The knock on the door startles Joan from her thoughts and she blinks a couple of times, frowning at the clock. She isn’t sure where she lost the past 25 minutes but it seems her one o’clock is here.
”Come in,” she calls.
The door opens to admit two men: the first a lanky one with messy hair, tribalistic-looking tattoos snaking around his bare forearms, and a mischievous glint in his eye. The older man looks like a model and moves like a fighter (prowling, Joan’s mind supplies) with a small smirk on his lips and wearing a soft sweater with a way too generous V-neckline. They both radiate the kind of energy Joan has learned to associate with atypicals.
”Hi!” the younger man says brightly and thrusts his hand forward.
She takes it and a small shock of…something? Electricity? Runs through her. Interesting. ”So, you must be…” she glances at the information on her screen. Shit. She should’ve checked earlier how to pronounce that. ”Mie—”
”Just call me Stiles,” he says with a grin. ”Most people don’t even try my wallet name. It’s a continuous bane of my existence and reminds me of my mother every time I meet new people.”
”I see,” she says and raises a brow at the other man.
”Peter,” he drawls in a throaty purr. ”Delighted.”
”Oh, please,” Stiles mutters, then shoots another grin at Joan. ”So...what next?”
”That’s usually my question,” she says mildly. ”Please, take a seat.”
She watches as they look at each other, then Peter quirks a brow, Stiles shrugs and rolls his eyes, Peter’s smirk grows, and Stiles huffs and drops onto the coach. Peter settles down next to him, seemingly easy and relaxed which Joan doesn’t believe for a second.
”Why don’t you tell me why you are here?”
”Yes, Stiles, why don’t you?” Peter says, raising a brow.
”As if you didn’t know,” Stiles snorts.
”Humor me,” Peter counters, but Stiles ignores him, instead choosing to watch curiously around Joan’s office.
”Nice space,” he says.
”It works for me,” Joan says and waits for a moment longer. When Stiles doesn’t say anything, she prompts, ”So, what made you choose me? I don’t usually offer couple’s therapy,” she points out.
Stiles purses his lips and tilts his head. ”I’ve got a hunch,” he says, wiggling his fingers slightly.
”Your ad says ’Therapy for the strange and unusual’,” Peter says. ”We’re both.”
”Speak for yourself,” Stiles murmurs.
”Oh, but you are,” Peter says. ”That’s what drew me to you in the first place.”
”You were drawn to my good looks and sparkling intellect,” Stiles quips and then flushes red when Peter gives him a slow, appreciative once-over. ”Not the point!” he huffs and turns to Joan. ”Anyway. Yeah.”
She hums, tracking their body language and what they don’t say as well as what they do say. There’s something strange about their interaction but she can’t quite pinpoint if it’s because of their atypical traits or something else. ”So, you saw my ad?” she prompts.
”Yeah,” Stiles says, ignoring Peter as he leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. ”This—therapy, I mean—is something I’ve been meaning to do for years now, so I decided to drag him with me and kill two birds with one stone.”
”So I’m an afterthought?” Peter asks. ”Thank you, dear. I feel so appreciated now.”
”You’re a part of a deal,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes.
Joan steps in before the bickering escalates. ”Fair enough,” she says. ”Tell me about yourselves.”
Stiles’ eyes snap into her with a sudden focus that almost makes her flinch back. Then he shrugs and slouches back on the couch, his long limbs akimbo. Peter tracks him from the corner of his eye. ”Didn’t you read our intake form?” Stiles asks.
She keeps on a pleasant smile. ”I prefer to learn from my patients, not from a paper.”
”Okay, I can understand that,” Stiles says and grins. ”Hi, I’m Stiles. I’m 24, a college undergrad. I have ADHD and some serious hyper-focus issues that have somewhat hindered my studies. I’m tragically half orphaned as my mom died when I was ten. I like science fiction, long rambling debates on various topics, and curly fries.”
Peter snorts. ”Was that your Grindr profile?”
”So what if it was?” Stiles shoots back. ”What was yours—’Too hot for you and I know it’?”
”Bold of you to assume I’ve ever needed Grindr,” Peter replies haughtily. ”But thank you for affirming that I’m hot. It’s always a pleasure to hear.”
Joan quirks a brow. ”Let’s assume that you needed Grindr,” she says. ”How would your profile look like?”
He gives her an affronted look. ”Well. If I must,” he says, sounding bored. ”Peter Hale, 39. Lawyer and a connoisseur of obscure books, good whiskey, and the art of knotting.”
Joan blinks. ”Knotting?” she repeats.
Peter looks him straight in the eye. ”Yes. The history of knots is very interesting.”
She’s pretty sure he’s talking about bondage.
By the fourth meeting, she’s grown increasingly annoyed. There’s something off about Stiles and Peter but she can’t figure out what. She’s been ready to call the whole thing off several times on the grounds of Are you trying to fuck with me and Do you even know each other? only to sit back when they make her reconsider those assessments.
So far, they’ve firmly established that Peter is a selfish asshole with sociopathic tendencies and Stiles has some serious self-worth issues on top of his neuropsychological diagnosis, labels they both embrace with obvious good cheer.
Joan isn’t sure why they felt the need to see a therapist to validate these conclusions.
It all comes to an end—sort of—when her office door slams open to admit Damien.
Of course.
”Hello, Dr. B,” he says with a smirk. ”If I’d known you were conducting group meetings I would’ve attended sooner.”
”Damien,” she says calmly. ”You are interrupting.”
”I don’t think so,” he says, tilting his head. ”Why don’t you tell me who these two are—we’re all friends here, aren’t we?”
The familiar pressure on her temples tells her exactly what he’s doing. ”These are—” she starts and then grits her teeth, pushing back.
”Well. You’re just rude,” Stiles says. He sounds amused. Joan gives him a small, warning shake of her head but he ignores it. ”Therapy is supposed to be a safe space. This doesn’t feel very safe.”
”Then perhaps you should shut the fuck up,” Damien says.
And Stiles—
Snorts. He snorts as he makes a dismissive motion with his hand like he’s waving off an insect, and the pressure inside Joan’s head vanishes.
”I wasn’t talking about us,” Stiles says in a low voice. He stands up and suddenly seems a lot taller and older than his years. The tattoos on his forearms seem to—no. That’s impossible. The tattoos start to glow and they move, swirling lazily on his skin in a hypnotic way. Joan blinks and tears her gaze away, looking into Stiles’ eyes instead.
That are also glowing.
What the hell?
”Sit down,” Damien says.
Stiles tuts. ”Nice try but no dice. Now,” he taps Damien on the chest once. ”What are you?”
”I—”
Stiles leans forward and whispers, ”Don’t bother trying to lie. Peter can smell it.”
Joan isn’t sure what’s going on but whatever it is, she doesn’t appreciate it. ”I would prefer you didn’t commit crimes in my office,” she says.
”Just talking,” Stiles says easily. ”Is he dangerous?” he asks nodding at Damien.
”Most of my patients are,” Joan says calmly. ”Including you, apparently.”
Stiles grins. ”I’m just annoying. Peter is the dangerous one.”
”Don’t undersell yourself, sweetheart,” Peter says. He’s still sitting on the couch, enjoying the show.
”Why, thank you, darling,” Stiles answers, saccharine sweet. ”But seriously, is he dangerous?” He turns to Damien. ”Are you?”
”Yes,” Damien hisses.
”On your own?”
Damien grits his teeth. ”Yes.”
”Nah,” Stiles says after a long, uncomfortable moment when he does nothing but stare Damien in the eye. ”I don’t think so,” he says, unconcerned. ”You’re just a lonely, sad boy trying to make himself feel less lonely and sad. And generally, I wouldn’t mind keeping my nose out of it.” He pauses. ”But the thing is, I don’t like bullies.”
”Please, don’t kill him,” Joan says.
Stiles gives her an incredulous look. ”He tried to fuck with your mind and now you’re pleading for him?”
”The paperwork would be annoying,” she says flatly.
”I like you,” Stiles says. ”No, of course I’m not going to kill him. I’m not a monster!”
”That would be me,” Peter says and—
”Oh,” Joan says, taking in the claws and glowing blue eyes. ”You’re one of those Hales.”
Werewolves are real.
She’s known that for some time now, and deep down she hadn’t even been that surprised when the file regarding the supernatural community landed on her desk. The knowledge of werewolves, banshees, hellhounds, kitsunes, and other magic wielders slot neatly next to her knowledge of time travelers, telepaths, empaths, and other atypical people she’s met and worked with.
She just never thought she’d have a werewolf as her patient. Well. There’s first time for everything, right?
”Where do your eyebrows go when you shift?” she asks.
”You know, I’ve been wondering the same thing!” Stiles says, placing his hands on his hips and turning to face Peter. ”Well?”
”How should I know?” he asks, slipping back to his human form. ”Probably the same place where my fingernails go.”
”Aren’t you even curious?” Stiles asks.
”Are you curious about how your eyes look like when you close them?” Peter asks.
Stiles throws his arms up. ”Only sometimes, but thanks to you, that’s what I’ll be thinking about tonight instead of sleeping!”
Peter’s mouth curves into a smug smirk. ”I’m sure I can give you something else to think about,” he purrs.
”As fascinating as your foreplay is to witness…” Joan says, raising a pointed brow and nodding at Damien’s direction. He’s still standing in the middle of her office, somehow spelled still. It’s unclear if he hears or is even aware of his surroundings she’s mildly surprised at how unnerving she finds it. She’s used to being on edge when sharing space with Damien but she isn’t used to him being silent and contained. It’s disturbing.
”I could take him out of your hands,” Stiles says. ”As I said, I like you.”
”Wouldn’t that create problems for you?”
He shrugs. ”No, not really. Let’s just say that I’m used to dealing with stuff like that.”
Joan glances at Peter who’s looking at Stiles with a hungry look. ”I suppose you’re also used to dealing with stuff like this, considering you’re the Hale Pack’s Left Hand?”
Peter raises a brow. ”I see,” he says. ”So my reputation has reached even the organization you work for.”
”I don’t think it’s something you should be proud of,” she says dryly.
”But you have heard of me,” Peter says.
”OH MY GOD,” Stiles groans. ”You did not just quote Captain Sparrow.”
”What’s wrong with Captain Sparrow?” Peter asks with a frown.
Stiles rolls his eyes. ”Not with him as a character but considering the whole dubious public misogynistic smearing campaign—”
”Oh, please,” Peter sneers. ”She was just as bad—”
”The reason why the Me Too movement is stalling is—”
”Me Too? You’re dragging that onto this?”
”—nobody’s taking it seriously even with the staggering amount of evidence—”
”This is what you choose to concentrate on now—”
”I can’t believe I’m attracted to you—”
”Oh, the feeling is mutual, sweetheart,” Peter says. He stood up at some point and now takes a couple of steps forward (prowling, a voice on the back of Joan’s mind reminds her), and yanks Stiles into a kiss that—well, it is hot, what with all the adrenaline and pent-up energy vibrating around the room, but still.
”Would you mind?” Joan says, exasperated.
Peter leans back from the kiss, gives her a flat look, and kisses Stiles once more before stepping back and sitting on the couch as if aggressive shouting matches ended with steamy kisses (with tongue) are an everyday occurrence in his life.
Perhaps they are. Joan wouldn’t know.
”Um,” Stiles says with a slightly glazed look in his eyes.
Peter raises a brow and points at Damien.
”Oh, right. What do you want me to do with him?” Stiles asks Joan.
”I honestly don’t know.”
”Huh. Hm. Okay, so, there are several options,” Stiles says. ”We could get rid of him permanently if that’s what you want. We could erase his memory or his memory of you, specifically. Or I could put a…let’s call it a curse. Yeah. I could put a curse on him that would prevent him from using his ability.”
”Would that hurt him?” Joan asks.
”Physically? No. Mentally?” He pauses for a moment. ”Probably. If he’s used to going by with his ability to make people do whatever he wants, not being able to do that would feel like some kind of a disability. ”
”What if he went to see someone else like you?” Joan asks. ”Couldn’t they just undo your…curse or whatever block you’d put in place?”
Stiles’ grin is sharp and vicious. ”Dr. Bright, there is no one like me. Trust me, if I put that lock in place, it’ll stay in place until the day he dies.” The smile turns outright malicious. ”And if he ever, by any means, found his way back, the lock would still be there.”
A small sound from the couch makes Joan’s eyes flicker from Stiles to Peter who looks…okay.
No. Joan decides not to look at Peter.
”Fine. Do that. And then get the hell out of my office.”
Perhaps at some point, Joan will feel guilty for how easy it was for her to make the decision but for now, she’s still basking in the relief she felt when Stiles’ spell slid in place. Stiles and Peter ignored Damien’s constant swearing as they escorted Damien out, leaving Joan to enjoy the silence in her office.
Even if she has to make some new plans that don’t include Damien’s abilities, she still thinks the relief is worth it.
Stiles and Peter don’t make a new appointment. She’s not surprised. Whatever their reason for therapy, it seemed to vanish during the confrontation with Damien, and frankly, she’s not interested in entertaining any kind of speculation about how they might continue resolving their future issues.
Three weeks later, Sarah intercoms her.
”Joan?” she says, sounding baffled. ”There’s a…package for you.”
”Who is it from?”
”I don’t know. It just appeared.”
”Oh.” She has a feeling she knows. With a sigh, she gets up and walks out of her office to see that there is, indeed, a package sitting innocently in the middle of her waiting room. As she gets cautiously closer, her name appears on top of the wrapped package in a messy scrawl.
It turns out to be a box of very high-quality chocolate, a brand she’s only tasted twice in her life. There’s also a print of some kind of dating profile? She wonders why it was included—and then she turns it around and snorts.
So, this was a part of a school project! Thanks and sorry for the deception.
Give me a call if you need help with anything. And by that I mean, don’t go after them alone, no matter how good your reason is.
—Stiles
(Peter says hi. We’re definitely together now.)
