"No! I refuse."

It's hard to say no, but a man has to draw a line somewhere, has to establish some unbreakable limits for himself, otherwise, he'll stand for nothing at all, and that's not acceptable, not to Peter Hale. Keeping that in mind, Peter puts his foot down and refuses to yield, even if it means going against his mate. Even if means closing his eyes and trying to erase the pleading look Stiles has plastered across his perfect face.

"Peter," Stiles cries, the pout evident in his voice and it tugs at the strings of Peter's heart. God, it hurts like a bitch to deny him.

The soft voice seeps into Peter's mind, and suddenly it's hard to remember why he was so against the request in the first place.

And still... Couldn't his mate choose anything more dignified?

"No. Not the park, Stiles," Peter refuses once again, straining the words past his clenched jaw. "No."

He should've known better than to expect his mate to play fair. There was a reason they were connected, after all, and it shows quite clearly when Peter hears the soft footsteps of his kid against the linoleum only seconds before small hands grasp at his knees.

"Please," Stiles begs. This time, when he speaks, the words come from inches away, and they are accompanied by the rush Peter always feels when his mate's scent envelopes his senses.

Peter sighs, opening his eyes. "Why must you mingle with those insufferable kids?" He asks, defeated. It may not have been a green light, but it's also not a rejection, and from the look on Stiles' face, the kid's all too aware of that. "I'm quite positive that I can feel my brain cells committing suicide whenever you force me to stay in that place for longer than five minutes."

Stiles smiles. "You're just grumpy," he says fondly. "Scott's going, and I want to go, too."

"Whatever is there to do at that park, anyway?" Peter grumbles, ignoring the part about the other child. Stiles' best friend made a rock seem like a top rated conversationalist. "Because if the allure is a place to run, I would be happy to cut you loose in the Preserve. Plenty of room to run there."

Bingo.

His mate's expression shifts from exasperation to curiosity in a flash. "Could we?" Stiles asks, his eyes wide and amazed.

"We? I'm sure I said you, not us," Peter corrects, going against his better senses and reaching forward to ruffle Stiles' hair, allowing his hand to just stay there. Touching, always touching. "Nevertheless, yes, of course, we can run in the Preserve. I'll be happy to take you there. At least it's quiet, and there's nobody there to disturb us."

"I want that!" Stiles demands, leaning against Peter's touch absentmindedly. His focus is all directed to the conversation, but he can't seem to help but be drawn to Peter, wanting to be closer, to prolong the contact. It's innocent, distracted, and all the more dangerous for it. "Why haven't we run together?"

Possibly because Peter isn't sure he would be able to control himself in an environment where Stiles would start to run, in the woods, fragile and vulnerable, while Peter is tasked with being the chaser. Too much of that resembles a hunt, something werewolves would do together, and it makes him want it so badly... which is precisely why he won't do it.

Peter's wolf would like nothing better than to be allowed to chase after its mate, wild and free, in his family Preserve, with nobody else there to intervene and nothing but the noises of the wood and Stiles' intoxicating scent surrounding him.

He wanted it, maybe too much to allow it.

"I don't think you can keep up with me," he says instead, wishing to provoke Stiles away from that line of thought. This is precisely the sort of idea he shouldn't be encouraging — not while his mate is still a kid, at least.

"Hey! I can, too."

"Nope, I don't think so. Look at your little legs — I'm much taller than you, my little troublemaker."

Stiles pouts, pushing his hands down to propel himself up and into Peter's lap. With no notion of personal space whatsoever, the kid leans forward until their faces are so close together, Peter almost has to struggle to not get cross-eyed.

He wraps his arms around Stiles. "You rascal."

"Ras-cal? What does that mean?"

"It means that you really are a troublemaker of the highest caliber and that I should be awarded a medal for putting up with you all the time," he says, knowing the fondness in his eyes betray his true feelings for the kid.

Indeed, Stiles doesn't even blink. "You keep saying that," he giggles, reaching to grab a fistful of Peter's collar, holding the fabric in his tiny hands, keeping Peter trapped in his hold. "But mum says you spoil me, and that you like me loads."

Peter's nose wrinkle. "Does she, now? Well, she's obviously mistaken. I never said anything about liking you, you impossible child." He shrugs, going for an unbothered look. "In fact, I can't seem to remember who you are? What's your name again? Lucas? David? I can't recall; how weird."

"Peter!" Stiles pouts. "Stop! You know who I am."

"Me?" Peter asks, pointing at his own chest and raising a brow. "I have no idea. Did you invade my house, sir?"

"My name is—"

"What? I can't understand you!"

That's enough to drive Stiles insane. He shakes Peter back and forth with the hand still gripping his shirt, squirming in place. "Sti—"

Peter bites back a laugh, pushing his lips together to try to keep the illusion of seriousness. "Steve?" He guesses, keeping his body loose so that Stiles has an easier time shaking him. Their noses bump together, and Peter can't help but reach forward for a flash to nibble at the tip of Stiles' button nose, barely scratching the skin with his teeth. "Stuart?"

"STILES!" He shouts, rushing to get the word out before he could be interrupted again. "Stiles! That's my name. Stuart is a stupid name, anyway."

It's impossible to hold down the laughter bubbling inside him at that. Stiles sounds so petulant, pushing his bottom lip out, face all scrunched up in exasperation as Peter kept preventing him from speaking, and God, it's adorable. Stiles is already a gorgeous kid, all fair skin, and white teeth, and soft hair, and huge, bright golden eyes, but like this, up close, with no distractions and Peter's entire focus zeroed in on him, everything feels dilled up to a hundred — as if his allure is being magnified ten times over.

So he laughs, cupping Stiles' hand with his own to get his mate to stop shaking him. It's a full body laugh, the kind that comes from deep within and seems to roll across one's entire system, and it feels incredible. It's the sort of thing that happens to Peter only when he's around Stiles.

"God, kid. You are something else, alright," he chuckles once he's able to speak. "What's wrong with Stuart?"

"Peter! My name isn't Stuart!" Stiles insists, pushing Peter's head down until their foreheads touch.

And Peter's eyes soften instantly. "I know, kid. Of course I know," he assures, his voice going deeper with each other. He inhales, and the air is completely coated in Stiles' scent, fresh and amazing, and it becomes a struggle not to flash his eyes at him, not to let the wolf out for a moment so that Stiles can see it. Keeping this big secret from his mate will never not be nearly impossible, and it's moments like this that tug at Peter's self-control. "I know exactly who you are, Stiles."

Stiles lets out a humph. "You better," is all he says, although he doesn't move to put any distance between them, so Peter considers it a victory, regardless. "And you owe me. I still want to go to the park."

Ugh, great. Couldn't he have forgotten about it?

Perhaps Peter could distract him with a movie? There has to be something on Netflix that his mate will want to watch, right?

There wasn't.

They are at the goddamn park. Of course they are.

Stiles ran away the second he saw other kids, and Peter was left to suffer at the bench with the other adults who also got wrapped into driving to that awful place on such a beautiful day.

A woman is sitting at the end his bench, and she's watching him without bothering to pretend otherwise, her stare curious and hungry. Peter knows that stare, knows what it means, but he's hardly in a position to walk away, so he remains where he is and prays that she's married.

His half-hearted attempts at praying are completely disregarded, however, when she slides close and smiles in his direction. "Hey, do I know you? I just… you seem familiar. I'm Amy, by the way."

She's is at least eight years his senior, and not even close to his league, which is why Peter is quite perplexed by the awkward attempt at flirting. Did the woman truly believe that Peter would fall prey to her pathetic fumblings or was that just a terrible waste of both of their time?

"I don't think so," Peter says, forcing himself to remain polite. He doesn't turn to face her, however, watching Stiles with all the attention his mate deserves. "I'm Peter. Peter Hale."

"Is he yours?" She asks, and he can see from the corner of his eyes that she's following his line of sight to Stiles.

"Yes," Peter purrs. The human is beyond stupid, but she does ask a good question, and Peter is delighted at the chance to claim his mate openly.

"How lovely. The boy in the swing, over there, is Arthur, my youngest. Don't you just love seeing them running around?" She asks cheerfully. "They look so happy."

Peter barely has the presence of mind to keep from rolling his eyes at the cheesy display of uncontrolled emotions. "I'm not overly fond, no."

Her eyes widen, and she looks shocked — as if the mere idea is inconceivable. "You don't like children?"

Peter sneers. "Did I stutter? No? Then I shall not waste my time repeating myself."

"Why did you decide to have one, then?"

"Have one?" Peter asked, raising a brow. "You think I look old enough to be a father of one of these brats?" He is only twenty-four, for Christ's sake.

"An older brother?"

"Not likely."

He could see the confusion settling in on her face as he dodges the real question she wants to ask but can't seem to bring herself to. It's not as though Peter has a label to give her — his relationship with Stiles is complicated. Or maybe, Peter does have a label — several of them, truly — but none that she's likely to understand or accept. So he chooses to prolong her suffering, his face settled into a blank mask, giving nothing away.

It's none of her business, in the first place.

Then, Peter sees them arriving.

The McCalls. The dynamic duo. The reason Peter is suffering through a painful conversation with this unhinged woman.

In reality, Scott isn't the problem. Yeah, he's an A grade annoying fucking child, and Peter already has to put up with Talia's brats often enough that it leaves him merciless for random kids Stiles chose to befriend. But he's still just a kid. One single kid, and thus, not the actual problem, in Peter's opinion.

No, it's not Scott who Peter objects to this strongly — although he still wishes Stiles had better taste than to pick the slowest kid in the yard. It's the person who came with the kid that Peter cannot fucking stand. The self-entitled prick who, more often than not, trailed behind Scott, running his mouth about shit he had no hopes of understanding, and it clashes with Peter agenda because he's trying to abstain from killing anyone in this horrid little county.

The memory of Stiles saying that he could, though, that the man was a jerk, the implication that no one would miss him... Well, that was still so fresh in his mind, so loud and clear, as if his mate had spoken the words only yesterday, and they trigger an itch in the back of Peter's neck — a nearly dismissable need for the hunt, the blood. Nearly.

He's so distracted, he misses the man walking all the way to him.

"Hale," he greets, the words clipped and short as always.

Peter doesn't bother to turn his head up. "McCall," he says evenly, still keeping his eyes on Stiles, hoping the agent would take the hint and move to sit as far away from him as possible.

Of course, that would've been a sensible behavior, and Peter is starting to think the man is incapable of as much. It comes as not that big of a surprise when McCall drops his weight into the bench next to him, sitting between Peter and the annoying woman from before.

"Are John and Claudia around?"

"No, Stiles is with me today."

"With you? It's Friday," the man points out, as though Peter is unaware of the date.

"And?"

"Nothing, I guess," he says, too casually. "I thought Stiles would want to stay with his parents since they have a free day."

Peter hopes his smile conveys some positive emotion that he's absolutely not feeling, because he's maybe five seconds away from reaching for the man's neck and squeezing it until he damages the vocal cords there permanently. It shouldn't be possible for one single person to be so irritating, and yet, there he is, still sitting and breathing, and proving Peter's predictions wrong merely by existing.

"Is there a point to this... conversation?" Peter asks, struggling to find the appropriate word to use.

McCall pushes the fringe off his eyes. "It's polite behavior, Hale," he says, acting as though he makes a point to always be the most upstanding citizen Beacon Hills has ever seen. "Are you unfamiliar with it?"

Is this some sort of torture?

"I'm sure a man of your caliber," Peter drawls, allowing his tongue to wrap around the words in a way that leaves no questions of what he truly meant to say, "has more important business to attend than babysitting. Or is the FBI no longer in need of your invaluable service?"

A glint of anger flashes in McCall's eyes, and Peter comes close to purring in satisfaction. Talia so often denies him the pleasure of a good showdown, being the dull, unbearable person she is, and Peter misses the chance to show off his bred and born talent.

"Maybe it would interest the FBI to know why a grown man is constantly following a six-year-old around, Hale. Ever think about that?"

Oh, playing dirty so soon. How predictable. "Is that jealousy I hear, McCall?" Peter teases, batting his eyelashes. "If you wanted to ask me out, you simply had to say so. This posturing isn't as charming as you might believe it to be, I must say."

"Ask you—you son of a—," McCall splutters, chocking on the words and turning purple in a vaguely concerning way, and Peter bites back a satisfied grin.

Christ, why must most man be so obviously unresolved in their own sexuality?

It's beyond hilarious to watch the man grasp for words for a moment, and Peter does think about interrupting him to say some even more undignified comments running through his mind. However, before he has the chance, Stiles and his faithful sidekick show up. They are sweaty and covered in sand, and Scott has an unidentifiable glob of green shit plastered on his face.

As usual with kids, they completely ignore the dense atmosphere and go straight to the point, bypassing any sort of pleasantries.

"Peter, tell him I'm telling the truth," Stiles demands, shoving his wet hair out of the way with his dirty hands.

Well, that seems simple enough. "Stiles is telling the truth," he lazily repeats the words at Scott, watching in amusement as the kid's face scrunch in frustration.

"He didn't even tell you what he said to me!" Scott complains, seeming to be one wrong word from stomping his feet in protest.

"Very well. What did you say?" The question is directed towards his mate, who's already grinning in advance, tasting the sweet victory in the air. He probably knows how unlikely it is that Peter will go against whatever tale he's told, even if it is a lie.

"I was telling him that you let me drive the Batmobile," Stiles explains, rushing the words out. "Again."

"I've told you that my car is not—"

"Peter!"

He rolls his eyes, giving up. "Yes, my little troublemaker, is that what you wanted me to say? I have allowed you to put your disgusting ice-cream hands on my leather upholstery. More than once, despite my better senses."

Stiles ignores the entire sentence, merely smiling smugly in Scott's direction while the kid's eyes widen in shock. The McCall spawn had most likely expected Peter to deny it, and his little mind can hardly seem to comprehend what was going on.

"You let a child drive your car?" The McCall progenitor demands, turning to glare at Peter, probably under the delusion that it serves to frighten him.

"Absolutely. All on his own, too. Why not, don't you think? After all, a child of his stature who manages to control the pedals and the steering wheel at the same time, while watching the road ahead, surely earned the right to drive wherever he pleases."

Peter pronounce the words in a slow drawl, exaggeratedly nodding his head as he speaks, doing a very nice job at making the agent understand that he's an idiot who doesn't deserve to waste the earth precious resources. It almost too good when the man hands curls into fists, and he looks one second away from resorting to violence.

"You—" McCall starts, only to be interrupted by his own son.

"I want to drive too!" The kid screams, in a pitchy, annoying voice, and Peter barely has the presence of mind to keep himself from wincing in response as he shifts in place. "Can you take me? If Stiles can, then I should get to drive it as well."

Which is a flawed argument at best, honestly. There's just no way Peter is letting that little monster touch his precious car, especially not with those gross, dirty hands. It should be obvious. That the kid thought of himself at the same level as Stiles only serves to show how unaware he is to the worlds of differences between them.

"I don't think so."

"What?" He cries. "Why?"

"Because, as your father so generously pointed out, a child is not allowed to drive a car and I'm far too handsome to go to jail," Peter explains, ignoring the incongruence and turning to face his mate. "Are you ready to go? I thought we could stop at the grocery and buy the ingredients to make mac'n'cheese, if you'd like it."

His words cause a ripple. Stiles jumps in excitement, making a loud noise of agreement at the same time, which, in turn, causes Scott to frown and pout, clearly sensing Stiles' impending absence. They both scream "Yes!" and "No!" in unison, and it would be amusing, but Peter's patience is starting to run thin, and he wants to go home.

He gets up from the bench, and, in a single move, scoops his mate into his arms, ignoring the sand falling from his body. "Great. Let's go."

"No, wait," Scott whines, shaking his head. "Stiles, we were going to finish building the ship."

"Dude! It's mac'n'cheese," Stiles says, wrapping his legs around Peter's middle and settling into place without another prompt. Peter tries to not feel smug about it but fails horribly. "I gotta. We'll start again tomorrow at school, yeah? I promise."

The fight leaves Scott's body. "Not cool, dude. I'm much better than noodles," he complains, but sounds resigned already. He rubs his face with his hands, and Peter swears to himself that he'll get Stiles in a bath the second they get to his apartment. "Whatever, I'll see you tomorrow."

"Mac'n'cheese, Scotty. Mac'n'cheese," is all Stiles says, waving goodbye to his best friend.

Scott turns to his father. "Dad, can we get mac'n'cheese?"

Peter takes that as his cue to leave. Without a single word to the man, he turns and leaves, noticing that his mate also failed to say goodbye to McCall and wondering if he did that when he was with his parents as well.

God, it doesn't matter right now. Peter just wants to leave that infernal park and go home, where nobody is dirty, and his mate's attention is focused on him and him alone.

"Can I drive?" Stiles asks, tightening his hold on Peter's neck, clearly prepared to fight for his right to remain where he is.

"As long as we get the hell out of here, kid, you may do whatever," Peter agrees, resigned to the fact that his Jag would need a wash after today. "I need a drink or five."

Stiles hums happily, unbothered by his sour mood. "You're still grumpy."

"You know me, kiddo."

"Yep. Can we get marshmallows, too?"

"Smores?" Peter guesses, fishing his keys from his pockets.

Stiles nods, laying his head on Peter's shoulder. He's already sagging in the werewolf's arms, probably more tired than he was letting it show.

"Yeah, baby. We can get whatever you want," Peter confirms what his mate already knows, opening the door of his car and maneuvering them inside as best as he can without shifting Stiles. "Try to get some sleep 'till we get there. I'll wake you up."

The leather smell of his car mingles with the scent of Stiles' sweat, and for the first time in hours, Peter relaxes, fading back into a comfortable atmosphere. He's not a very social person, and it irritates him to be forced to interact with so many annoying people at once, without having his mate by his side, at least.

Stiles nuzzles his neck, all but pushing his face into the curve there. "I wanted to drive," he argues, but it's weak, and he's not making any moves to turn around, so Peter takes it as the useless protest it is.

"Hush, Stiles. Just take a break, kid," he says, starting the car with one hand and sliding his hand under his mate's shirt, rubbing his back with the other. The point of direct, skin-to-skin contact helps to settle him even further. "We can do this any day, there's no need to get anxious. We have time."

So much time. Years and decades and their wholes lives, if Peter had any say on it.

It seems to do the trick. "'kay," Stiles slurs in agreement, sound close to sleep already. "Wake me for the mac'n'cheese."

Peter chuckles. "I wouldn't dream of letting you miss it, baby."

And that's it.

The car is purring under his hand, his mate is drifting to sleep in his arms, the sun is no longer burning Peter's skin, and it all slides back into place, just like that.

It's perfect.

Seriously, though, fuck that park.