Peter Hale, for all of his curiosity, had never been truly surprised by anything.
Growing up with glowing eyes, razor-sharp claws, and a wolf always lurking in the back of his mind kind of took all of the supernatural mystique out of the world.
Whatever mysteries remained quickly faded after years of being groomed to become the bloody left hand of the Hale pack.
Once he'd reached his twenties, he'd met too many monsters—both creature and human alike—for people to surprise him anymore.
He'd seen too much, he'd done too much—too early and all too often—to be outmaneuvered in such a way.
Sure, he didn't know everything. His narcissism didn't actually reach levels of delusion (thank you so very much, dearest Talia), but he knew how the undercurrents behind the push and pull of the world flowed. He knew how people worked; and if he didn't at first glance, his sharp eyes and sharper mind usually only needed a second or third before the plot was spoiled for him.
So, Peter Hale didn't get surprised.
This was a truth he'd lived with for over thirty years.
(Never surprised while watching from the shadows behind his grandfather, his father, and then his older sister—)
This was a truth he'd burned with.
(Never, never surprised that the Argents finally found a way to kill his family, his pack; their cruelty as blinding as black smoke, their Hypocritical Oath nonsense as sickening as burning blue wolfsbane—)
This wasn't a truth he'd died with.
(That maddening boy, eyes too bright, chemosignals constantly in flux and slightly bitter to his nose, edged in medication and tingling with ozone—
"Do you want the bite? Yes or no?"
"I don't wanna be like you."
"Do you know what I heard just then? Your heart beating slightly faster over the words 'I. Don't. Want.'"
A pause. Those bright eyes narrowing, and the striking scent of lightning.
"Oh, that? That's just the Ritalin kicking in. Go save your nephew, you absolute weirdo.")
Maybe he had been deluded after all.
He dies with that truth shattered, his nephew's claws in his neck and the ghost of his sister's laughter ringing in his ears.
(Fuck you, Talia.)
After his resurrection—and just because he can't be (alright, isn't usually) surprised, doesn't mean that he isn't the one doing the surprising to others; honestly, it's way too easy and often delightfully fun—he notices a pattern.
That idiotic boy kept surprising him.
Kept surviving him. And surviving all of the others that followed.
Gerard.
That awful lizard boy.
Deucalion and his pack of slavering mongrels (the female, Kali, didn't even wear shoes?).
Jessica Black. Or whatever her name was—either way, her blood was red on his fingertips in the end.
The sacrifice.
Oni and fox spirits too ancient to fathom.
An assorted array of literal assassins.
Kate Argent, that had somehow become even more unfathomably unhinged as a creature of the night (Gods but he still burnburnburned with hatred for that bitch, his first goal after gaining back his alpha spark was always going to be tearing out her black heart).
Crazed doctors, chimeras, the Wild Hunt, Nazi werewolf hybrids (Peter's still unclear about the necessity of being both a Nazi and a bloodthirsty creature; seriously, one has to draw the line in the sandbox of evil somewhere—there's acceptable amounts of malice and then there's Nazis, good God people).
And that was all before the boy had graduated high school.
Maddening.
(Intriguing.)
Peter buys Derek's loft.
It's just something to do.
He takes great pleasure in asking for rent money in person.
Derek moves out seven hours later and into the loft located directly above the previous one.
Peter buys the entire building.
He brings a peace lily on his next visit for rent.
The slight slump of his nephew's shoulders is as satisfying as it is predictable.
Two weeks later, Peter steps inside his own apartment in the building, ozone causing his nostrils to flare.
He finds a manilla folder sitting on his kitchen table. Inside is a contract, suspiciously similar (eerily identical) to the lease agreement he wrote up for Derek. He flips through to the last page and blinks at the scrawling signature on the tenant line, the first name blacked out entirely.
His own (forged) signature rests next to it.
A neon pink sticky note is attached to the page.
I'm moving in, bastard.
There's a heart dotting the lowercase "i."
Infuriating.
(Objectively hilarious.)
Soon the rest of the ridiculous children move into the building he refurbished.
He charges all of them his fair share, even those that share his blood. They have murdered him, after all.
He puts the chaos demon (yes, Peter's aware that the Void has been exorcised, but it remains the aptest description of the little gremlin) in the unit on the top floor.
Mysteriously, the elevator never seems to work.
Peter still keeps the shiny new elevator key on his keychain on the off chance it ever does.
Again, he was set on fire.
Twice.
Petty little amusements are what he lives for.
He rips Kate Argent's still-beating heart out of her chest on a sunny Thursday afternoon in Mexico.
He does it without an alpha spark, and something in his own chest loosens.
Peter leaves her there, body sprawled brokenly in the sand under the blistering desert sun.
He hopes she burns as he once did.
Peter finds contentment in new routines.
He sleeps with beautiful women.
He sleeps with equally beautiful men.
He buys himself shiny new things, like a new car. He, admittedly, still drools a little over the bonnet of his Shelby 1000 Cobra.
He invades his niece and nephew's apartment with food regularly enough that they no longer immediately throw things at him or leave.
Cora asks him to teach her how to fight; he agrees, not out of misplaced familial obligation, but because there's always an excitement for any kind of fight simmering hot in his blood.
He finds a family picture of them all and places it on Derek's nightstand. It's the only apology he'll ever give.
Derek starts stocking Peter's favorite beer in the fridge.
He helps out when various monsters invade their quaint little Hellmouth.
Well, sometimes.
Again, murdered.
His hypocrisy as a murderer himself doesn't negate his feelings on the matter.
Peter treasures all of the feelings he's still able to get.
The gremlin gets attacked by a sasquatch.
A family of them, to be more precise.
Peter can't help but laugh.
And take up drinking.
Peter finds legitimate comfort in reading. Everything from dry magical texts to trashy romance novels grace his shelves.
Knowing things—all kinds of things—is his, well, thing.
He's taken to reading in front of his fireplace at night, a glass of something amber and capable of singing the back of his throat balanced in his hand. He likes to sit on the obscenely comfortable leather couch he bought, occasionally glancing over at his bizarre new collection of plants resting on the shelf to his right.
Each new potted monstrosity had been accompanied by a neon-colored sticky note.
The most recent, a poinsettia with a strangely threatening aura, had one that was bright yellow attached.
Happy Holidays, creep.
Ridiculous.
Derek stares at it every time he comes over to brood.
The boy not only names the sasquatch child, but he befriends it.
The chaos gremlin is baffling in the amount of sheer idiocy he possesses.
Baffling.
(Endearing.)
Peter still shuts off his electricity for the dead animal smell wafting from the balcony.
Dead skunks, honestly.
Chris Argent could drop dead, and Peter would neither notice nor care.
He's an animal Peter understands, but he isn't one he respects.
Peter is a creature that hates with his entire being. He can burn hot, he can burn cold, but he always does just that—he burns.
Chris and his newfound, hippy-dippy, wishy-washy bullshit in regard to hunting (now with ethics! and empathy!) is anathema to Peter. It reeks of weakness of character rather than some sort of divine personal growth.
Peter knows that Chris hasn't actually learned anything new about the world they live in. The idea that not all creatures were deserving of torture and death isn't fucking new. Chris didn't think about it because he didn't want to.
Chris has only changed his ways because his daughter took a liking to bedding werewolves and told him to get in line.
Pathetic.
So, Peter doesn't offer Chris Argent any more time in his thoughts. He certainly doesn't offer him any of his prayers (Peter wouldn't even if he were the kind of schmuck to do such a thing).
Peter did think for a few seconds about getting Chris a card after ripping out his sister's heart, but it seemed that Hallmark didn't think to manufacture any "Sorry-I'm-not-sorry that I brutalized your sister in a Mexican ghost town" cards.
An unfortunate oversight, to be sure.
Peter doesn't think about Chris Argent, so it's strange when he gets a call from the man one evening as he's shopping for groceries. He props his phone on his shoulder as he contemplates organic tomatoes.
"Have you finally fallen and can't seem to get up? I think you've misdialed the Life Alert hotline."
There's a slight pause over his greeting and then a loud sigh. "The pack is having their monthly get-together."
Peter hums into his phone. "And you're calling me why?"
"Wanted to know if you were planning on stopping by."
That makes Peter pause.
As much as Peter doesn't think about Chris, the reverse is also true. "Is my attendance necessary?"
Chris laughs lowly.
Laughs.
Truly bizarre.
"I think you'll be interested."
Now Peter's suspicious. "Consider me intrigued. Is it at the usual time?"
He can hear Chris grin over the phone. "Yes. But…"
Peter raises an eyebrow. "But…?
"It's at Stiles's apartment this time."
Well, that's certainly…less than interesting. "Fine. I'll be there. Though, if you bore me, it'll be your head. Or maybe all four of your tires slashed. Again."
"Hale, that was you, you son—"
And Peter hangs up the call.
Satisfied, he turns back to the produce and frowns over the selection.
Four dollars for an organic tomato?
And people wonder why he's a killer.
Peter gets home and leisurely unpacks his groceries. Time is definitely not of the essence when attending one of the Scooby Gang's monthly bitch-fests. He'd been considering dabbling in villainy again if only to change the subjects they constantly talked about.
Derek convinced him to just stop showing up unless something important happened.
Peter only agreed after Derek bribed him with a particularly strong bottle of Merlot.
When Peter arranges the last of his groceries, he wanders into his bathroom to shower. He rolls his neck under the hot spray, debating with himself on whether or not he's going to slash Argent's tires regardless of what happens at the meeting.
He agrees with himself that he probably will.
Peter dresses himself and grabs his keys, smirking to himself as he walks into the elevator.
The low hum of it turning on and rising to the top floor is music to his ears.
The doors open quietly into a darkened apartment. Peter steps out and follows the only light source into the living space.
He cocks his head to the side, wondering at the two heartbeats he can hear. Both are elevated, but one body has a distinct rhythm, all hummingbird quickness and smelling strangely…heady where it should be bitter with lightning.
He can hear harsh breathing, and smell the lust in the air.
For some reason, the pit of Peter's stomach tells him not to continue forward, that doing so will change something fundamental.
He turns the corner anyway.
The sight before him shocks him so completely that he literally stumbles backward.
"Your fucking mouth, Stiles!" Chris Argent hisses, his head thrown back. "It's criminal, baby. Just look at you—" Chris does, opening his eyes to look down at Stiles, only for his eyes to catch Peter as he slumps against a support beam.
Peter can feel his own heartbeat pick up, pupils dilating instantly and adrenaline causing his breathing to rattle in his throat.
Peter can't look away from Chris, holding his heated gaze for a few tense moments before looking down at Stiles, whose head hasn't left Argent's lap.
His eyes follow the steady movements of broad, naked shoulders as Stiles bobs his head up and down a little faster, making himself choke on the thick cock in his mouth.
Peter is hard, aching in his jeans.
He's never gotten so hard this quickly in his life.
He feels saliva pool in his mouth as his eyes drift farther down Stiles's body, his leanly muscled waist leading to tight white underwear, the fabric stretched around an unexpectedly pert and rounded ass.
Peter can barely tear his eyes away from Stiles as Chris moans. He looks back up and is somewhat surprised to find Chris staring straight at him.
The bastard smiles at him knowingly.
Peter feels his claws sharpen at his fingertips as Chris wraps his hand back up in Stiles's tousled hair and holds his head still for a second. "Okay, Stiles," Chris growls, his tone heated and possessive. Stiles arches his back and Peter follows the movement unconsciously.
He looks back up at Chris when the man pauses, causing Stiles to gag wetly and a shiver to go up Peter's spine. He meets Argent's smug gaze with a flash of arctic blue in his eyes. "You can go faster now. Show us what you can do with your filthy fucking mouth, baby."
And he watches.
Peter watches as Stiles lifts his head and gasps for air, lips and tongue raining obscene kisses along the side of the cock in his face.
He watches as Stiles drags his hands down his thighs, fingers gripping into the muscle harshly as Stiles swallows down Chris's cock once more.
Peter watches so intently that he can feel the ghost of Stiles Stilinski's mouth wrapped around his own cock, which is still unbearably hard and leaking into his pants.
Every harsh suck, every ragged breath, every loud slurp—he feels it all.
The whispered endearments from Chris to Stiles make the whole scene even more surreal.
More alluring.
Promises of reciprocation, groans of satisfaction, remembrances of carnal daydreams—they all cause Peter's mouth to finally dry.
But it's the heartfelt declarations of adoration and love that cause Peter's heart to skip a beat.
Peter's eyes glaze over as Stiles grips Argent's hips as he comes down his throat, a soft moan shaking its way through Stiles's body.
Peter heaves in a breath and straightens, tongue tempted to say something—anything.
He doesn't, though.
Peter leaves.
He leaves before he has to face the unbearable knowledge that what just happened, as tempting and sexy and unbelievably hot as it was, didn't happen to him.
Peter doesn't know when it happened, doesn't know the how of it—but can take a few guesses at the why—but Peter wants Stiles Stilinski. He didn't know before this moment, as he bursts back into his own apartment and rests his head against the cool elevator doors, but it's true.
Peter aches with want.
Stiles has always stood out from everyone else in Peter's mind, intriguing in his ability to cause chaos wherever he goes and always standing tall with defiance (however stupid such a decision usually is).
He knew in the back of his mind that he liked Stiles, but it was always categorized in the same way that Peter knew he liked leather boots and fast cars. Peter is, after all, a connoisseur of certain things—of sharp, dangerous, wild things. Stiles had ticked all of those boxes, but like boots and cars, Peter's mind had relegated Stiles to mere amusement, to something that had been an occasional source of true surprise for Peter.
Unique, but nothing extraordinary.
As Peter considers the wide range of emotions he was just forced to feel—hit upside the head with an emotional brick, as it were—Peter finally understands what it is to feel true surprise.
Along with a delightful array of other strong emotions, the most prominent at the moment being raging lust.
At the core of Peter's revelation, Peter finally understands his want for Stiles.
It's not love, what he feels—but it's certainly more than some simple, petty desire.
Well, shit.
Peter, dazed and deliriously horny, walks into his bedroom and lays down on his bed. He unzips his jeans and pushes them down his hips. He decides that any further introspection on his part is going to need to happen after he gets a (very, very literal and firm) grip on himself.
As he shudders through an orgasm, his cock remains hard in his hand.
Introspection is officially scheduled as a problem for tomorrow.
He's too busy with thoughts of bright amber eyes and the delicate arch of a strong, naked back to do much of anything else.
"Peter, please." Stiles moans, face digging into the pillow under his cheek.
Peter grips Stiles's hips harder, forcing him into a deeper stretch. He uses both hands to grab onto Stiles's ass, his thumbs parting each side until he can see the obscene stretch of Stiles's hole around his cock.
"Please what, Stiles?" he demands, continuing his steady pace in and out of Stiles. The wet sound of their bodies joining together causes the wolf in the back of his mind to come forward, wanting even deeper into the body trembling under him.
"Please let me come," Stiles whispers. There's sweat beading at his hairline and dripping down his neck. He rolls his head to the side and lets one blown pupil meet Peter's intense gaze. "I want to come on your cock, Peter. Please make me come!"
Stiles hiccups as Peter knocks him flat onto the bed with his body, his muscled thigh forcing Stiles's own to bend up further, widening the split of his legs and allowing Peter to rest his weight along the writhing length of his back.
Peter snaps his hips, putting his whole body into the motion as he bites at Stiles's neck.
Stiles wails as he comes, his cock rubbing against Peter's silk sheets.
"Good boy," Peter pants in his ear. "Good fucking boy, coming on my cock like a slut." He reaches a hand under Stiles and grips him loosely, jerking him off in time with his thrusts. Stiles can't help but buck under him, sensitive but still so eager for it all.
"I'm not letting go until I get another, Stiles," Peter promises over Stiles's cries of pleasure-pain. "I want another from you, sweetheart. I want—"
And then Peter wakes up, gasping for air.
He's sweating, ruddy cock spent against his thigh, and cum trickling into his navel.
Unfortunately, he's alone.
Even more unfortunately, this is the fifth night in a row that Peter's had a wet dream about Stiles Stilinski.
It brings to mind that trite cliché that once is an accident, twice is a coincidence, and three times is a pattern—well, what about five times? What does that mean?
Peter suspects that it means he's fucked.
(What a delicious thought.)
"Why did you do it?"
Chris whips out a rather large and shiny gun and waves it over to where Peter's sitting in the corner, legs crossed nonchalantly on the coffee table in front of him.
Peter reaches for the lamp to his right and clicks it on, illuminating Argent's apartment.
Chris huffs and tucks his gun back into its holster, kicking his foot backward to shut the door without taking his eyes off Peter. He walks over to the seat across from Peter and squints down at him disapprovingly. "Could you be any more sinister?"
Peter deadpans. "Yes. Of course I could, Christopher."
Argent thinks about that for a couple of seconds, nods agreeably, and then sits down. He looks at Peter for a few charged moments before he answers Peter's question. "I saw the way you looked at him."
"And how did I look at him?"
"Like you wanted him," Chris states plainly. "Like you wouldn't stop wanting him." He sighs and tugs off his jacket, tossing it onto the couch. Chris slumps back in his chair and props a fist under his chin. "I didn't know exactly what you wanted from him, but I took an educated guess."
Peter hums and lifts an eyebrow. "A lot of those longing looks in the mirror, hm?"
He can see Chris grinding his teeth. "Yes, actually," Chris grits out. "But I actually did something about it."
It's Peter's turn to stiffen, his fingers flexing aggressively against his thighs. He narrows his eyes. "And that brings us back around to why you did it. People in loving relationships don't usually set up their partners for unknowing exhibitionism—"
"Stiles knew you were there."
That stops Peter short. His heart rate picks up. "He knew?"
Chris nods. "I told him. He knew you were there."
Peter swallows.
"And we are in a loving relationship," Chris continues, eyes hard. He searches Peter's face and takes in his body language. "But even though he's never said anything, I know how he feels about you. I know how he is with you. I've seen the way he looks at you."
Fire burns in Peter's sternum. "And how does he look at me?"
"Like he wants you," Chris smiles wryly. "Like he wouldn't stop wanting you." He leans forward and stares Peter down. "We've talked about this in detail. I know you hate me—"
"Correct," Peter drawls.
Chris rolls his eyes and rubs a hand through his beard. "But I love Stiles. I'm in love with him. He's all I need, and while I firmly believe that he'd be just fine with only our relationship, I also know…" he pauses. "Look, the way I grew up didn't allow for much emotional growth or attachment. We weren't exactly a loving family. It led to some…interesting character quirks. I'm rather possessive of the things and people that I allow myself to love."
Chris ticks off his fingers as he lists out, "My wife, my daughter, and now Stiles."
Peter isn't surprised at the short list. He's not surprised by the absent names.
"They're mine," Chris continues. "And they always will be. That won't ever change, and because I know that it won't, I didn't feel any jealousy when I noticed Stiles looking. I still don't, even after talking about how he feels."
Their eyes meet, a seriousness permeating the air between them. "I've told him that if he wants a relationship with you, that I'd be fine with it. More than fine, considering that I think it would do you a world of good and prevent you from becoming some sort of supervillain, which is something you and I both know has a chance of actually happening because you're you."
Peter doesn't deny it.
Chris leans forward. "So, if you want to try it out, I won't interfere. We'll see how things go. But know this," his voice drops and starts dripping acid. "If you can't commit yourself to him, if you're planning on screwing him and then screwing him over, if you can't even try, then just don't. Leave him alone."
He stands from his seat and towers over Peter. "Because if you do anything to hurt him, I'll gut you like the rabid dog I know you are and bury you where you buried my sister, just to piss you off." Chris gives him one more hard look before he turns around and walks into his kitchen.
"Now get the fuck out of my apartment."
Peter leaves, a resolve settling between his shoulders.
He smiles to himself as he walks away from Argent's apartment building, twirling his keys around his fingers as he stops next to a familiar black luxury SUV.
He takes out his phone and scrolls for Stiles's number, huffing at the ridiculous picture Stiles had sent him for his contact photo.
It's Stiles from this past Halloween, holding a blaster and dressed up as Han Solo, his other arm wrapped around the baby sasquatch who's baring its teeth at the camera.
Peter's thumb hovers over the call button for a second before he decides. He slowly circles the vehicle as he waits for the call to go through.
The phone rings four times before the line picks up.
"Hey, Zombie-Wolf, what's up?"
Peter feels his lips twitch. "Stiles," he purrs into the phone. "Are you busy Friday?"
There's silence on the other end.
One, two, three—
"No," Stiles chokes out. "I'm as free as a bird on Friday. Why?"
"Would you like to go out to dinner with me that night?"
Peter can hear that hummingbird heartbeat skip through the tinny speaker.
"Yeah," Stiles breathes out. "Yes, I'd like that."
"I'll pick you up at six. Don't bother waiting by the door, I'll be sure to use the elevator."
Peter takes great pleasure in the spluttering he hears over the phone. He can practically see Stiles's eyes narrowing in outrage.
"I knew it! You bast—"
Peter hangs up the call.
He starts walking towards his own car, something indescribable and warm curling deep in his gut.
It's a good feeling, whatever it is.
(It didn't stop him from doubling back and slashing Argent's tires, though.)