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It was New Year's Eve, and Peter was already regretting having come to this party.
He was outside on the back porch, slowly sipping at one of the cheap beers that seemed to be a staple at these high school events, having laced it with a wolfsbane tincture he'd brought from home just to make it more palatable. As the only adult at the party—the Sheriff was at work and Melissa had a date with Chris Argent, which was a relationship Peter had to admit he hadn't seen coming—Peter was categorically refusing to responsibly watch over the gaggle of mixed supernatural high school students and had instead escaped to the backyard as soon as he could, standing out in the chilly California evening and watching the few clouds cross the dark sky. The loud pop music was easier to ignore outside the house, and it also meant he wasn't subjected to seeing drunk teenagers with no sense of decorum putting their hands all over each other.
He didn't even know most of the miscellaneous teenagers of Scott McCall's pack and honestly, he didn't want to. Malia had asked him to come along, though, and he hadn't wanted to say no to her—even though after greeting him she seemed to be spending most of the night glued to Scott's side. Peter was sincerely hoping that relationship was just a fad she'd get over soon; he shuddered to think of Malia trying to make them 'get along' on a more permanent basis.
Though it might have been that relationship that warmed Scott to him, at least enough that he let Peter exist on the fringes of his pack, staying in Beacon Hills. If he hadn't, Peter would have left town before letting himself be locked up again; as it was, he was happy to let them all believe he was staying here for Malia.
And it wasn't a lie. It just wasn't the whole truth.
He heard the lilt of Stiles' voice from inside the house and couldn't help but smile ruefully at himself. Here he was, the once-great, once-renowned Peter Hale, standing in the back garden of the house of an Alpha he'd humiliatingly failed to depose who was now dating his daughter, trying not to eavesdrop on one specific teenage boy who held far too much of his heart. He had barely seen Stiles since the train station; they'd exchanged a brief nod after the fight with the Ghost Riders and after that, well, Stiles had had school to catch up on and Peter had had his life to rebuild, again. It was easier this time to pick up the remains than it had been after his resurrection, but his involuntary institutionalization had really put a damper on the vague thoughts he'd had of renewing his license and picking up law again.
He didn't need to work, but he'd enjoyed it, once. Now that seemed so long ago it felt like a dream.
What wasn't a dream, though, was the back door sliding open, Stiles' scent and heartbeat and footsteps heralding his arrival before Peter even turned to face him. Limned by the light through the glass sliding doors, Stiles looked ethereal, the angles of his face and the mess of his hair drawing Peter's gaze as Stiles slid the door closed behind him. Stiles turned to face him and smiled hesitantly when he caught Peter's eyes, but he approached Peter with an easy confidence as he walked up to stand beside him.
"Sick of the party already?" Peter said, aiming for condescending, but it only made Stiles smile.
"Yeah, completely." He shifted to put his back against the railing, facing Peter straight-on. "And if it's bad for me in there I can only imagine it's hell for you. Isn't that why you're out here? Or…" He squinted, giving Peter a considering look. "Is it Malia and Scott?"
Peter winced despite himself. Stiles laughed.
"Regretting coming already, huh?"
"Oh, I passed regret at least an hour ago," Peter said, just to see Stiles' smile widen. Stiles' eyes were bright but clear, and though he smelt like cheap beer he didn't have the telltale reek of inebriation; all the attention he was giving Peter was genuine, unaltered, and Peter greedily grasped for more. "And what brings you out here? Getting fresh air?"
"Yeah," Stiles said, briefly tipping his head back and exposing the long line of his throat as the cool breeze ruffled his hair. He ran a hand through it and gave Peter a sidelong look. "And I wanted to talk to you."
Peter raised his eyebrows, not bothering to hide his curiosity. "You did, did you?"
A brief smile crossed Stiles' face before it faded. "Yeah. I wanted to thank you. And apologize."
Peter tipped his head, but Stiles held up a hand before he could talk.
"Hey, wait, no, don't start. I need to say this." Stiles' expression was firm and serious. "You were right, you know? In that train station. You saved my life—"
"Twice," Peter interjected, and Stiles' mouth twitched.
"Twice," he agreed. "And I… kinda treated you like shit."
"Stiles…"
"No, let me talk," Stiles said, and Peter sighed and kept his mouth shut. "I know what you're gonna say—that that's how we talk to each other anyway, and you're right, but…" He let a breath out through his teeth and glanced away. "You must know I've been wary of you for years."
Peter raised his eyebrows. "You have good instincts."
"Yeah, but…" Stiles huffed and ran a hand through his hair again, mussing it even further, then gestured. "It's not like I'm afraid of you, Peter, I know you won't hurt me, but I've kinda been taking that for granted. It's just… you struck a nerve, I guess. When you said no one remembered us."
"'We don't exist.'" Peter's voice was quiet as he hearkened back to that months-ago conversation. "'And we are already forgotten.'"
"It's hard because—you probably don't know anything about this," Stiles confessed, "but me and Scott had a fight not that long before that. And we made up, but I don't think… I don't think we'll ever be the same again."
A dozen little taunts came to Peter's tongue; Stiles gave him a knowing look.
"Yeah, just say it."
"I'm not surprised," Peter decided on, swallowing the meaner comments down. "Let me guess, something to do with the True Alpha's unshakable morality?"
"Yeah, you can say that." Stiles gave him a wry smile. "We're growing up, I guess. And growing apart. But… back then, when you said that…"
"You were afraid," Peter said. His voice softened. "I know."
Stiles wrinkled his nose. "Ugh, you werewolves and your noses. Still. You didn't deserve that."
It felt like it meant nothing to Stiles to admit, but for Peter, it meant more than he could say. "You were right," Peter said, finally, truthfully. "No one missed me."
"Oh, come on," Stiles said, rolling his eyes, "you've got Malia, don't you? She had this huge hole where her bio dad would be without you. And Derek and Cora. And where would Scott be without the werewolf who bit him?"
"Ah, yes," Peter said dryly, "my distant extended family and my daughter who barely knows me. And Scott? That's the best you can do?"
"Hey, where'd we even be if you hadn't bitten Scott?" Stiles gave him a sly grin, inviting him to share the joke; Peter couldn't help but smile back. "I bet you've regretted that."
"Oh, a hundred times over."
"But I wouldn't know you without it," Stiles said, and Peter studied him thoughtfully.
"You've always been sticking your nose into trouble, sweetheart. You'd have found your way into this world one way or another."
"That's… oddly reassuring, actually." Stiles companionably bumped Peter's foot with his shoe. "And hey, I missed you. I didn't realize it, but there were a few times…"
"Not that that would've helped us if we were both stuck in that train station," Peter said, and Stiles huffed.
"Dude, I'm trying to apologize, don't ruin it."
Peter crossed his arms and leant back against the house, putting on an engaged expression. "Very well. Let's hear it."
Stiles gave him a disgruntled look. "Fine. I'm sorry, Peter. Somehow I've gotten so used to speaking against you Scott had to pull me aside and tell me you'd redeemed yourself, you know? He gave me this whole speech about how you'd held onto my keys and helped get me back and—" He cut himself off, shaking his head and smiling.
"Scott did that?" Peter said, bemused.
"Yeah, right? So—here it is. I know you're not the bad guy, Peter."
"Do you think I would've saved just anyone in that train station?" Peter asked. "Come now, Stiles, we understand each other, don't we? That's why we both aimed to hurt."
"You were just as afraid as I was," Stiles said. "I knew that."
"We both knew that," Peter said. "I didn't hold it against you."
"It just… it felt awful." Stiles' expression was disconcertingly sincere. "Watching you go into that portal—looking back at me—knowing that you might be throwing your life away. To save Malia, yeah, but… to save me, too." He met Peter's gaze without hesitation. His eyes caught the light, nearly golden in hue. "So… thank you, Peter."
Sometimes it was impossible for Peter to conceptualize how much he adored this boy; how much he appreciated having had the chance to see Stiles grow into himself, his courage and his loyalty hardening to a steel core. How Peter had burned for him once, twice already; how he would burn for him again if he had to. "Stiles," Peter said, unable to find more words, and Stiles gave him a crooked smile.
"Yeah. That was what I wanted to say." He looked away and shifted his weight on his feet. "So, uh, I guess I should…"
"Stay," Peter said impulsively, reaching out to grab Stiles' arm before he could turn away. Stiles looked back at him, his eyes wide and curious, and Peter reluctantly let him go. "You don't actually want to go back in there, do you?"
"No," Stiles said, "I don't." He smiled at Peter with a surprising new warmth, then stepped back beside him, their shoulders brushing. Looking out at the darkened night sky, they shared a companionable moment of silence before Stiles spoke. "Man, I can't believe it's the new year already. How long have we known each other now?"
"Nearly two years," Peter said, and Stiles glanced at him, considering.
"It was about this time of year, huh? It feels like so much longer."
"Don't forget the months we spent not existing," Peter added wryly, and Stiles laughed.
"God, don't remind me. I've had so much schoolwork to catch up on, and college applications, and…" He sighed, clearly burdened. Peter raised an eyebrow and prompted him.
"Don't tell me it's giving you trouble."
"Not the work, obviously," Stiles said, "but figuring out what I want to do for the next four years of my life? …I had a plan for it, you know? Back before"—he waved a hand—"all of this. I was gonna get into the FBI, use my investigation skills for good. But…"
"You still could," Peter told him, and Stiles smiled, briefly.
"Yeah. I know. But I don't know if I want to anymore." Stiles gave Peter a sideways glance. "I just realized I have no idea what you did for college."
"English and law." Peter gave him a light smirk. "Thinking of following in my footsteps?"
"…Law, huh?" Stiles pressed his lips together, looking out at the garden. "Maybe I should."
"…I think you would make an excellent lawyer, if you put your mind to it," Peter said, after a long moment. "But what do you want, Stiles? Anyone could suggest something—mythology, magic, supernatural studies, law, your original criminology—but only you can make that choice."
"What I want, huh…?" Stiles let out a long, slow breath and lifted his head to stare out at the dark sky. The light from the house cast half his face in shadow, catching on his eyelashes. "My dad asked me this morning if I had any resolutions for the new year."
"Do you?"
"Do you?" Stiles asked, turning slightly to face him, his eyes fixed on Peter's face. "What do you want, Peter?"
The smirk came easily to Peter's face. "Just the same as every year."
"To take over the world?" Stiles teased, but then his expression softened. "Have you heard from Derek and Cora?"
"…They called me after we came back," Peter admitted. It was an easy confession to make to Stiles, even when he'd have struggled to say it to anyone else. But then, no one else would have asked; no one else would have cared. "It was good to hear from them."
Stiles searched Peter's face; Peter wasn't sure what for. Then Stiles asked, "No luck on the Kate front, huh?"
An involuntary laugh was startled out of him. "Stiles!"
"What, are you saying she isn't on your list?" Stiles grinned at him. "Come on, Peter, I know you better than that."
"You do, don't you?" Peter couldn't help but smirk back; Stiles' eyes were shining with good humor. "I haven't been able to track her down, no."
"Well, if you get a lead on her or the old man…"
"Are you suggesting what I think you are, sweetheart?"
"I wouldn't say no to a roadtrip, that's all." Stiles waggled his eyebrows and Peter couldn't help but be caught up by his infectious smile. "Really, though, is that all you want? Nothing else?"
"It might surprise you," Peter said, amused, "but most things I want, I get. I'm not my self-flagellating nephew; I don't tend to deny myself."
For some reason, that made Stiles frown; a moment later, though, he was eyeing Peter critically, a tiny knowing smirk at the corner of his mouth. "Sure. Like with your relationship with Malia."
"Stiles," Peter threatened, narrowing his eyes without any real heat, and Stiles laughed.
"Okay, okay, I won't call you out. It's fine, keep pretending you're the big bad wolf."
"All the better to eat you," Peter replied archly, and Stiles' answering smile warmed him through. "And don't think I didn't notice you avoiding the question."
"About my resolutions?" Stiles bit his lip; Peter couldn't stop himself from watching as he released it, moist and pink with the faint fading imprint of his teeth. "They're nothing big, I guess. I think the main thing is… I want to be truer to myself this year." He glanced over and met Peter's eyes. "You look surprised."
"I didn't think that was much of a problem for you," Peter admitted.
"No, you're right," Stiles agreed, and took a few steps forward to rest his elbows on the railing, tilting his face toward the stars. "It wasn't. It shouldn't be. But… I'm not the same person I was a year ago, or two years ago, you know? After everything that's happened…"
Peter studied him thoughtfully. Stiles had come to the party before Peter had, of course, but the few of his conversations Peter had caught snatches of were light and inconsequential. More to the point, he had arrived alone. "You broke up with Lydia?"
"I'm not sure we were even really together that long," Stiles said, not looking at Peter at all. "But we could tell we were better as friends—it wasn't working out. And she'd noticed… I didn't really want her. Not like that. And that I was trying to turn myself back into someone who could." He sighed, his scent gaining a touch of bitter resignation that Peter wished he could soothe. Then he looked back at Peter and managed a smile. "What, no platitudes?"
"Would you even expect that from me, Stiles?" Peter asked, and Stiles' smile turned more genuine, his scent warming.
"Yeah, I can't imagine what you'd say. No, wait, let me guess—'Please, lament your stupid teenage relationship woes somewhere I can't hear them.'"
Peter clicked his tongue. "I think I'd use 'high school' instead."
"Oh, great," Stiles said, rolling his eyes. "I'm eighteen and nearly graduated, you know—it'll be 'college student' soon enough."
"Yes," Peter said, amused. "I know."
When Stiles had turned eighteen, Peter had still been erased from existence, or so he thought. He still struggled to conceptualize that stretch of time he'd been trapped in the train station—those endless months before Stiles had appeared, smelling like fear and panic, snapping Peter out of that fog quickly enough to save him. He hadn't realized it before, when he was trapped in Eichen House, or perhaps he just hadn't wanted to admit it: that his anchor wasn't power, or revenge.
It was sheer idiocy for his wolf to choose Stiles, this brilliant, beautiful boy who still struggled to decide if he should treat Peter like an enemy in front of other people, whose discomfort eased and scent sweetened with shared amusement and arousal when they were alone. But it was that sheer idiocy that had saved Stiles' life—and saved Peter, too.
Peter couldn't feel any regret for his choice, subconscious or not. And Stiles had, as always, proven himself to be worth it.
"…Yeah, well," Stiles said, giving him a narrow-eyed look, "that's why that's my resolution."
To be true to himself—Peter had never thought Stiles to be anything less. But his sweet boy still struggled with confidence in the strangest of circumstances. "High school isn't the end of your life, Stiles," Peter said, finally. "It should be only the start."
Stiles smiled again. "Yeah. I've been trying to remember that."
"I suppose yours has been plagued with more problems than most," Peter allowed, and Stiles gave him a dry look as Peter stepped up next to him by the railing, their shoulders brushing.
"Yeah, no thanks to you."
"Are you still holding that against me?" Peter sighed, melodramatically aggrieved, and Stiles laughed again, giving Peter a sly glance.
"No, I'm not. That doesn't mean I'll let you forget it, though."
"As expected of you, sweetheart."
"I don't know if I should take that as a compliment or not," Stiles said with amusement. His scent had sweetened at the petname and Peter couldn't help the way his gaze lingered on Stiles' face, not when he was looking at Peter with such open warmth.
"I meant it as one," Peter said, and Stiles huffed a laugh.
"Sometimes I wonder what you really think of me. And then you come out with stuff like that and—" Stiles cut himself off, shaking his head, and then glanced back at the house as the muffled sound from inside grew louder. "Is it time yet?"
"Still a minute to go," Peter said. They'd turned on the TV for the fireworks show; he could hear the countdown easily through the noise. "I'm surprised none of them are out here with fireworks."
"Oh, no, that was my dad's number one rule for holidays for Scott and me. No fireworks. I got all those grisly accident stories, too." Peter raised an eyebrow at him and Stiles shrugged, smiling. "Yeah, I know, Scott's a werewolf now, but old habits die hard, I guess. The family down the street usually have some, though." He gestured vaguely to the opposite side of the house, then met Peter's eyes, his expression set in a thoughtful cast. "What do you think of me, Peter?"
Peter raised both his eyebrows. "I've told you that I like you, Stiles."
Stiles wet his lips; they glistened in the faint light. "Yeah, but…"
"But?"
The countdown had started. Inside the house, the chorus of voices was loud enough even Stiles would be able to hear them. Stiles was still watching him, an unfamiliar uncertainty in his gaze, and Peter wasn't sure what he was looking for.
Then Stiles briefly closed his eyes and took a deep breath; when he opened them, his face was filled with resolve.
As the countdown reached one, then zero—as Peter's ears were filled with raucous cheers and the pop of fireworks—Stiles said in a rush, "Okay, please don't stab me," grabbed Peter's shoulders, and kissed him.
And suddenly, finally, Peter could see the shape of what Stiles had been working up to all night. He didn't know what this meant to Stiles, what Stiles wanted out of this—a new year's kiss, something brief or something more—but Peter was never someone to give up a chance to have exactly what he wanted, and when it was freely offered for Peter's taking? He deepened the kiss, setting his hands on Stiles' hips and pulling him in close, letting himself indulge in the scent and sound and taste of him. Peter kissed him until Stiles was breathless, the scent of his arousal rich and heady in Peter's nose. Stiles chased his mouth when Peter made to pull back and Peter obliged him, kissing him again as Stiles pressed their bodies flush together, Stiles' hands rising to cradle Peter's jaw. Stiles' gasping breaths, his soft, inviting mouth, the intoxicating smell of his want—it was all Peter's, at least for now.
The back door opened with a rush of sound and Stiles hurriedly pulled back as light spilled across the porch, but it was just one of the newer members of Scott's pack, who quickly gestured at a few others and led them around the other side of the house, paying them no attention at all. Peter kept his eyes on Stiles, on the flush of his cheeks and the plush wetness of his bottom lip as he worried it with his teeth. Embarrassment rose in Stiles' scent as he met Peter's eyes. "Stop looking at me like that," he hissed under his breath, and Peter couldn't help his smile.
"Oh? Like what, exactly?"
"You know what," Stiles said, but when he tried to shove Peter, Peter caught his arm. Then, inspired, Peter lifted it like he had just two years ago, letting his eyes shine blue as he pressed his nose to the thin skin of Stiles' wrist, where his scent was potent and his heartbeat was thready and fast.
"Like you smell delicious, sweetheart?" Peter asked with a smirk.
"Yeah," Stiles said, giving him a narrow look undermined by the pretty flush of blood in his cheeks. "Like you want to put your teeth in me."
Peter couldn't help the tease: "All the better to eat you up." Stiles huffed and pulled his arm away, and Peter easily let him go, his smirk fading as he looked at Stiles seriously. "I'll put my teeth in you if you want it, Stiles. But do you want it?"
Stiles' face was still pink with his blush, his mouth still red from Peter's kisses. But he met Peter's gaze with an equal resolve; that courage and daring Peter had always admired in him lending him a steady certainty. "Yes. I want it. I want to try."
Peter stepped closer, close enough he could feel the radiating heat of Stiles' body. "And what do you want to try?"
"What do you want to give?" Stiles asked in return. "Because, Peter…"
He wet his lips, his tongue darting out, and Peter couldn't help but kiss him again, letting himself linger because he could; because Stiles was willing and eager for more. As Peter pulled back, Stiles wrinkled his nose, opening his mouth; before he could say anything Peter said, "Sweetheart," and Stiles' scent warmed as he met Peter's eyes.
"Yeah?"
For Stiles, Peter could say it; for Stiles, he could mean it. "Whatever you want."
"Huh?" Stiles said, his eyes wide, his mouth invitingly open. It took more self-control that Peter would admit to resist the urge to kiss him again.
"Whatever you want," Peter repeated himself, instead. He put as much sincerity in his voice as he could, meeting Stiles' eyes without hesitation. "A night for you to remember? It's yours. But a month, a year? At that point, Stiles… I'll convince you to make it a lifetime."
"Peter," Stiles said, his voice tremulous; he leaned in, his breath warm on Peter's lips, and Peter was captivated by the flutter of his eyelashes over his dark, shining eyes. "Yes. Please."
"Yes?" Peter said, and Stiles smiled.
"Yes. All of it. I want to be yours. And—I want you to be mine."
It was all Peter had ever dreamed of. Well, that and having Stiles laid out on his bed, that mole-dotted skin bared to Peter's eyes, clutching at Peter's silk sheets as he begged and cried. But one thing could lead to another; and Peter did so like getting what he wanted.
"Happy new year," he said, pleased, and kissed Stiles again until they were both breathing hard, until Stiles' eyes were shining bright with desire. "Should we head back to mine?"
"Yeah, okay," Stiles said, and this time when he wet his lips Peter knew he was doing it to draw Peter's eyes. "Happy new year; what'd you say, you'd give me a night to remember?"
"Oh, sweetheart," Peter said, warmly, "I'll give you much more than that."
"…You said a lifetime," Stiles said, still sounding tentative, and Peter smiled.
"Yes. And I intend it to be a memorable one—starting tonight."
Stiles yelped as Peter nipped at his mouth, flashing his eyes and fangs; then understanding dawned and he gave Peter a sly grin as he hopped the railing and dashed around the side of the house. Peter's instincts itched at him to chase him down, his anchor, his mate—but he held himself back, letting Stiles get a few seconds' head start.
Yes; Peter's dreams were definitely coming true tonight.