By the time Talia Hale pulls Laura's camaro up in front of the pack house out in the Preserve, Stiles is feeling sick as a dog.
Yeah, pun intended.
He wobbles out of the car only just catching his weight on the door, pale and clammy and cold, his stomach doing the god-damn hokey pokey inside his belly, and he must reek like nausea and sharp, acrid sweat because Laura and her mom both flinch minutely when the breeze turns. He knows they don't mean it but it makes him feel even worse, so he bites down on the need to shake or puke or shout and squares his shoulders before he follows Laura up the steps and into the house. She leads Isaac into the kitchen and sits him down at the table, tosses Stiles a warning look that has him doing the same while she dives into the fridge and comes back up with two bottles of ginger ale. Stiles takes his and cracks the top without hesitation, and he's a little surprised when Isaac does the same, but on second look he doesn't seem so good himself, ashen-faced and hugging himself, and yeah, Stiles knows that feeling.
Whole world turned upside down, threatened by the person who's supposed to take care of you?
Check, check, double-check.
Yikes.
Talia is leaning against the counter, tapping at the screen of her cell phone before slipping it into her pocket, glancing over them both before turning to her daughter.
"Derek will be down in a minute," she says, and Stiles doesn't miss the way Isaac's eyes flick toward the hallway. "Isaac, the Sheriff and I will be going over to your house in an hour or so to speak with your father. If you'd like to make a list, I'll make sure we collect any of your things that you'd like."
The kid blanches, starts to tremble, and Stiles feels a strange wave of despondence come over him. He cares, yes, he's sympathetic, but very suddenly he feels too exhausted to care. A deep, instinctive part of him recognizes that he's done his best, all he can do, and that he's delivered Isaac safely to his Alpha. The thought will startle him later but in the moment it feels easy and natural and right and he doesn't fight it, just lets himself drift in a haze for a few minutes, nearly asleep sitting upright.
A few minutes later Derek comes clomping into the kitchen with Cora on his hip and nearly trips himself he stutters to a stop so fast. He clearly remembers Isaac and Isaac remembers him – there's a mutual exchange of names in incredulous tones before an awkward silence falls. Derek takes a seat at the table when his mother prompts him with a look, and Stiles is struck by how young he seems, his own age instead of the eighteen or nineteen he's got to be. It makes sense when Laura explains that Isaac will be staying with them, that instead of sending him out to one of the other pack houses he'll be bunking up with Derek. What she doesn't say is that she's pairing them up in some kind of kindergarten buddy system – not that she has to. It's clear to everybody in the room, and Stiles is surprised that they both take it so well.
Course, it's not exactly the same is it?
Not even close.
But it's a good idea so he doesn't say anything; Isaac will hopefully have an ally here in Derek, a friend to talk to and show him around, which takes a ridiculous amount of responsibility off Stiles' shoulders. He's already done so much, gone through so much in saving Scott at the start of all this, in trying to fix things for so many people that he hadn't even considered the reality that bringing Isaac to the pack might not be the end of it. Sitting here now, at the Hale dining table still feeling lost and a little out of place in his own right, he knows there's no way he could handle walking Isaac through this too.
That's what he'd promised, what he'd planned, but he can't do it.
And really, it's too much for anyone to expect of him.
He can barely function himself as a human being right now – he doesn't have much brain power left to devote to turning Isaac into a real boy.
A small hand patting his leg makes him blink, pulls him out of his thoughts, only to find Cora standing beside him with a cautious look on her face. She signs hello and her name and he pulls together enough of his wits to sign hello back. The smile on her face is worth the effort and she pats hi, again, on the cheek this time before running around the table into her mother's arms, pointing in his direction and signing too rapidly for him to interpret. Complicated emotion makes his head pound so he doesn't try, just goes back to Isaac in one last-ditch attempt to care. He and Derek seem to be getting along just fine though; the taciturn werewolf has spoken more words to the other boy in the last five minutes than he has to Stiles the entire time he's been here, and isn't that just adorable.
Jerk.
And where the fuck is Peter anyway?
Surprised again by the abrupt mood swing, the irritable aggression that leaves him making a cranky, rumbling sound, Stiles pushes to his feet and jerks open the backpack he's brought along, pulling out the red hoodie that Peter had shredded and Laura had stitched back up.
"Where's your uncle?" he asks as he stuffs his arms into the sleeves, settles it over his shoulders like armor.
He doesn't know who he's talking to but it's Derek who answers, after checking in with his mother again via another quick, wary glance.
"Out back," he says nervously. "On the gaming field."
Stiles feels something dark flare in his gut, a churning mix of disgust and anxiety and angry, jealous hate. He doesn't know exactly what happens out there but he knows that 'gaming field' is definitely a euphemism, that the last time Peter came back from it he'd kept Stiles and everyone else waiting and Laura had accused him of smelling like sex. He's not an idiot – it's easy to put the pieces he has together, to fill in all the rest – but he is surprised he cares so much. He wants to march right out there and deck the guy, throw him to the ground and snarl at him in front of all the werewolves watching, especially that smarmy little bastard Luca, but he's smart enough to know how much of a bad idea that is.
Smart – heh.
That's why he finds himself shoving through the screen door and leaping down off the back porch before anyone can caution him against it right?
Smart, hell, he's a god-damned idiot.
It's not hard to find the field. By the time he hits the edge of the trees along the southern end of the valley he can hear them, the dull thud of clashing bodies and the low, raucous snaps and snarls of cheers and jeering. It's a hair-raising sound and his feet hesitate on the thin path worn into the woods from hundreds of werewolves passing back and forth along it, but he squares his shoulders and keeps going.
If there's one thing he's learning fast about all this, about being soul-bonded to Peter Hale, it's that he can't afford to be hesitant, can't afford to show fear.
When he steps into the little cleared field all ringed around with heavy trees and brush he's composed, calm and flat and cold. All attention is immediately drawn to him, or nearly all anyway. The two men inside the middle of the grass-worn ring don't spare him a glance, even as every other man and woman grouped up around the circle turn on him with hot, eager eyes. He doesn't quail, doesn't flinch, but he doesn't give them any other satisfaction either, ignoring their curious stares and not paying them the slightest attention. It's a lie, of course it is, he can feel every single one of them staring, salivating, and every nerve he has is tensed to fight or flee, but outside he manages a serene picture of casualty and he thanks all his gods he manages to pull it off.
Across the way he spots Calvin and Nicky, standing along the sidelines with their arms crossed over their chests. They don't look too pleased, actually look downright grim, but Stiles doesn't think it's directed at him so he slips carefully between the small clusters of on-lookers and joins them. He's greeted with a couple of silent nods and a firm clap on the shoulder before they both turn back to the fighters in the ring, and he knows what he's going to see even before he turns.
Because of course it's Peter.
Who else would it be, what other kind of luck would he have?
His soul-bonded is shirtless and filthy, covered in earth, gleaming and streaked with sweat, darker rivulets running down his sides that even an idiot like Stiles can recognize as blood. A hurricane of emotion sweeps through him - irritation, anxiety, aggression, arousal - and he folds his own arms with a sneer as he gives in to the desire, the need to look his werewolf over, to catalogue his injuries even as the man stalks his opponent around the ring. There are four neat parallel slashes arcing across his collarbone, very similar to the claw marks he bore on his abdomen the first time they met, and the way he moves suggests that he's favoring his ribs on the left side, but he looks whole and hale and hearty, like he's enjoying himself entirely too much.
Looks hot doing it too, the fucker.
As a rule Stiles isn't all that cool with gratuitous violence, at least outside of an action flick, but as he watches he can feel himself pulled toward the ring, right along with everyone else who have circled up around the fighters, wolves drawn in and waiting for the kill. That hot, eager aggression is sizzling across his nerves and he's leaning forward on the balls of his feet before he knows it, gaze darting hungrily back and forth as Peter hunts his challenger. He doesn't recognize the wolf he's squaring off against, can only take his measure against Peter, and finds himself oddly unconcerned by the fact that he seems twice the size, younger and maybe even faster.
The fight seems to have been suffering a lull upon Stiles' arrival, but it quickly picks back up again when the larger werewolf attempts to land a vicious kick to Peter's ribs. They snap and snarl and the wolves around them howl their encouragement, while the fighters slash at each other with sharp claws. It's fast-paced and vicious and brutal, punches meant to bruise and break, slashes that draw blood, and Stiles is shocked and ashamed to find that he's... kinda into it. Everything is sparking hot in the pit of his belly, all eager aggression and shit, bloodlust, and as Peter lands a particularly nasty hit, his elbow coming down hard on the back of his opponent's neck with a crack, Stiles actually finds himself snarling with bared teeth right along with everyone else.
He manages not to yip, not to slap his hand over his own mouth in surprise but only just. Calvin is looking at him with a cocky, arched eyebrow and Nicky is out and out laughing at him, but at least he doesn't feel like he's gonna puke or pass out anymore.
So he got a little caught up, so what?
It's not like he's... you know, cheering for the guy or anything.
Unfortunately his outburst seems to have drawn Peter's attention because he spins tight on his heel, bent low with his hands slightly out to his sides, eyes hot and flashing, teeth sharp, and stares. It's like time stops for a second and how cliché is that, but ok, maybe in that moment he is rooting for him.
Doesn't really know what that means to a werewolf, as a werewolf...
As a human, maybe he just doesn't want to be soul-bonded to a whimp.
Not that he really thinks that of Peter – if he didn't already have an abundance of evidence to the contrary what happens next would cement the fact in his mind.
Taking advantage of Peter's momentary distraction, his larger opponent attempts to end the fight only to have his ass handed to him. Peter actually smirks before he ducks the blow aimed at the back of his head, turns and pile-drives his challenger into the ground. What follows is a beating of the first order; Peter proves himself a cunning and devious fighter, getting down and dirty to make up for the difference in size and strength. He clearly has the advantage in years, experience and cleverness, and delivers a lesson that seems to go a little further than necessary. Stiles is pretty sure he hears cartilage pop as Peter rips an arm from its socket, and then Calvin is suddenly wading into the fray, designated bouncer-cum-referee, and pulling them apart.
Peter strains against the hand on his chest, snarling down at the man lying in the dirt, panting and clutching at his shoulder, one eye swollen shut and blood streaming down his thigh, but he's spitting curses and rolling to his feet unaided a moment later, so he can't have been that badly hurt right? Except then someone's yanking his arm back into position with a wet crackle, so yeah, maybe a little too far.
Peter takes a step back away from Calvin's hand and suddenly things go calm, the energy from the fight draining away now that it's ended. His opponent hobbles out of the ring and the wolves set up a howl, an obvious cheer for the winner before two more step up, ready for the next match.
Jesus, they do this for fun?
The thought occurs to him that he ought to be frightened, nervous at the very least as Peter turns on him with pupils blown huge and dark, bare chest heaving as he pants, but he can't seem to convince himself to feel it. Instead there's more eagerness, more itchy aggression, and a creepy, messed-up arousal making his jeans feel way too tight as the man takes a few sharp strides toward him before movement in the corner of his eye makes it all fade away.
The world goes quiet as Stiles' heartbeat pounds in his ears, his eyes narrowing and his lips pulling back from his teeth in a silent snarl as he spots Luca sauntering forward from his place on the other side of the field, sidling slowly toward his soul-bonded and leading with his hips. He's got a flirtatious little smirk playing on his lips, over-played and sickly-sweet, and Stiles has the sudden urge to claw it right off his face, but finds himself supremely satisfied with the way Peter strides right past him, his gaze never once leaving Stiles' face for Luca's. The skinny, smarmy werewolf looks dumbstruck and Stiles feels his mouth curl into a wicked, nasty smile.
Mine bitch.
He regrets the thought as soon as it crosses his mind because Peter is suddenly looming over him, big and broad and half-naked, streaked with blood and sweat and testosterone, and fuck does he smell good, all pride and male and victor. It takes everything he has not to waver towards him, not to curl up underneath the strong slope of his shoulders and lick a stripe up his throat, and that's... actually kind of disgusting because the guy is in desperate need of a shower.
Stiles shouldn't be able to smell him anyway, not like that. It's intricate, strong but delicate, emotion and intention instead of just sweat and stink. It's pretty obvious that Peter's tracking Stiles' scent too, or maybe just the reflection of his emotional state, because his pupils suddenly open up even wider and he starts a low rumble deep in his chest, leaning in even closer to Stiles' neck and drawing in a deep breath.
"You reek like my niece," he snarls, his voice full of gravel.
"Which one?" Stiles asks, cool and sweet as arsenic, just because he can, just because he refuses to cower.
Idiot, remember?
Peter chuffs, a short, sharp, harsh sound, his eyes dropping to trace along the stitches that curve over the shoulder of Stiles' jacket, cover his bond-mark. Without another word he turns and stalks off, and because Stiles is an idiot he follows, making sure to send Luca the smuggest smirk he possesses first. He can feel the werewolf's gaze hot and hateful on the back of his neck and he knows better than to taunt an enemy, a bully, but he can't help himself. All the lessons he's learned avoiding Jackson Whittemore and the other lacrosse jocks seem to have flown out the window, and that's cause for serious concern.
As he trots after his bond-mate, several safe yards behind, he wonders what the hell he's doing chasing after a werewolf, one who doesn't seem to care for him too much either. It feels like suicide going after him, even with a safe ten yards between them, but as the man's feet turn toward the little house he keeps at the end of the valley the distance closes and that safety narrows. Peter allows the screen door to slam closed behind him as he disappears into the house, even as Stiles' shoes clomp loudly up the porch steps behind him, but he hasn't locked it, hasn't turned and sent Stiles away with bared teeth and hot words.
That's gotta mean something right?
Oh god, please let that mean something.
He really doesn't wanna be gutted for following Peter home like a little lost puppy, physically or emotionally.
Stiles takes a deep breath, his hand on the door, and pushes inside.
