AN: Canadian thanksgiving is always on a Monday and unfortunately I assumed the same of American thanksgiving, so just bear with me because it's too late to go back and change the dates in my previous chapters!

Chapter Nine

Standing in his room, Stiles could still feel the recoil of Chris's guns echoing in the bones of his hands. He'd left Allison's dad's place an hour ago, but his body still thrummed with tension and excitement.

When he'd finally made it home, around 7 am on Saturday morning, Stiles had stumbled up the stairs and, after a blisteringly hot shower to wash off the blood (and the turkey paint), he'd literally fallen into bed and slept for ten hours straight. When he'd woken up he'd had a quick dinner with his dad, carefully avoided mentioning that Isaac had nearly died the night before—and it was only due to some mysterious mystical shit that Scott and Derek had cooked up, then refused to tell anyone about, that Isaac had survived—and then he'd gone over to Chris Argent's.

He'd stayed with Chris until midnight and returned again on Sunday morning. Now, standing in his room, for the first time in quite possibly his entire life, Stiles felt powerful.

He could defend himself now. He wouldn't be left crumpled on the ground, or held at the mercy of a handful of claws. Chris hadn't given him a gun—and though Stiles thought he'd made a pretty good case for being allowed to have one, he'd privately agreed with Chris's decision that he needed a lot more practice first—but Stiles had walked away with a paper bag full of other paraphernalia. He wore one of them around his neck and when he returned to school there'd be a knife close at hand.

He wouldn't be weak again.

Stiles took a drink from the tumbler of his father's whiskey that sat on his desk, grimacing a little at the taste but enjoying the burn as it slid down his throat. His dad was working tonight, Scott and Isaac were having a night in with Melissa, and he had no idea what Jackson or Danny were doing, but he didn't care. He was feeling good, and strong, and he wasn't going to let that feeling go to waste.

The problem was, he reflected, tossing the rest of the whiskey back before trading his t-shirt for a dark blue button up, that the pack would never see him as anything other than fragile and human. They'd known him too long, and had seen him broken and bloody and bruised six times too many. If he'd told any of them how he was feeling now, that he felt dangerous, they'd just smile kindly. While they might not refute his claim outright, they wouldn't believe it.

Looking at himself in the mirror, black jeans, dress shirt, and a new, confident light in his eyes, Stiles believed it. And he wanted someone else to believe it. Someone who wasn't picturing Stiles-the-potential-hostage or Stiles-the-liability. Someone who'd see him and think careful.

Which was why Stiles was heading to the Jungle.

Grabbing his jacket, which had been slung over a chair, he pulled it on and headed for the door.

"Buy you a drink?"

Stiles turned from where he was leaning against the bar. The guy behind him was older, tall, and clean-shaven, with a warm smile.

"Sure," Stiles moved over so the guy could squeeze in beside him. Since it was the Sunday before Thanksgiving Monday, the Jungle was packed and Stiles had been waiting for the bartender to make his way down to this end of the bar.

"I'm Raj," the guy offered, holding his hand out to Stiles.

"Stiles," Stiles returned, shaking Raj's hand. Raj held on a beat or two longer than necessary and Stiles bit into his bottom lip to hide a pleased smile.

"I haven't seen you here before," Raj leaned in to be heard over the music, his mouth close enough to Stiles's ear that Stiles could feel the lightest brush of lips.

"Just back in town for the holiday." Someone else wormed their way to the bar on Stiles's other side and Stiles found himself pushed forward against Raj, who slid a hand around Stiles's waist and kept it firm against his lower back, steadying him.

"Thanks," Stiles had to tilt his head back now to look up at Raj. That was new, he realized, surprised. Both Derek and Ethan were about his height, or close enough that Stiles never really found himself looking up at them. But Raj was tall, and lean, and Stiles could feel the heat of his long fingers splayed out against his skin and he relaxed into the touch.

"What'll you have?" The bartender had finally made his way over to them.

Stiles broke his gaze away from Raj. "Jack and coke."

"Make it two."

A minute later, drinks in hand, they broke free from the press of bodies around the bar. Raj kept his hand against the small of Stiles's back as they made their way through the crowd to a standing table near the dance floor.

"You said you're back for the holiday?"

Stiles nodded, taking a sip from the glass and rolling the sweetness of the coke around with his tongue. He'd been drinking whiskey straight all night, the ice and the cola were a nice change.

"And where is it you are when you're not back for the holidays?"

"College. Journalism," Stiles elaborated when Raj gave a small tilt of his head.

"You look the type," Raj grinned, his teeth flashing white against the darkness of his skin.

"Oh, yeah?" Stiles tilted his head, looking up at Raj through his lashes. If he'd been sober, or not at a club, or literally at any other point in his life, he'd have felt incredibly stupid. Stiles was not the kind of guy who did coy. He was awkward and clumsy and obvious. Except that tonight he didn't feel like any of those things. Tonight he felt a little wild and a little reckless and like he was more than capable of flirting the way he'd seen Lydia do a thousand times—effortlessly, easy as breathing.

"Yeah." Raj leaned closer, setting his glass down on the unsteady table and running light fingers over Stiles's wrist where it rested against the table, loosely cupping his glass. "You've got this vibe going."

"There's a journalist vibe?" Stiles teased, turning his wrist so that Raj's fingers could trail up the inside of his forearm.

"Well, no," Raj admitted, laughing, "But I was watching you for a bit before I came over. You were observing. Not like most people do, not watching just for the fun of it or because there's nothing better to do, but like you're… calculating. Like you're seeing everything and a part of you is figuring out exactly how to use it." His eyes were dark on Stiles's and Raj's tongue darted out to lick his lips. "It's hot. It makes me want to know how you'll use me."

Under Raj's fingers Stiles's pulse quickened. Raj stepped in, hand sliding from Stiles's wrist to his waist as Stiles's came up to twine around Raj's neck, pulling the taller man down as Stiles rose. Raj's lips brushed softly against Stiles's and Stiles made a hungry noise low in his throat, pressing in closer, but Raj kept his lips gentle and slow, his thumbs rubbing lazy circles over Stiles's hips through his shirt.

Stiles wanted those hands to dig in harder, to feel the sharp bite of teeth against his mouth. When he tried to deepen the kiss, tried to rub himself hot and urgent against Raj, Raj held him still, tongue sweeping lightly over Stiles's as his thumbs continued their soothing circles.

"Slow down," Raj murmured, leaning his forehead against Stiles's. "We've got all night."

"Actually," there was a voice from behind Stiles, as hard and unforgiving as the hand that suddenly clamped down on Stiles's shoulder, "You don't."

Raj frowned, straightening to his full height. "Excuse me?"

Stiles was trying to look around, to see who it was that had him in such an iron grip but the hand tightened and he let out a yelp of pain.

"Hey," Raj's voice was sharp. "Let him go."

"He's my nephew. My underage nephew, actually. So I suggest you be the one to go."

There'd been a break in the music and Stiles had been able to hear the speaker clearly—and he knew that voice. Peter.

Raj's eyes went wide. "Underage?" His hands dropped from Stiles's waist like they'd been burned. "I'm sorry, I didn't know. I, uh—sorry," and with that he backed away, hurriedly disappearing into the crowd.

"Dude," Stiles yanked out of Peter's grip, turning around to shove the werewolf back. Peter, predictably, didn't move. "I'm eighteen."

"Pity, then, that the drinking age is twenty-one." Peter smirked, picking up Stiles's drink and finishing it in one long swallow. Stiles flipped him off and turned back, scanning the room for Raj, but the writhing bodies of the dance floor and the staccato flash of light and lasers made individual faces all but indistinguishable.

"Come on," Peter reached out for Stiles's wrist, but the second his fingers made contact with Stiles's skin he jerked back, teeth bared in a hiss of pain and eyes flaring, for the briefest second, electric blue.

Stiles glanced down at where Peter was clutching his hand, and now it was Stiles's turn to smirk, long and slow and cocky. "So, it does work."

"What?" Peter's voice was low despite the jagged edge of anger.

Stiles reached up, fished the slender silver chain out from under his collar so that the small vial of mountain ash hung over his shirt instead of against his skin.

"Take it off."

Stiles rolled his eyes but, when Peter just raised his eyebrows expectantly, Stiles pulled the chain over his head and stuffed it in the pocket of his jeans. "Happy?"

"Getting there."

Stiles tried to step around Peter and back to the bar but Peter's hand shot out again and wrapped firmly around Stiles's wrist, jerking him to a halt. "No," he said.

"Yes." Stiles tried to yank his arm free, seething. "Let me go. I want to get a drink."

"You want a drink? Fine. But you're not staying here. Don't you think you've gotten yourself into enough trouble already this weekend?"

"Hence the mountain ash," Stiles snapped. "I'm not an idiot. I'm not here unprotected."

Peter tightened his grip on Stiles and began pushing his way through the crowd and towards the exit, keeping Stiles close at his side despite the younger man's attempts to pry loose. "You're not usually this stupid, Stiles. Our pack has several humans associated with it—you, and Danny, not to mention your father and the hunter—are you naive enough to think that Marcus doesn't have the same?" Stiles's fingers faltered from where they'd been tugging at Peter's.

"I—"

"—am sorry, Peter, for being such a thoughtless ass," Peter finished for him, guiding Stiles out of the front door and onto the street.

"That's not what—"

"Well, it should be." Peter didn't release Stiles until they'd reached a sleek silver car parked down the block. "Get in."

"I'm not going to—"

"Stiles," Peter snapped, "Get in the car."

With a huff of breath, Stiles eyed the alleyway to his right, debating whether or not to make Peter chase after him. He was under no illusions that he'd actually get away, but it might be satisfying to make the smug prick work for it. Then again, Stiles reflected, he didn't really relish the thought of being slammed into the rough asphalt or the brick walls that lined the alleyway, and if he ran he was pretty sure Peter would make that happen. Gritting his teeth, he yanked open the door of the car and slid in, making sure to slam it closed.

"There's no need to be childish," Peter remarked, starting the car and pulling away from the curb. Stiles slumped low in his seat, arms folded across his chest.

"That's what happens when you babysit," Stiles turned to Peter. "Is this guard-Stiles duty again? Who sent you? Scott? Derek?" The thought of either of them asking Peter to keep an eye on him made Stiles's skin crawl. He wondered how long Peter had been watching him for, how long he'd had someone's eyes on him and not even known.

"No one sent me, Stiles," amusement curled warm in Peter's voice. "You're overestimating your importance if you think that I've been following you."

Ouch. Except, "First you tell me I'm putting myself in danger, or whatever, and now I'm not important enough to merit being kept out of it?"

"Putting yourself needlessly at risk is foolish. You're jeopardizing a lot more than just your own safety. You're risking all of ours, too." Peter took his eyes off the road for a second and sent Stiles a disapproving look. "Frankly, if we'd thought you'd be idiotic enough to go off on your own, Scott or Derek probably would have assigned me or Jackson to you. But no one actually thought you could possibly be that unwise."

Stiles swallowed and looked out the window. It had started to rain and the water beaded on the glass, sliding down and blurring the city lights beyond. "If you weren't following me then why were you there?"

"I suspect for the same reason you were," Peter drawled.

Right, obviously. A flush coloured Stiles's cheeks and he kept his gaze firmly fixed out the window. "I didn't know you were gay."

"I'm not," the amusement was back, rich and honeyed. "I'm more of an… equal opportunist, if you will."

"Bisexual."

Peter gave a thoughtful hum. "Something like that. And you, Stiles?"

"I…" Stiles glanced over, but Peter's eyes were steady on the road. "I don't know." He hadn't really thought about it, about a label. He knew he liked guys, obviously, but he'd liked Lydia as well. And it wasn't like he stopped noticing girls when he was with Derek, or even when he'd been flirting with Ethan. So he guessed that made him bi. Or something like that.

"Do you want to go home?" Peter's voice interrupted Stiles's introspection.

"No," Stiles's response was immediate, uttered before he'd even consciously understood the question. The house was quiet and empty and frustratingly confining. Stiles was still riding on the high of the last couple days, of the feeling of weapons in his hands and the knowledge that he could be deadly. He couldn't bear sitting alone in his bedroom, reminded continuously of his high school self.

"Very well." Peter took a left turn and then several minutes later they were in a part of downtown Stiles had never been to. Peter pulled into an underground parking lot and after a moment found a space and parked.

Stiles reached down and unbuckled his seat belt, stepping out of the car and into the echoing concrete. "Is this where you live?"

Peter closed his door and locked the car, dropping his keys into the pocket of his leather jacket. "I don't live in a car park."

"Ha, ha," Stiles fell into step beside Peter as the older man made his way towards an elevator. "You know what I mean—is this your apartment?"

"Yes."

Stiles wasn't really sure how he felt about going up to Peter's apartment on his own. Not that he was afraid of Peter, per se. He didn't expect the werewolf to be engaging in some sort of elaborate plan to murder him. Though, actually, now that he thought about it, he wouldn't put that kind of thing past Peter. Not if Peter thought he could get something out of it. A shiver of apprehension ran up Stiles's spine.

The elevator doors opened with a ding and Peter gestured for Stiles to enter. Once they were both inside, Peter hit the button for the sixteenth floor and they began to rise.

"Scott said Isaac's healed just fine," Stiles said after the silence became unbearable. "No side affects from the poison and… and whatever it was he and Derek did."

Peter turned to Stiles, eyebrows raised in surprise. "They didn't tell you?"

"No. Why?" Stiles frowned. "Did they tell you?"

"No." Peter leaned back against the wall, his hands in the pockets of his jackets. "I suspect they're concerned about a… leak."

"A leak?"

"As it were. Marcus has to be getting his information from somewhere. I presume Scott, Derek, and Deaton want to limit the amount that's out there."

Stiles's lips thinned as he watched the numbers on the elevator go up. He didn't like Scott not trusting him. And Derek—well, Stiles didn't agree with any of Derek's choices as of late.

The thought of Derek still brought a tightness to his chest, an awareness of the depth of emotion Stiles still felt, the need that ached like a wound that wouldn't heal. He'd been living with it, so far. Dealing—or trying to. But he was sick of drowning in sorrow, of prodding at the loss until he broke down and begged.

They reached Peter's floor and the doors slid open, Stiles stepping through and then waiting for Peter to lead the way down the thickly carpeted hallway.

"This is nice," he commented when Peter stopped in front of a door with the number eight on it and pulled out a key.

"No need to sound so surprised," Peter said dryly, unlocking the door and stepping through. Stiles made a face behind Peter's back and followed him in.

The apartment was large and open, with uncurtained windows that provided a stunning view of downtown. Everything else seemed immaculate and white, save for tasteful hints of chrome and glass. Stiles had the strange impression that he'd entered an empty art gallery.

"Wine?" Peter had continued into the apartment and now stood behind a gleaming white countertop in the corner of the room that held the kitchen.

"Uh…" Stiles hesitated. He'd avoided it since Derek.

Peter looked over and tutted. "Are you really going to let my nephew sour something that you've, by all accounts, learned to enjoy and appreciate on your own?"

Stiles stiffened, affronted by the suggestion—even though that was, in fact, exactly what he'd been prepared to do. "I'll have a glass."

Peter favoured him with an approving look before turning to reach into a cupboard and pull out two wine glasses. He set them carefully on the counter and then crossed the kitchen, opening a glass cabinet that, when Stiles moved further into the room, revealed a couple dozen bottles of wine. Peter tapped his lips thoughtfully for a moment before reaching down and selecting a bottle.

Placing the bottle on the counter beside the glasses, Peter closed the cabinet and opened a drawer, taking out a corkscrew. Once the bottle was opened he poured himself a small amount, swirling the wine around the bottom of the glass before bringing it to his nose for an appreciative sniff and taking a sip. "Delightful," he pronounced, setting his glass down to pour one for Stiles.

Stiles took the offered glass and brought it to his lips. The wine hit his tongue in a heady rush that had his eyes sliding closed in pleasure.

"It's a cabernet franc," Peter answered Stiles's unasked question, approval heavy in his voice. "Do you like it?" he continued, even though the answer must have been obvious on Stiles's face.

"Yes, it has… oomph."

"Good." Peter moved around the counter, picking up the bottle in his free hand as he carried it and his glass of wine to the coffee table and couch that sat in front of a large fireplace. Stiles trailed after him, slightly apprehensive about taking red wine onto white carpet—and a white couch—but not wanting to stay standing awkwardly in the kitchen.

Peter sank gracefully onto one end of the couch and Stiles folded himself down onto the other, taking another sip of wine and trying not to read too much into the fact that he was alone in Peter's apartment, that no one else knew where he was, and that there was a part of him that found the whole thing as intoxicating as the wine.

The very, very good wine. Stiles took another sip, rolling the taste of it around in his mouth, against his tongue.

Peter watched him, eyes heavy-lidded with satisfaction at the naked pleasure on Stiles's face as he finally swallowed. "And to think," he said, smirking when Stiles licked a lingering drop of the wine off his lips. "You'd have let Derek take that away from you."

"What I do, or don't do, has nothing to do with—" he lurched against the name and hated himself for it. "With Derek," he finished, bringing the glass back up to his lips like he could hide the stumble.

Peter said nothing, simply raised his own glass and took a drink. On his way from the kitchen to the couch he'd hit a switch to turn the kitchen lights off, another to turn the fireplace on, and Stiles was suddenly aware of how dark the rest of the apartment was. Save for the twinkling of the city lights outside the large windows, the warm glow of the flames was the only light.

For someone who'd spent nearly a decade crippled due to fire, Peter seemed entirely at ease having one close by. Stiles's brow furrowed thoughtfully but he had another nagging question on his mind. "Why'd you bring me here?"

"You didn't want to go home."

Stiles frowned, leaning forward to set his now-empty wine glass on the coffee table. "Yeah, but we could have gone to another bar. Or," he frowned harder. "You could have just dropped me at Scott's."

"This is true. But I find I enjoy your company. And as for another bar, well," he leaned forwards and refilled Stiles's glass and then his own, "I have better wine," he said without a hint of modesty, settling into the couch and hooking an arm lazily over the back.

The wine was excellent, bold and complex and by no means easily drunk. Stiles was under no illusions that he was any kind of connoisseur, but that didn't mean he was unable to enjoy the way the flavours collided robustly on his tongue. Stiles reached for his newly full glass and had another sip, relaxing against the arm of the couch and enjoying the heat from the fireplace. It was a nice change after the coolness of the night's rain.

Peter tilted his head to the side, watching Stiles with blue eyes that were suddenly curious. "If nothing you do has anything to do with my nephew, then why the guy at the bar?"

Stiles's fingers tightened around the fragile glass and he had to force himself to loosen them before he broke it and spilled what was no doubt obscenely expensive wine over an even more expensive couch. "Because I wanted him." The second the words had left his mouth Stiles wished he could have swallowed them back. He hadn't had wine in so long that it was affecting him more than usual, his tongue looser than he'd have liked.

"Really?" Disbelief coloured Peter's voice. "He's what you wanted."

"Yes," Stiles bit off, stubbornly. The guy—Raj, his brain supplied after a moment's hesitation—had been tall and lean and had thought Stiles was hot. Why wouldn't Stiles have wanted that?

"Him, though?" Peter pressed, eyebrows raised sceptically.

"Why not?" Stiles crossed his arms defensively across his chest.

"He didn't seem quite your… type."

"Oh, please," and now Stiles snorted with amusement. "What would you know about 'my type'?"

"I know he wasn't it."

"You're saying I don't like tall, dark, and handsome?" Stiles rolled his eyes, uncrossing his arms and taking a drink. "Cause, I gotta say…"

"It's nothing to do with how he looks, Stiles," Peter corrected. "You wouldn't have got what you wanted."

"Fucked? I'm pretty sure—"

Peter laughed. "Guys like that don't 'fuck'. They 'make love'." He brought his hands up in sarcastic finger quotes.

"And what's wrong with that?" Stiles shifted forward on the couch.

Peter levelled a sceptical look at him over his wine. "You're telling me you'd have been sated, you'd have been happy, with a night of gentle caresses and sweet nothings whispered in your ear?"

Stiles flashed back to the way Raj's lips and hands had been so light against his, stroking and soft in a way that had made Stiles twitchy with frustration. He imagined Raj would have continued in that vein, worked his way down Stiles's body with delicate fingers and eventually slow, gentle thrusts. Stiles's lips twisted involuntarily in distaste.

Watching Stiles's reaction, Peter smirked. "I thought as much."

There was a stubborn, churlish reply on the tip of Stiles's tongue but he held it back. Something about the way Peter was watching him, so unquestionably sure that he knew exactly what Stiles wanted, was making things low in Stiles's belly tighten.

"What, no scathing denial?" Peter mocked, pushing up from where he'd been lounging against the back of the couch. His movements were slow, deliberate, as he reached out, placed his glass soundlessly on the coffee table, and turned to face Stiles. Stiles's breath caught and held at the look in Peter's eyes.

"Though I suppose there's no sense in it," Peter's voice lowered. "Not when we both know what it is you're after."

Stiles's mouth had gone dry and he raised his wine glass in a hand that was less than steady—but before he could take a drink, attempt to quench his sudden thirst, Peter reached out and wrapped his fingers around the glass, around Stiles's hand. Stiles felt caught, trapped, and transfixed. Tharn, a distant part of his brain supplied, like the rabbits. Frozen in front of the car that'd run him down but mesmerized by the dazzle of lights.

"I could give it to you. You know I could." Peter seemed impossibly close, his broad shoulders blocking out everything but the shifting light of the fire, and even that served only to dance against the exposed skin of Peter's forearm, his neck, his face. Illuminating the hard lines and muscles. His fingers gently pried the glass out of Stiles's hand. Without breaking eye contact he placed the glass on the table.

Stiles still couldn't speak. Couldn't move. A part of him knew this was a bad idea, a mortifying thing to even be considering. This was Peter, Derek's uncle, and a man Stiles didn't even—

"Don't pretend you don't want it. Don't pretend that right now you're not thinking about how you don't trust me—and how that thought only makes you want it more." Peter's hand moved from where it had been resting on the back of the couch, slid around to Stiles's neck, his thumb rubbing against the place where Stiles's pulse beat against his skin like a wild thing trying to escape. "Because you don't know what I'd do. You can't trust that I'd stop if you asked. That I wouldn't just keep pressing," and his thumb dug in, constricting the flow of blood so that Stiles's head swam in a sudden, dizzying rush.

"Peter," Stiles meant for his voice to be firm, a hard line of no, but instead it came out as a plea. For what, Stiles wasn't sure, because Peter was right. He had Stiles half-hard already, and all he had done was push a hand against Stiles's neck.

But with that came the knowledge that Peter could wrap that hand around his throat and cut off Stiles's air completely. He could do that, and if he did that, Peter might not stop until Stiles was dead. That thought shouldn't have sent a spark of black down Stiles's spine. Shouldn't have made his heart pound with excitement, his skin ache for the sharpness of teeth.

Peter's hand lifted, the pressure on Stiles's pulse easing. Stiles tried not to but couldn't help the way he swayed towards Peter as Peter's hand pulled away.

Peter's teeth flashed, showing white and gleaming before he leaned in and crowded Stiles back against the arm of the couch, one hand hard on Stiles's arm to hold him there and the other between Stiles's legs, palming Stiles's now fully hard cock through his jeans. "Say yes," Peter ordered, lips so close to Stiles's that Stiles could feel them move against his own. "Say yes."

"Yes."