Chapter Text
The kid is the best thing that’s happened to Chris in years. He’s a goldmine of guileless innocence with his big doe eyes and his delicate features. Like a Dickension street urchin asking for more please. And his intuition is always spot on. No mark he’s ever picked has done anything but fall hook, line and sinker for that adorable face of his.
Chris can’t even remember the last time he’s had to watch nearby trash cans and hope to catch someone tossing out something still edible. Sure, they still spend their nights sleeping in a well protected corner of an empty building that smells like standing water and engine oil but they usually have full enough bellies and Chris had been able to buy them both a warmer sleeping bag for the winter.
It’s getting colder though. The weather forecast he’d caught in a storefront earlier had said there would be a record cold front this week with enough snow that people should make sure to get their shopping done before the weekend was out. Which is not good news for Chris and the kid. Their condemned building is safe from the elements but there’s no heat and while he’s stacked a few flattened boxes under their sleeping bags to keep them off of the cold ground, it won’t be warm per se. He’d rather not let the boy suffer through it if they can avoid it.
“Here he comes,” His little partner whispers, breaking Chris out of the mental tally he’s doing of their savings, trying to decide if he wants to spend some of it on a cheap motel. Maybe if they get enough out of this guy. “You ready?”
“Am I ready?” Chris scoffs gruffly but fondly. “Go throw yourself in front of a car,” he gives the kid a gentle shove.
After sticking his tongue out at Chris, the kid creeps between the van and the SUV they’ve been hiding behind.
Standing up from his crouch, Chris drags his gaze away from the kid to glance up at the rounded mirror in the corner of the parking garage, watching the image of the man in the expensive coat and cashmere scarf heading toward his ostentatious sports car. After a few seconds, there’s a low purr as the car starts up and starts to pull out of it’s parking spot.
The growl of engine gunning in the cement underground garage makes Chris’s heart stutter. They’ve pulled this con before but usually people with nice cars don’t peel out of their parking spots so he’s never worried about Stiles actually getting hit.
So it’s very real when he lurches after the kid, yelling at him to wait. Unfortunately, this is how they play the con - with Chris trying to stop his excited kid from running into traffic - so the kid doesn’t stop. Just like they’ve done eight or so times before, the kid runs right out from behind the van where the rich man in the nice car won’t have seen him laying in wait.
Please don’t, Chris thinks—almost prays actually.
His heart skips several beats as the screech of tires, a loud bang and a child’s scream overlap and echo off of the cement pillars surrounding them.
In less than a second, Chris is on his knees by the kid’s crumpled body, his panic a visceral thing when he reaches for the boy’s small frame, turning him over and cradling his limp body.
A car door slams and the clip footsteps in expensively soled shoes approaches them. “What the hell?”
“Stiles?” Chris says almost too softly but the body in his arms stirs, Stiles opens his eyes, groaning but then he winks at Chris and Chris almost laughs in relief. This fucking kid.
“Lemme up, Dad,” Stiles struggles to sit up, “I think I’m okay.”
When Chris uncurls from around him, letting Stiles sit up, he notices that the rich guy is standing there but he’s not looking at them, he’s looking at his car bumper. What an asshole.
“I think my bag took most of the hit,” Stiles assures him but then when he gets up, he crumples and clutches his ankle with a little cry of pain - just like they’ve done all the other times.
“Should I call an ambulance?” The man says a little haughtily, but finally paying more attention to them than his car.
Standing, Chris shuffles his feet, adjusting his jacket with mock nervousness, “We can’t really afford that.”
The man’s eyes rove over Chris, taking in his ratty jacket, his threadbare gloves, his beanie that has seen better days–a lot of better days–his grizzly looking beard, and scuffed up boots. His gaze shifts to Stiles who’s ten years old but looks about eight since his too long unkempt hair is tucked up under his beanie emphasizing his waif-like face. The man gives a calculating look at the gap between Stiles' scuffed up sneakers and the bottom of his too short jeans because the kid is growing faster than their budget allows, to the old worn out jacket with it’s too short sleeves, the raggedy cuff of the kid’s much loved and unfortunately stained red hoodie and then he sighs - like he can’t believe how bad his luck is.
Stiles sticks up his hand for Chris to help him up, leaning on him and not putting weight on his ‘injured’ ankle, “It’s okay Dad, our…” his eyes flick nervously to the man like he’s not sure if he can say where they live, “...place isn’t far. I can make it.” His eyes are honey gold and wet looking in the bright lights of the parking garage and his smile wobbles a little as he gazes up at Chris like he’s actually his real dad. God, this kid is such a little con man.
Again, the man sighs, “No, no. I can’t, in good conscience, let you walk away.” There’s something about the way that he says it that pings Chris’ radar. He has the urge to cut and run but…the kid is never wrong so, reluctantly, he decides to wait it out, letting his facial expression relax into something resigned but hopeful.
This is the part where the mark usually offers them money, anything to please go away and stop dirtying up their presence. Chris will protest, they’ll insist, Stiles will turn on the doe eyes and they’ll offer more and then Chris will concede and they walk away with a handful of cash. They’ve got over a grand saved up already.
Instead of money though, the man offers, “Come upstairs. We can wrap that ankle and maybe get some warm food in you both.”
Absolutely not. Chris rushes to shut it down, insisting, “Oh, we couldn’t impose–”
“Dad,” Stiles clutches his arm, wobbling a little, eyes pleading like he knows that Chris is about to cut their losses–then the kid’s stomach takes that exact moment to growl like it’s on cue. “Please?”
Chris lets his shoulders drop in real defeat, “Okay kid, but just a little medical care and a meal and then we need to beat the storm.” He cups the back of Stiles’ head and kisses his forehead, it’s one of their warning signals, stay close, stay ready. “Can you hold yourself up for a moment while I get our stuff?”
Once Stiles is good and balanced—which is an oxymoron because Stiles often trips over air—Chris picks his backpack with it’s rolled up sleeping bag and most of their supplies in it up off the ground. He shoulders it on one side and then grabs Stiles’ bag where it had fallen and slings it over his other shoulder. Stiles’ bag is packed soft to take the hit from the car so none of their stuff is damaged: sleeping bag, clothes and there’s an old hydro wrapped in a t-shirt tucked right toward the front. It’s what makes the loud bang when Stiles swings it at the car bumper before he throws himself down on the ground.
The guy has reparked his car and is waiting for them. Stiles hams it up, hopping and hissing every time his foot drops enough to touch the ground.
“I’m Chris,” he tells the man once they’re in the elevator and it’s moving upwards. “This is my son, Stiles.” Stiles waves, almost toppling himself over before Chris catches him.
The man looks between them, like he doesn’t believe this dark haired, honey eyed little lost boy could possibly be Chris’ son. He’s correct, of course, but Chris just smiles, runs his hand over Stiles’ head, pulling his beanie off and handing it to him to stuff in his coat pocket. Chris does the same with his own, running his fingers through his hair in an attempt to look less like a homeless man.
“I’m Peter,” the man says with a little smirk that looks like it might live on his face. They’re about the same height, close in build, but Chris, with all his training and experience still feels like Peter is a threat. And he doesn’t like it.
“Thank you for your help, kid’s got more energy than self preservation sometimes,” Chris says as a distraction, giving Stiles a soft look, Stiles just smiles back adoringly.
“Yes, I’ve got nephews and nieces around the same age,” Peter admits. “Sometimes I think they were raised by wolves.”
It’s a pretty common saying, but Chris feels all the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. When he looks up sharply at Peter, Peter is watching the numbers on the elevator screen as they get closer to the penthouse. He doesn’t seem to have registered Chris’ reaction and doesn’t glance over when Chris doesn’t look away for a long, pregnant moment.
Still.
That’s two. One more and they’re getting the fuck out of here, money or no money. It’s like Stiles is always telling him, one is an incident, two’s a coincidence, three’s a pattern and four is enough for a warrant. Which is a weird thing for a ten year old to say but he probably heard it on a TV show, Chris has no idea. They have a deal - they don’t ask about each other’s pasts. And Stiles is pretty tight lipped with sharing any personal information. He’s not tight lipped about anything else though. At this point, Chris knows the history of hot dog carts, the lifespan of the pigeon, that red cars get pulled over more than any other color car and a veritable mountain of other things. He’s drowning in trivial facts, honestly.
“You live at the top?” Stiles asks as the elevator slows to a stop and the number reads PH. He sounds excited like a regular ten year old boy but Chris knows that Stiles is not easily impressed - or fooled - so he’s just selling it.
With a shrug that reeks of nonchalance, Peter tells him, “It’s the best.”
Shit like that cements why Chris feels no guilt about grifting assholes like this. Anyone can tell just by looking at them that, while Chris insists they both take care of their hygiene and they hit the laundromat often enough that their clothes show use and wear but don’t stink, that they don’t sleep anywhere with beds or showers. And here is this pompous shit flaunting his wealth like a complete douchebag. Chris is going to fleece him for as much as he can, the prick.
Once they’re past the foyer in the large open living space, Stiles hops around in a circle on one foot, eyes bright, expression of amazement on his face as he gushes,”Wow, Mister, this place is ginormous! How many people live here?” The hopping trips him over and he almost topples but Chris steadies him.
Amused, Peter quirks an eyebrow, “Just me.” He takes off his coat and scarf, hanging them both in the closet just off of the foyer. There’s a small shelf there for shoes and he toes his off, glancing over at Chris with a bland smile, “Do you mind?”
He does, actually. Being without his shoes leaves him vulnerable. But Stiles sits down right where he is on the shiny tile floor with the fancy throw rug and tugs one converse off without even untying it, he goes for the second and lets out a pained cry. Chris goes to one knee, letting the bags slide off onto the floor before taking the kid’s calf in hand to steady his ankle.
“Jesus kid, slow down,” Chris admonishes, untying the offending converse and loosening it as much as he can without removing the laces before slipping it off. One of Stiles’ socks is black and the other is red with navy stripes up the ankle.
“So much for that being my lucky sock, huh?” Stiles grins wryly at Chris then over at Peter.
With a huff of amusement, Chris says, “Stay there while I get mine done.”
He unties and loosens his boots more than he would normally, just in case he has to grab them and slide them on really quickly. Then he tucks them in front of his bag where he leans it against the wall. He does the same with Stiles’ things before he sticks out a hand and helps him up. Normally he’d just carry the kid but everything in him is warning him to be prepared for an attack so he’d rather have his hands free.
The carpet is plush, so plush that Chris stands still after the first step just to see how far he sinks. Pretty far.
There’s art on the walls, expensive looking vases on glass tables, an entire wall of windows and over in the kitchen, a refrigerator so big that Chris isn’t sure how a delivery company even got it through the door.
“Your place smells really good,” Stiles chirps, bouncing a little as he sits on the couch. “Like…um, apples and cinnamon. Mmmm like an apple pie - do you like apple pie? Did you know that apple pie is not actually American - or Dutch, even though there’s a Dutch apple pie. It’s English. And it wasn’t just apples. It was figs and raisins and spices and they put it in this crust called a coffin. Why? Who knows. British people I guess. And they didn’t even eat it, it was just the place where it baked, because the coffin didn’t taste good. But then Americans - well actually Dutch Americans - invented pie crust and it actually tastes good. Which is funny because there’s only a tablespoon of sugar in a regular pie crust. And it was popularized into becoming an American staple during the Great Depression when we had, like, no sugar. Anyway, I like peach better. Do you like peach pie?”
Peter blinks a few times like he’s trying to recover from that onslaught of information. Chris smiles fondly at Stiles and doesn’t explain that they spend a lot of time in the library where it’s warm and the books are free. Soon, Chris is going to get them off of the streets and he’ll figure out how to get a fake birth certificate for Stiles and get him into school. In the meantime, he teaches Stiles math and history and Stiles writes book reports that don’t always stay on topic. Like the Great Depression bleeding into the history of pie.
“Give me just a moment to grab my first aid kit,” Peter finally says, giving Stiles a calculating look before heading out through the foyer to a hallway on what look like designer socks.
Chris scoots closer but doesn’t sit, still on edge and needing to be ready for anything. “He’s setting off all my alarm bells kiddo, I don’t like this.”
“Really?” Stiles seems shocked. “I have a good feeling, this is where we’re supposed to be.”
“Like - you want it to be a good feeling because it’s nice up here or you’re having one of your good feelings that we don’t elaborate on?” Chris asks, voice low. He’s pretty sure at this point that Stiles is some kind of innate magic user, the born kind, not the kind that has to study for years and use things like crystals and runes to get anything done.
Stiles pats his arm, squeezing it gently, “We’re okay, big guy.”
Chris is actually not a big guy, he’s a regular sized guy who is just trained to be dangerous to others, he’s intimidating though and he uses it. It never worked on Stiles though.
The sun is hot on his skin and the park smells like hot dogs and cotton candy and tourism. Chris doesn’t beg like a lot of people do around tourist spots, he can’t bring himself to do that, even after all these years of living on the road. But he likes the park when it’s crowded. People jog or walk their dogs, there’s a group playing catch with a frisbee and a young mom playing with a baby on a blanket laid out on the grass. There are tourists taking pictures, pigeons underfoot, music coming from three different directions and when Chris hears several people exclaim at once, he meanders over to see what the crowd is gathering around.
It’s a kid, maybe eight or nine, skinny, delicately boned face with a little upturned nose. He’s playing Three Card Monte with the most nimble hands Chris has ever seen. Usually it’s a con man’s game, sleight of hand moves the card in a way that your mind can’t process. But the kid is barely touching the cards as he hops them over and under each other to the left and right. There’s a little pile of cash in a hat just off to the side of the cards, indicating he’s winning.
While Chris watches, one man taps indicates his selection and then groans when the kid lets him flip it and it isn’t the right one. He throws a dollar in the hat anyway though and says, “One more, I got it this time.”
The kid laughs, “Okay, it’s your dollar. Then I gotta go though, my dad’s waiting.” He meets Chris’ eye and winks.
Chris is startled but he doesn’t walk away, his interest piqued.
The guy throws down another dollar, maybe for luck, maybe just because the kid deserves it, then he, Chris and about ten other people all watch as the kid shows them each of the three cards. He flips them all face down, flips his hands palm side up and wiggles his fingers to indicate he’s not holding an extra card then he goes to work, lifting and dropping the slightly curved cards over and under, back and forth using just his fingers at the top and bottom.
There’s no way he’s cheating so the ace of spades should be the one on his left but when the customer picks that one, the kids flips it over and it’s a seven of hearts.
“What! No way!” The guy is shocked but not angry. Flabbergasted would probably be a good description.
Chris agrees.
Smiling, the kid says, “flip over the one in the middle.”
The guy does and sure enough, it’s the ace of spades.
Digging in his pocket, the guy throws another five on the pile. His grin is wide and impressed when he tells the kid, “I’ve never seen anyone with hands that quick kid, when you’re twenty-one, you should hit up Atlantic City.”
He’s clearly a good sport and most of the other people gathered around the kid drop a dollar or two or a five, along with a compliment on his skills as they move along to find another distraction.
After he’s all packed up, money tucked away, the kid looks directly at Chris, grins and heads over. Chris isn’t quite sure what to make of him but without a word, the kid tugs him over to the nearest hot dog cart, pulls a five from the roll of mostly dollar bills and buys them both lunch.
They sit on the grass in the shade, watching people enjoy the outside and sizing each other up. Just as they settle in, two cops walk over the little hill where Stiles had been fleecing citizens with an illegal card game. They look around for a few minutes before returning the way they’d come from.
The kid seems to relax a bit more after they’re out of sight. Chris isn’t sure if he’d known they were coming and that’s why he’d packed up and attached himself to a guy who could pass for his dad if anyone had asked. Or maybe the cops were on a timed rotation for this area of the park? Either way–
“Kid, you shouldn’t approach strange men and buy them lunch,” Chris tells him gruffly. The kid is too trusting, there are a lot of awful people out there. Chris has met far too many of them in the decade that he’s been living on the street.
“You’re a good one though, I can tell,” he informs Chris without looking up from where he’s popping the tab on his can of soda. He looks back up with a grin and Chris isn’t sure what to do with that so he just shakes his head and looks away.
“I’m not just looking, at least not the way you mean,” the kid informs him enigmatically. “I’m Stiles by the way.” He plucks at a small tear in the knee of his pants. “Which one of us are you trying to convince that you aren’t a good person anyway?”
Well, the kid’s got him there. Chris huffs, letting his body relax into the tree trunk behind him, deflating almost. “Fine. I’m Chris.”
He doesn’t ask about Stiles' parents that first day, or the second or even the third. They never really decide to stay together either, they just don’t leave each other. Sometimes Chris forgets that Stiles is only ten, he’s smart and doesn’t really talk like Chris thinks kids are supposed to, not that Chris has many interactions with kids - not since he last saw his little sister, who he’d barely known anyway.
Stiles pulls his Three Card Monte shtick almost every day in the park until the weather cools and the crowds thin out. Chris also notices pretty early on that the kid has a knack for avoiding danger. He’s always packed up and moving before cops show up, he doesn’t let Chris take them down certain alleys and vetoes sleeping places that are damn near perfect. But it’s the longest stretch of not being hassled by a cop or threatened by a store owner or surprised by a group of thugs that Chris has ever had so he learns to listen to Stiles’ hunches, heed his warnings, trust that the kid has his back.
Something terrible must have happened to land Stiles on the street. Chris doesn’t know what it was or what caused it but in between the kid’s bouts of random babbling and overexcited bouncing on his feet, Stiles is sad and emotionally mature in a way that can only really come from something like profound loss or trauma at a very young age. And while Chris does not understand that type of grief, he does understand what it’s like to wake up and realize that you’re utterly alone in the world.
Maybe that’s why Stiles fits right into that notch where family should have been for Chris. Alone, they were just two people with raw edges but together, they hold each other up, they remind each other to keep getting up. They can hide their vulnerability in the shadow of each other’s presence. Stiles isn’t his son but he’s Chris’ kid in all the ways that really matter when you live disconnected from society in the way that people without a home do.
It’s December now and they’ve been protecting each other’s backs since that hot summer afternoon in June. In that time, Chris has seen Stiles look at some people with fear, some with disgust or outright loathing, he’s also seen indifference and hope but the way he looks at Peter is a lot like the way he looks at Chris–with trust.
And maybe that, more than anything else, is what’s setting Chris’ teeth on edge.
“Here we are,” Peter swans in, sitting down on the coffee table in front of Stiles before Chris can protest. When he pops the lid, his first aid kit looks like it’s never been used. “Do you mind?” He asks Stiles, fingers hovering at the ankle band of the red and navy sock where Stiles’ foot is already propped up on Peter’s knees.
“Oh, um, I can’t guarantee that the kid’s feet were clean when he put his socks on,” Chris says nervously. Not just because neither of them has had a bath or a shower in weeks. They have water for scrub downs but Chris isn’t Stiles’ actual dad, he doesn’t check between his toes and behind his ears. It’s really because Stiles’ ankle is fine and Peter will realize that if he exposes the skin.
“Like I said, my nephews and nieces are basically wild animals,” Peter chuckles, “and I’ve been known to run around barefoot myself once in a blue moon.”
Chris tenses at the casual mention of the moon but Peter’s focus isn’t on him, he’s looking at Stiles’ foot, peeling the sock down until he can bunch it under the heel. The skin is actually a little pink, even looks a little puffy around the ankle bone. It’s easy to tell because exposed like that, cradled in Peter’s hand, the kid’s ankle is just so fragile looking. Chris just wants to grab Stiles and run, shoes and their shit be damned.
“I’m afraid I don’t actually know much about sprained ankles,” Peter admits with a little laugh. Moving and lifting Stiles’ foot while he motions for Chris to sit in his place.
Relieved, Chris does, sliding his fingers around the thin bone, putting light pressure on it whenever he asks, “Does this hurt?” Twice Stiles hisses, tensing like he’s trying not to pull away. He’s so good that even Chris can’t tell if he’s bullshitting. “I think you just tweaked it, should be good in a few days if we just take it easy.”
Peter hands him the gauze he’s just opened and Chris grunts his thanks, wrapping Stiles’ ankle and the base of his foot before pulling his sock back up.
“Hey, look, it’s snowing!” Stiles exclaims, bouncing on the couch again as he pulls his leg away from Chris.
“Shit,” Chris stands up, staring out the wall of windows. It’s really coming down already. “Come on, kiddo,” he scoops Stiles up in his arms because he’s using this excuse to get the fuck out of here. He doesn’t care if the kid is getting the best feeling he’s ever had about this guy. It’s time to go.
“But, Dad,” Stiles whines, “how am I supposed to get there.” Lifting his leg he waves at the bandage poking up above the sock and below his too short jeans.
“I’ll carry you,” Chris informs him, already moving toward the foyer.
“Or you could stay,” Peter inserts smoothly, following them. “I was going out to meet a friend but with the snow starting early, I won’t be leaving now. I have several guest rooms that you’re welcome to use.”
Stiles is looking up at Chris with those big eyes of his, silently pleading. Stiles is averse to shelters so it’s rare that they sleep anywhere but on the ground, and even shelter beds are nothing but cots. He knows Stiles would benefit from a hot shower and a night in a soft bed where they don’t have to worry about someone stumbling across them. Not to mention the ambient temperature being above freezing.
“I’m a pretty good cook,” Peter cajoles, adding with a conspiratory look at Stiles, “and I have ice cream.”
Stiles scrambles and Chris is forced to put him down on his one good leg, with a scowl he gives in, “Fine,” only adding, “thank you,” as an after thought.
“Wonderful,” Peter clasps his hands in front of his body, “let me show you the rooms and you’re welcome to freshen up or whatever you like while I make dinner.”
The first room is a basic guest room with an ensuite. Just a bed, a dresser, and end tables - all in soft brown that contrasts the forest green walls. The second is a children’s room.
“Wow, who lives here?” Stiles asks nosily, hopping over to the short bookshelf with a television on top and several gaming systems in the shelf units. There are posters of flashy colorful comic book characters on the walls and a toy chest at the end of a set of bunk beds.
Folding his arms across his chest and leaning back against one wall, Peter smiles indulgently, “This is how I entice my sister’s kids to come stay with me so I don’t have to go all the way home to California.”
It’s barely there but at this point Chris knows Stiles very well so he sees the way the kid stiffens at the mention of California. Peter doesn’t mention it though, just opens the walk-in closet and comes back out with a stack of clothes.
“My niece Cora is around your age, these are hers but she won’t miss them. They’re boys sweats because she says the girls’ sweats only come in pastels and just because she’s a girl doesn’t mean she has to like pink,” Peter tells him, handing over the stack of what looks like sweats and a sweatshirt, probably a t-shirt and socks.
Clutching them to his chest, Stiles says, “Did you know that pink was originally considered more appropriate for boys since it derived from red which was though to be aggressive and manly whereas light blue was a girls’ color because it was softer? It became unisex - or I guess it technically always was because color doesn’t have gender and gender is a silly thing to divide people on anyway - but then after World War II, funny how it’s always World War II that changes everything, huh? Anyway after World War II, companies marketed pink to women and housewives like some kind of gross gender biased bread crumb trail to get them to leave their jobs in factories and go back to the kitchen where men could control them.”
“If you really want to discuss why the world changed so much after World War II, I’d be happy to talk about it,” Peter says in a voice that sounds almost fond. “Actually if you’d rather read about it and then discuss it, I can loan you a book while you’re here.”
Stiles looks up from where his eyes had been cataloging all of the games and toys, “Really?”
“Yes, really. You seem like you like learning,” Peter smiles, “that kind of thing should be nourished.”
Stiles grins and then wobbles where he’s trying to balance on his one foot and topples over, sitting down on his butt in the middle of the floor, “Oops!” Before either Chris or Peter can help him up, he rolls over onto his belly and army crawls to the gaming bookshelf, “Hey! You have Kingdom Hearts! I used to play this game all the time before–” He stops, takes a deep steadying breath and then finishes with, “just…before.”
After a too long moment, Chris brushes past Peter and lifts Stiles back up to his feet–well, foot.
Peter clears his throat, “You’re welcome to stay in this room if you like and your dad can have the other–”
“Thank you,” Stiles says before Chris can, “but we stay together.” He clutches the clean clothes to his chest again and hops out, heading back to the first room.
Peter nods, “Well, let me know if you need anything. If you’d like to use the washer and dryer, they’re through this hall bathroom here.” He points to a door that’s slightly ajar before pointing to the double doors at the far end of the hall. “That one is my bedroom.” He nods again and heads that way.
After making sure that Stiles makes it back into the green guest bedroom, Chris goes back to the foyer to retrieve their bags. When he comes back, Peter is waiting at their doorway with another stack of clothes. “These are mine, we look to be about the same size. You’ll find spare toothbrushes and toiletries under the sink, please help yourselves, that’s what they’re there for.” Another nod and Peter excuses himself back down the hallway toward the kitchen and living area.
In the bedroom, Chris closes the door behind himself, turning the flimsy lock on it as well.
“So?” Stiles says, scooting himself up onto the edge of the bed. His legs dangle almost a foot above the floor.
“I don’t know, kid, he sets me on edge,” Chris admits. “He’s too easy going. He invited us to stay, that’s crazy, who does that?”
“Someone gullible,” Stiles muses thoughtfully, “or someone who isn’t afraid of us.”
“Exactly,” Chris snaps his fingers, “And I don’t exactly give off soft, innocent dad vibes.”
“Yeah but I’m cute,” Stiles preens, making Chris snort out an involuntary laugh.
“You’re not that cute,” Chris argues even though Stiles is the definition of cute and often has people eating out of his hands. It’s why this grift usually works so well for them.
“I bet if we play our cards right and you stop trying to drag me out into the snow like you’ve just seen a monster,” Stiles lifts a judgemental eyebrow, “we might be able to get him to let us stay until after Christmas.”
“That’s almost a week away,” Chris reminds him.
“Exactly,” Stiles snaps his fingers back at Chris, “and who would kick out a homeless kid and his sweet, doting father just days before the celebration of the birth of our lord and savior.”
Chris snorts again, “I highly doubt that Peter is a religious man.”
“True, he looks like the only altar he’s praying at is the one at Bloomingdale’s,” Stiles stifles a laugh in his palm.
“Alright, so we’ll stay as long as we can,” Chris agrees because a clean bed and warm food during this snowstorm sounds pretty fantastic honestly, “but as soon as the storm is over, we’re out. I don’t think this is the place to overstay our welcome.”
“Dibs on first shower,” Stiles almost shouts, sliding off the bed, favoring the one leg still. When Chris gives him a quizzical look, he sheepishly admits, “hit myself in the ankle with my bag when it bounced off his bumper.”
“He was driving too fast,” Chris grumbles, pulling the kid in for a quick hug before telling him, “you stink, go shower.”
“I do not,” Stiles argues but he grabs half of the stack of clean borrowed clothes and hops dramatically into the attached bathroom.
While the kid is taking a frankly ridiculously long shower, Chris goes through their supplies, makes a pile of clothes to throw in the laundry and hides a few weapons around the guest room just in case. He’ll have to remember to tell Stiles where they are before bed.
The shower shuts off but Stiles gets distracted easily so Chris isn’t surprised when he takes much longer than he should reasonably need to leave the bathroom.
The stack of clothes Peter had given him include a pair of jeans, a Henley, sweats, a sweater, an undershirt, two pairs of socks and two pairs of boxers still in a fancy package so they must be new. Huh. That's…really nice, actually. Stiles left a pair of socks, jeans and hooded sweatshirt on the bed and when he finally leaves the bathroom, accompanied by a huge cloud of steam, he’s wearing navy sweats and a grey t-shirt. They’re just a little bit big on him which of course accentuates his waif-like qualities.
The shower is decadent when Chris finally gets in it. He’d forgotten what it felt like to shower in a home. To shower somewhere that isn’t a tiny cubicle or isn’t timed because there are a hundred other people waiting for the mobile shower truck. The shampoo is even separate from the conditioner and the body wash. And the toothpaste doesn’t taste like actual paste. When he finally steps out with his own cloud of steam following him, Chris is lulled into a relaxed state that has him struggling to keep his guard up.
There is a moment of panic when he realizes that Stiles isn’t in their room but as soon as he opens the door, Chris can hear his high pitched voice rambling from somewhere. Turning the corner into the kitchen, he finds Stiles up on one of the highbacked stools at the bar, one knee pulled to his chest with Peter slicing bell peppers across the counter from him.
They both look up when he stops in the doorway.
“Your son was just telling me that vegetables aren’t real,” Peter lifts an eyebrow.
Chris has heard this pitch before so he just gives Stiles’ head a little shake as he walks past, “Do you need any help?” Leaving it up to Peter’s interpretation on whether he means with dinner prep or the man’s vegetable rebuttal.
“I’ve got it,” Peter assures him. “Fajitas are easy to prep and cook on short notice.”
“And healthy!” Stiles pipes up with a toothy green at Chris before turning it toward Peter. “So, anyway, vegetables aren’t real. Name one.”
Peter looks down at the bell peppers, clearly realizes that they’re fruits, pivots mentally and suggests, "Broccoli."
“Flower.”
With a scowl, Peter tries, “Kale.”
“Leaf.”
“Potato.”
“Root.”
“Celery.”
“Ohhh good one,” Stiles grins, then adds smugly, “depending on what part you’re eating–stalk, leaves, root, or seeds.”
“Shit.”
“That's definitely not a vegetable,” Stiles sasses.
Peter snorts inelegantly.
“I read once that originally the Latin term for vegetables meant any part of vegetation that was edible and the term fruit in Latin referred to the sweet edible parts of plants but…”
Stiles continues to regale an amused Peter with his crusade against the term vegetable but Chris has heard this before so he wanders away to the living room, looking out the windows at the snow falling thick enough that there are already little drifts along the balcony outside and built up in the corners of the window sills. When it starts to feel suffocating, as blizzards often do, Chris wanders over to where bookshelves bracket the entertainment center.
There are several rows of books and a few framed photographs. Most of the photos are of Peter with a dark haired woman maybe ten or fifteen years older than him, or with young kids or teenagers who share the same dark hair. There’s one with his car that makes Chris shake his head. The man is a tad narcissistic.
Chris hasn’t been a hunter since he was seventeen but it had been ingrained in him since birth, so he registers that none of the people in the photos are looking straight at the camera unless they’re also wearing sunglasses. Stiles would probably say it was circumstantial, but—
The sound of sizzling from the kitchen area breaks him out of his thoughts and when Chris makes his way back, Peter is tossing the veggies in a pan with oil. The pan grilled chicken is resting on the cutting board, probably waiting to be sliced.
“Chris, would you mind setting the table?” Peter asks, pulling plates from a nearby cabinet.
He does not, and after setting the plates out on the glass table, he happily goes back to retrieve the serving trays of meat and veggies - “Fruit!” Stiles shouts when Chris calls them that just to get a reaction. Once the table is set and the pans are soaking in the sink, Peter offers him a glass of wine that he declines and gets them both a bottle of water instead.
“Sorry, I don’t have any juice or soda,” Peter tells the kid apologetically.
“I like water,” Stiles hums, twisting the cap while holding the bottle at an odd angle, earning himself a splotch of wet on his shirt for his efforts.
Chris had declined the wine for water for many reasons, one of which is that he’s never actually had a glass of wine. He joined the Army when he was still seventeen and it’s not like he and his buddies were getting drunk in the Saudi desert on something as fancy as wine if they had booze at all. And he’s been too afraid to drink while living on the streets, afraid he’d dull his memories so much that he’d drink himself to death trying to chase that numbness day after day.
Peter tells Stiles to go ahead so Stiles pulls a tortilla out of the warming basket, dropping several slices of chicken in the middle before sneaking a look at Peter who encourages him to go ahead so Stiles fills a second tortilla with chicken.
“There’s shredded cheese, pico de gallo, the peppers and onions, some salsa and guacamole if you like that,” Peter tells him, kindly not pointing each out as he says it, hopefully because he’s already learned that Stiles is smart enough to deduce that which he doesn’t already know.
“Guacamole is a funny word,” Stiles snorts a laugh, adding some cheese, peppers and onions to both, then putting salsa on one and going in for the guacamole for the other, “my mouth has to shape weird to say it. Gwuac…gwuaka. Ha! Imagine Fozzy Bear trying Mexican food for the first time, gwuaka gwuaka mo-lay, folks!” He suddenly looks up from where he’s been distracted by tapping out little dots of guacamole on his second fajita with the serving spoon, sees Peter and Chris just staring at him and dissolves into a fit of giggles.
“Sometimes when you talk, I think you must secretly be a sixty-five year old scholar,” Chris smiles fondly with a shake of his head. “Other times, I am absolutely positive that you’re just a weird little gremlin who I shouldn’t feed after midnight.”
Stiles laughs harder, clutching his stomach until the laughter fades into sighs. It makes Chris’ chest feel warmer than a glass of wine ever could.
They stick to safe topics during dinner, like favorite baseball teams–Stiles almost comes across the table when Peter nonchalantly says that the Mets suck–, favorite comic book heroes, favorite movies, Stiles tells Peter that he’s pretentious not once but twice - to Peter’s obvious delight. After dinner, Chris helps Peter clean up, while Stiles regales them with another random factoid from up on his stool where he can’t hurt his ankle further.
“You think you have room for that ice cream I promised?” Peter asks when they’re finished, folding a hand towel and laying it on the counter near the sink.
Stiles grimaces, cupping his hand around his probably full belly, “Not really but I’m afraid if I don’t eat it now, I won’t get the chance.”
There was probably a time in Stiles’ life where he could eat like a horse but the stomach shrinks when you don’t have much to feed it, and the shift from the non-perishable foods they usually exist on to the fresh meat and veggies of tonight’s meal has probably got his body working double time. Chris understands the inclination to not look free food in the mouth though, it so rarely happens in their world.
Before Chris can say anything though, Peter reassures Stiles, “It’ll still be there tomorrow.” He looks like he might elaborate but instead, claps his hands softly once and says, “Movie before bed?”
“Yes!” Stiles almost shouts excitedly. It’s a luxury they can’t afford so Chris isn’t sure when the last time was that Stiles had seen a movie.
“Okay…so…it’s not totally legal but I know a guy,” Peter says slyly, pulling open a drawer low on his entertainment center. It’s filled with DVDs, Chris spots Indiana Jones and Star Wars so Peter is a little more pedestrian than his bookshelves would suggest. Interesting. “I have an early copy of The Incredibles that was released in theaters just last month.”
Standing in front of Peter, Stiles wobbles on his one leg, hands collapsed to his chest in a way that looks like he’s pleading, his big honey eyes are focused on the red and black case in Peter’s hand, in a reverent tone he whispers, “I have no idea what that is but you had me at ‘not totally legal.’”
Chris facepalms as Peter chuckles.
After putting the DVD in, Peter sits on the shorter of the two couches, leaving the longer one for Chris to sit in one corner and Stiles to sit in the middle with his good leg tucked under the other.
Stiles looks like he tries his best to stay awake but his belly is full and he’s warm and safe for the first time in a while. The poor kid only makes it about thirty minutes in before he slumps against Chris, snoring lightly.
“Is it weird if I want to keep watching the movie even though the kid is out?” Chris asks quietly when Peter glances over at them.
“Oh no, I want to see what's going to happen, too,” Peter agrees, settling deeper into his corner and bringing his legs up onto the couch. Chris catches himself watching the long line of Peter’s body, the way his shoulders fill out his soft grey sweater, the cut of his jawline and the way his lips always seem just a breath away from tugging into a smirk.
Eventually the movie ends and with a perfunctory goodnight, Chris scoops Stiles up, waking him gently so he can go into the bathroom to pee and brush his teeth before tucking him in under the sheet and comforter on the side of the bed furthest from the locked door. After taking care of his own business, Chris slides into the bed on the other side, laying on top of the sheet but under the blanket.
They play father and son but they aren’t. And while many things about Stiles are very young, he was taking care of himself before he met Chris and doing it well. Stiles had established the boundary fairly early on that this was a partnership, not an adoption. Over the months, Chris has developed a lot of fatherly feelings and would do just about anything for the kid at this point—including letting him keep up the wall between them that helps Stiles maintain his autonomy. One of those things is sleeping separately. No matter how much Chris might want to tuck the kid in close so he can protect him, he doesn’t.
Before Stiles had basically skipped his way into Chris’ life, Chris had just been surviving every day, one at a time, not even realizing that the days had turned into months, then the months into years. That it had been almost a decade since his dad had kicked him out of a truck after Chris refused to kill an omega. An omega who couldn’t have been more than eighteen, probably newly turned and most likely against his will. But his dad and his men hadn’t cared, had enjoyed hunting the kid and enjoyed ending his short life.
Chris had only been back from the Army for a few months at the time and he’d learned too much about humanity during his deployments in Kuwait and Iraq to be so quick to judge those his father had taught him to call monsters. He’d learned the hard way that sometimes the monsters are human and sometimes they’re a lot closer to home than you’d ever realized. It wasn’t until he’d gotten home that he’d had to face just how true that really was.
Chris had gotten out of that truck with nothing but the clothes on his back and the weapons in his holsters. His dad had even gone so far to disavow him to the hunter community. He’d find no quarter with old friends or even family. He'd survived by hunting in the woods and sleeping where he could, then he’d traveled from town to town, taking odd jobs here or there, surviving on the streets, moving on if he got even an inkling of hunter activity and eventually leaving society behind entirely. He had his humanity still though, which is more than he’d have had if he’d stayed with Gerard.
It hadn’t even occurred to him to build a new life until he’d woken up next to a little urchin of a kid with shaggy brown hair and a faded Spider-Man t-shirt for the first time.
Until Stiles, Chris had just been surviving, but because of Stiles, Chris was reminded that he was allowed to live. And that’s what they’d been trying to do, keep the crime petty enough that no one noticed, and the money tight enough that when the time came, Chris could keep them afloat long enough to get their feet under themselves. Every morning he woke up ready to live in this world because this kid deserved better than to just survive.
“Soon kiddo,” Chris promises in a whisper to Stiles’ sleeping form in the dark, “We’ll get you a real home, with your own room and your own clothes. We’ll eat ice cream until we puke and we’ll never eat another protein bar as long as we live.”