It's cool inside, dim and quiet, and it's a relief after the hot, bright afternoon. Stiles hadn't realized how much tension he'd built up in his shoulders out there at the arena until he steps into the calm, solitary hush of Peter's house. All those people, those werewolves, all those eyes on him and on his bonded, on the both of them together... he hadn't really felt how much that bothered him until now, now when they're all gone and he's standing by himself in a neat, cozy little living room and the full weight of it rolls off of him.

The house is nice, not at all what he expected, which strikes him strongly because he hadn't really been thinking about Peter or his house at all. Now he thinks that he'd been expecting posh, modern, glass and stainless steel and impressionist art on the walls, which doesn't make any sense because all he's really known of Peter is sweat and blood and aggression. Instead the living room feels uncomfortably homey, worn in and normal, and it throws him so much that he kind of just stands there and forgets where he really is.

Much like Calvin and Nick's place, there's a lot more furniture than seems necessary for one (ugh, two) individuals, driving home once more the sense of pack that Stiles hasn't gotten a real grip on yet. It's strange thinking of Peter as anything but a loner, even within his own family, but the evidence is right there in front of him; two full couches and a double-wide, overstuffed armchair. There's a huge flat screen TV on the wall flanked by towers of DVDs – not all that surprising but the gaming system is. It's old, classic Super Nintendo, but Stiles sees Tetris and Mario Kart and Mortal Kombat II. The walls are lined with bookshelves that are jammed full; books and an eclectic array of knickknacks ranging from a tiny bronze dinosaur to fossilized sand dollars to old Navajo pottery.

It's like looking at the hidden side of his soul-bonded's personality, a glimpse of Peter's vulnerable underbelly, and it shakes him.

More than anything, the stack of coloring books and box of crayons scattered across the coffee table makes his stomach clench, and it feels a little too much like guilt for Stiles' liking.

A creak startles him and he turns with a jump, his heart stuttering in his chest as Peter comes trotting down the stairs along one side of the entryway, wearing a pair of boxers and very little else, a towel slung around his neck. Stiles takes an involuntary step back, fear skittering across his nerves, and for a minute he flashes back to being thrown against the wall, a rough hand over his mouth and a knee between his legs. It's panic, and it's stupid because maybe Peter has been a dick and maybe he has been pushy and maybe he does make Stiles anxious as hell, but he's never threatened anything sexual, never pushed to take.

That's like, the virtual opposite of Peter's MO, but he still reacts - to being entirely alone with him, to being boxed in, to the sheer amount of muscle and scarred, bare skin on display. He doesn't mean to, doesn't expect to, but he does react, and he kind of hates himself for it.

Peter?

Peter doesn't react at all.

In fact he completely ignores him, doesn't even glance in his direction even though Stiles is pretty sure the spike in his scent has to be sharp and acrid and incredibly strong.

Nothing.

Not a look or a sniff or even a tilt of his head in Stiles' direction, and he can't decide if he's happy or disappointed by that.

He's... glad Peter hadn't advanced on him, hadn't taken advantage of what is obviously a fear and a weakness, hadn't even done so much as to sneer at him or aim a sharply barbed joke in his direction. On the other hand he... he kind of wishes he'd said something, even just paused on his way to the bathroom to look his way and make sure he's not freaking out.

That scares him too.

Maybe more than anything else.

That somewhere deep down he might want a relationship one day, that regardless of what happens he still wants Peter to be concerned about him and to care that he's upset, to do something to make it better.

That's...

That's messed up.

He knows practically nothing about this man, who's got to be fifteen years older than he is at the very least, who's been through more than Stiles can possibly imagine, who's life he's interrupted and who clearly resents that fact.

He can't believe, in his logical mind, that somewhere deep down he's begun to want something out of this.

The sound of the shower knocks him out of his stunned and unsettling thoughts, and for the first time he easily recognizes the pale tickle of irritation and unease as Peter's and not his own. It hits him once again that Peter didn't choose this anymore than he did, that soul bonds are not the romantic ideal that fiction and rumor make them out to be. That reality is harder, harsher than stories, that soul marks can be incredibly disruptive, even destructive to someone's life. That life, Peter's life, his life existed before any magic words were spoken. Peter had a home and a family and a pack, a job presumably, a boyfriend, all of it long before Stiles ever came along.

Who is he really to take that all away from him, to expect him to incorporate someone he isn't obligated to like or love, into all of that?

It's not fair, and for the first time he thinks that maybe he truly understands Peter's anger that first day, his resentful reaction to the discovery of their soul bond.

If he were older, more mature, more established in the world, he might've reacted the same way.

He knows this of course, has thought about it before, even earlier today at the station, but he's never truly felt it the way he's feeling it right now, standing in the middle of a living room with the man's life spread out on display all around him.

Letting out a shaky breath, Stiles moves further into the room, takes a careful, hesitant seat in the corner of the couch. He doesn't know exactly why he's here or what he hopes to happen, what he expects to accomplish when Peter comes back out, and he has no idea if he's doing the right thing or not by staying, but he doesn't know what else he could possibly do.

Leave, let them continue on like they have been?

It doesn't even seem feasible.

Seems like if they do, they'll be at each other's throats sooner or later, and that this time it'll be for blood.

He just... doesn't know what kind of olive branch he can offer.

So he kicks off his shoes and tucks himself up as small as he can get in the corner of the couch, tucks his hands into the pockets of his clawed-up hoodie and waits.

XXX

Peter's confused.

His head's a mess, his heart's a mess, and it's been a long time since he's felt like this.

He hates it, hates feeling like some untested pup, hates feeling like his packmates are staring and snickering at him behind his back, and he doesn't know how to make it stop.

So he goes back to the training fields, finds the youngest and most naïve of his cousins, the biggest and dumbest of his uncles, and he hammers them into the ground. One after the other, over and over, if they get back up he puts them down again. It's good, it's familiar, and it makes him feel more like himself, strong and confident and sure-footed. Powerful. Dominant.

Then Stiles shows up and it's all worse, a messy tangle all over again.

His instincts kick up immediately, despite any and all efforts to tamp them back down, and the wolf in the back of his head demands that he fight even harder, that he put on a show, that he win. Damn if he'll let his mate see him loose, see him forced to show his belly and cower to another, and as much as he hates it, hates that word and using it in reference to that child he cannot help himself, cannot stop himself.

He tackles his cousin to the ground and kicks his cocky ass.

There's blood and fists and violence, and the only reason he's not utterly disgusted with himself is that the little shit signed up for this, running his mouth and then being stupid enough to step into the ring with him for a fight. He knows he's taking it too far but the smart-mouthed little shit's still trying to get up, and no way that's going to happen until Peter's satisfied he's learned his lesson. Looking over at the sidelines, he makes eye contact with his soul-bonded, his fucking soul-bonded, and rips his cousin's arm out of its socket.

It's vicious and it's nasty and it happens with a wet, rough crackle and it fills him with an incredible amount of smug, stupid pride. Then that bastard Vinny is dragging him away from his prey and he's trying to get back to him, to finish it but it is finished, and his pack are howling and his heart is slamming against the inside of his chest and it's done, it's over, and the kid, the god damn kid is staring at him with hot, dark eyes and smelling like arousal and he hates that too but he still stalks toward him, like some kind of weak-willed addict who can't control himself.

He senses more than sees Luca start toward him but doesn't even flinch, doesn't offer him a modicum of attention. He's never deserved it, and the way Stiles smirks over Peter's shoulder makes it worth the bitching out he'll get later. Peter steps right up into the teenager's space, looms over him, watches how his eyes trail over his throat and his shoulders and growls, scents Laura on him and Cora too, and hates that because it smells so fucking right.

He snarls and sneers and is begrudgingly impressed when the kid snaps right back at him, follows on his heels and has the balls to walk right into his house without an invitation. He doesn't know how to get rid of him, doesn't know how to tell him to leave, and more than anything just wishes he could kill him, disappear him, erase that fucking mark on his shoulder and take back those stupid words and never lock himself into this with whatever god-forsaken werewolf magic chose him for this fate.

He's filthy and he reeks and he's covered in blood and sweat and mud, but that's one problem he knows how to solve. He jogs up to his bedroom before the kid's made it inside, avoiding him as best he can. He thinks about clothes, about how to do this, and pisses himself off that he's even trying to figure out a way to accommodate the kid who's driven him to this place of self-doubt. Shedding his clothes, forcing himself not to shiver, he grabs his towel off the closet hook and heads back downstairs.

He's in Peter's living room.

Just... standing there.

He doesn't care, he shouldn't care – it's not like there's anything out there he's embarrassed of or doesn't want anyone to see. At the same time he doesn't want Stiles to see any of it, wants him in his home and doesn't. It's nauseating, the dichotomy of it, the emotion of it, and he can't bear to stand in it any more than he absolutely has to, so he heads straight for the bathroom and locks the door behind him. He actually has to lean against it a minute to quiet his pounding heart, to get his breath back and swallow down the panic that tastes like hot, sour bile in the back of his throat.

Fucking kind, fucking soul bond, he's actually scared out there, and Peter doesn't know what of. That makes him nervous, makes him... makes him guilty, and that's the last thing he wants to feel. Sure, he hasn't been a peach, has scared the kid good a few times, but he's never actually hurt the little shit. He can't, he wouldn't, but he knows his word on that means nothing, and he can feel his wolf ravaging his insides demanding he go out there and fix his shit, make this better.

It makes him positively sick.

So he showers, fast and rough, and even though the water's ice cold his skin is pink when he gets out from how hard he's scrubbed. The tingle's almost painful as his healing kicks in and his body tries to heat itself back up, but he's clean and his head's a little clearer, if only because he's emptied it like a trashcan. Pulling on the sweats and the hoodie he'd left in the linen cabinet that morning, he brushes the acid out of his mouth and avoids looking at himself in the mirror.

He doesn't know what he expects to find when he comes back out.

Maybe it'll be Stiles and maybe it won't – all he knows for sure is that it damn well better not be Luca.

It is Stiles though, curled up in the corner of his couch looking nervous but cozy, out-of-place but common-place, just the way Peter feels. He doesn't want him here but a part of him does, and he doesn't know which part. He doesn't know if it's just the soul-bond or if he's actually starting to like the kid, doesn't know how far consent actually goes. It's heavy and uncomfortable in the pit of his stomach and he doesn't know what to do, and he hates it, hates it, doesn't know how to fix it and needs to fix it.

The kid's just staring off at the wall, won't even look at him, isn't even fidgeting like he normally seems to do, and that hurts. It reminds him of a rabbit, small and quiet and dark-eyed, waiting, waiting, and it hurts something deep inside of him, makes the predator cower.

He doesn't think that's ever happened before.

So what the fuck do you do?

He goes to the kitchen, gets a bottle of water, hesitates, flexes his claws, and grabs a second one. He could offer it to the kid, hand it to him, throw it at him, but he doesn't do any of that, just steps up quietly beside him, close enough that he could run his fingers through his hair and squeeze the nape of his neck and he wants to.

He doesn't.

No, he just sets the bottle down on the end table beside the arm of the couch, doesn't look at him, doesn't speak to him, and retreats to his arm chair to curl up in as tight a ball as he can without looking like he's doing just that. Flicking on the television, he finds an episode of The Twilight Zone and tries to turn his head, and his heart, decidedly off.