles had never really given much thought to what it would be like when he finally found his soul mate, what kind of a relationship they would have, and while he'd certainly never imagined this, he didn't exactly have an ideal in mind either.
He's saved the agony of trying to figure it out when his stomach remembers itself and makes its demands known with a snarl that could go tooth for claw with Peter's.
"Hungry?" Laura asks, but the smirk on her face as she turns to the fridge says she's well aware it's an unnecessary question.
"You don't have to feed me," he grumbles with a blush, irritated that Nick had sent him up here alone in the first place. What kind of person just starts pawing through a stranger's cupboards anyway?
"Oh look at him, he's so cute," Laura simpers to herself, laughing as she turns back around to pitch a green apple and a plastic-wrapped cheese stick at his head. "You've got a lot to learn about werewolves cutie pie. We eat like, all the time, anything we can sink our teeth into. I've gotta admit, you've caught us in a weird lull – normally there's always someone in here. Cooking's pretty much twentyfour seven, but I'm shit at it so this'll have to do you."
Joining him at the table, she watches him closely as he turns the apple in his hand, rubs the skin to a bright shine on his shirt.
"Seriously though," she tries again, her tone easily, casually honest. "If you're hungry while you're here just swing through. Nobody's gonna blink if you go through the fridge, and if you actually go so far as to make something you'll have more friends than you ever bargained for."
"There's a list too," she adds, jerking her thumb over her shoulder at a little pad of paper stuck to the fridge with magnets. "If you need anything or use anything up just write it down."
"Why does it sound like you're trying to convince me to cook?" he asked, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.
Laura laughed.
"I told you," she said, "I suck at it. If you jump in, I'll get kicked off the rotation – no more burnt spaghetti Sundays for us. And believe me, a well-fed werewolf is a happy werewolf. Feed the pack and you'll be a favorite in no time."
"Doubt that," Stiles mutters, flicking his gaze toward the hallway where his bonded had disappeared.
"You'd be surprised," she smirked. "My Uncle Peter might be the kind of heathen who eats a raw steak with his fangs and his fingers, but he's got a secret sweet tooth. The way to man's heart is through his stomach after all."
"Who says I wanna go looking for his heart?" Stiles sniffs, getting to his feet and pinching the bridge of his nose when she opens her mouth to respond. "No. Stop. Let's just quit while we're both ahead shall we? No more puns, no more adages. I'm going home; please tell your mother that Isaac and I will be waiting for her at the station on Friday afternoon. If she'd like to speak before then, she can call me on the phone like everyone else."
He told himself he wasn't flouncing off, but that's totally what he was doing. He's irritated again, or maybe it's Peter, or maybe it doesn't really matter. His conversation with Laura, her hinting suggestions that he should curry favor with her uncle via dessert had rubbed him wrong, and as he trudged down the hall toward the back door and the freedom of getting out from under this roof he can feel the man's presence looming up again. He doesn't want to meet him in the hallway, get caught inside the door frame, but fuck it he's not going to run away or back down either.
As he reached the door and pushed it open he hears Laura snickering behind him and he turns to glare, even though he can't see her inside the kitchen. It's the thought that counts, and right now he wants nothing more than to stick his tongue out at someone and tell them to go to hell. Unfortunately he's still a natural klutz and not looking where he's going, so when he drops down onto the porch it shouldn't surprise him that something tangles up his feet and pitches him forward, Peter's annoyance and disgust flaring inside his chest like a flush of cold water as he knocks into stumbling, yielding flesh.
Ass.
"Hey watch where you're..."
Before he can finish snapping he's gotten himself turned around and aw, shit, it's not Peter and... oh god, is that a cane?
"Oh my god, I am so sorry," he apologizes frantically, his cheeks burning and his stomach dropping into his shoes.
It's a girl on the porch behind him that he's tripped into, eighteen, maybe nineteen, porcelain pale with dark, riotous curls and wearing a large pair of dark, designer sunglasses. She's got a white cane in her hand and jesus, he's just a total ass today isn't he? Like, the worst kind of foot in mouth...
"You're not..." he spluttered, "I didn't know... I am so sorry."
"I'm fine, I'm fine," the girl smiled, bright and pretty and unconcerned as she made shushing motions with her free hand, tossing her hair back as she laughed.
"Seriously, I thought you were... someone else," he mumbled, drowning in embarrassment now. "Guess I'm the one who needs to watch where he's going."
"Well, one of us really should," she chuckles. "But it's ok, really. Just an accident. I'm Paige by the way. You're Stiles right?"
She's sticking her hand out in front of her waiting, and Stiles hesitantly meets it, shakes.
"Ohhhhh, you've heard of me," he groaned.
"All good things," she laughed, "Don't worry."
"I doubt that," he mutters, and her smile goes a bit shy, a bit young.
"Well, maybe not all, but mostly!" she insists brightly. "And after the way you told off Luca you're on the rise, so there's that!"
"I guess," Stiles replies, and he can't help but grin a little bit himself. It's reassuring, and her cheer is infectious – he can't help but feel a little better. "What's that guy's problem anyway?"
"No one really knows," she said, leaning in a bit and lowering her voice confidingly. "But we're beginning to suspect it's just his personality."
"Well that bodes well."
Paige laughs, her hand finding Stiles' forearm and hanging on for balance. He really doesn't mind – the touch is actually kind of nice; warm, gentle, grounding. There's nothing hesitant or manipulative or curious about it, it just feels... honest.
"You're funny," she grins. "Cute too, from what I hear."
"Oh god, who have you been listening to?"
"Reliable sources all," she says, tipping up her sunglasses to wink at him, eyes warm and brown and bright, if a little unfocused. "But if I told you, I'd have to..."
"Hey Uncle P..."
Stiles jumps when Derek suddenly comes barreling through the screen door behind him, hollering for his uncle, but it seems like Paige knew he was coming. The guy actually stumbles when he catches sight of them, his boots thudding to a stop on the wooden porch, his eyes going wide when they land on Paige, words trailing off as his cheeks go bright red. For her part Paige is blushing prettily too, pale pink, her face tipped down and a small, secret smile touching the corners of her mouth.
"Hello Derek."
"Um... hey, hi... Paige."
Ohhhhh-k?
"Sorry, I didn't..." Derek stammered, then he ducked his head, rubbed the back of his neck before folding his arms defensively over his chest. "Didn't know you were out here. I, uh... I gotta, go help my mom."
Jerking a thumb back over his shoulder, the guy beat a hasty retreat, and if Stiles didn't know any better he'd say the guy had his tail tucked between his legs. Next to him Paige sighed disappointedly, and suddenly he remembered the first time he'd heard Laura's voice, in the library over Skype. She'd been teasing her brother about how cute Stiles was, about how he'd brought a boyfriend home to make someone jealous. Was that...
"It was nice to meet you Stiles," she says, but this time her smile is a little sad, a little strained. "You'll have to excuse me – I need to speak with Laura, but I hope we'll have time to get to know each other better soon."
"Nice to meet you too," he says quietly, then watches her disappear into the house, stands staring at the door with a hideous feeling of resignation settling in his belly.
This. Day.
"Say it."
"Say what?" Peter asks flatly from where he's kneeling in the dirt several yards away, clawed fingers turning the earth in the stone-edged flower beds surrounding the porch.
"I don't know man, whatever you're going to say."
Turning, Stiles does the only thing he can do, faces the man head-on, defiant and unapologetic. The guy saw the whole thing, it's not like he can play it off.
"That I'm a shit person, even when I'm not trying," he says, ready at this point to start a list, tick it off on his fingers. "I don't even know what I did to that guy."
Peter snorts, rolls his eyes and makes a quick sign to Cora, who's sitting beside him in the dirt with a little trowel in her hand, passing her uncle flowers from a plastic greenhouse flat.
"Don't flatter yourself," he scoffs, his head down as he tucks a purple bellflower into the hole he's dug."My nephews are self-sacrificing morons – they'll all guilt themselves to death one day."
"Just your nephews?"
Peter's head snaps up so fast he catches Stiles in the act of cocking his eyebrow, looking Cora up and down and studying the way she's interacting with the man.
"Cora's a baby," he snarls, his eyes flashing. Stiles stares him down, refusing to look away until the guy shrugs, reaches for another plant. "By the time it matters she'll know better."
Yeah, and you'll make sure of it.
"Laura, she might not look it," Peter continues, almost conversationally, and Stiles listens with wary caution, not nearly as fooled by the werewolf's tone as he is distracted by the way his shoulders roll beneath his shirt as he leans his weight forward on his knees. "But she can be a stone-cold bitch, just like her mother."
"And Nick's like Calvin."
Peter looks up, tilts his head and narrows his eyes.
"Maybe you're not as stupid as you look," he finally says.
Well fuck you too dick.
Sneering, Stiles turns on his heel and walks away, throwing a sign up over his shoulder that anyone could recognize.
He's halfway home before it clicks – the reason why so many of the Hale pack are so damaged, deaf and blind and wounded, physically and psychologically. It's the first time he really feels the reality of what the war has done, and he has to pull over and dry heave before he feels well enough again to drive the rest of the way back.
