When Stiles walks up the stairs, he’s leaning on the wall next to his door, hands across his chest, the familiar smirk on his face.
”No,” Stiles says flatly.
”Stiles—” Peter Hale starts.
Stiles closes the door on his face.
Thing was, even if Stiles still had his Spark, he wanted nothing to do with the supernatural community. After everything that had happened—after nearly losing his dad, after the whole mess with the Alpha Pack and whatever twisted thing was going on between Derek, Deaton, and Miss Blake, not to mention Scott’s, uh, general…
Yeah.
Stiles had been aware that he’d been drifting away from the pack for some while by the time the Nemeton’s sacrifice became a necessity instead of a wacky theory. Nevertheless, he wasn’t willing to put anyone else through what could only be described as torture, so. Well. He took matters into his own hands.
Dad still knew he was alive.
Everyone else thought he was dead.
He was pretty sure it was better that way.
”I have coffee,” Peter says the moment Stiles opens the door, shoving the fancy thermos mug the size of his head at Stiles.
”What the fuck,” Stiles says.
Peter raises a brow. ”I was expecting a thank you but I’ll take what I can get,” he sniffs.
Stiles sighs, ignores him, and closes the door behind him. He has a headache and the persistent pain in his left hand didn’t let him sleep last night, and entertaining Peter Hale’s brand of sociopathic smug asshole isn’t part of his plans this morning.
”See you tonight, sweetheart!” Peter calls after him as he stomps down the stairs.
”Not if I see you first,” Stiles mutters, fully aware Peter can hear him.
The snort follows him through his day, making him roll his eyes and grin despite himself, and then gritting his teeth. He doesn’t want to be amused by Peter Hale.
He doesn’t want anything to do with Peter Hale.
Or anyone else from Beacon Hills, for that matter.
Dad had been both furious and scared when he’d learned about the supernatural community living in Beacon Hills. At first, he’d been scared for Stiles but after he’d done what he’d done, it had turned into being scared of him. Stiles tried to be understanding but he couldn’t deny how much it hurt to catch a glimpse of Dad’s narrow-eyed look and the way he tracked Stiles across the room, almost like he was a criminal he had to apprehend.
It hadn’t taken much to convince Dad to sign his emancipation papers. Stiles told himself that the sinking feeling in his gut was just about moving across the country, not about how eager Dad seemed to be to get rid of him.
For the first three years, it had been scary and exciting and mind-numbingly lonely. He’d worked and taken community college lessons and worked and studied and worked until he’d finally scored a scholarship that still seemed too good to be true. And now he was a full-time student, finally digging into normal things like normal people do in a normal town.
It’s so very normal.
It’s also so very, very fucking boring.
Peter keeps coming back.
He keeps meeting Stiles in the morning with a coffee, leaves him pastries next to his door, reads a book on the park bench Stiles always walks past to get home, and on one, memorable occasion, he even sat next to him at the university cafeteria. Stiles got a lot more attention after that than he’s used to.
It’s annoying but also a bit thrilling, and Stiles is doubly annoyed at himself for being thrilled to see him. Peter is dangerous and not in a bad-boy aesthetic kind of way. Sure, he’s very easy on the eyes and Stiles might or might not have had some very good moments with his right hand imagining how to put all that strength into a better (read: sexy) use but he isn’t that stupid to think it could ever be anything more.
(And to be frank: if this was someone else than Peter Hale, Stiles would’ve contacted the police and filed a case for harassment and stalking. But because this is Peter Hale, he doesn’t bother. It wouldn’t do any good, after all.)
One day he comes home to see Peter carry old Mrs. Liang’s groceries up the stairs while listening to her complain about the modern age and the frivolity of youth. Mrs. Liang is old as balls, smokes three packs of cigarettes a day, and keeps giving Stiles a stinky eye even though he’s done nothing to earn it.
Figures that it would take an asshole like Peter to charm the old crone.
A week later, Mrs. Liang corners him in the laundromat around the corner and tells him to ”forgive his ex” because apparently, Peter has been ”working to make himself better” and ”correcting his ways” and, according to Mrs. Liang, ”misses Stiles so very terribly.”
”What,” he says, instead of asking whether or not Peter told her he’s actually a murderer.
”I bet he’s a beast in the sack,” Mrs. Liang concludes.
You have no idea, he doesn’t say.
He found Florence in a dumpster. He’d had a shitty day with shitty customers and a handful of creepy old men who had tried to hit on him, and when he’d taken a shortcut through the alley he’d been more than ready to pick a fight with someone. He heard the low clicking sound and a strange hiss and was at first sure it was a cat.
It wasn’t.
It was a mini dragon, filthy with whatever it had been crawling in, slow and clearly in bad shape. Stiles wasn’t sure why he decided to pick it up but he did, took it to the vet (and found out it was a she), and then took her home with stern instructions on how to care for an iguana.
She was a violent little thing that soon grew big enough to command his couch if she so wanted (which she did on a daily basis). Stiles learned that her tail was a lethal weapon and that the tail smack was a 100% real move and not just a Pokemon thing.
In retaliation, he named her Florence after Florence Foster Jenkins because she fucking deserved that name.
”Mrs. Liang says you have a dragon,” Peter says the next time they meet. He’s leaning on Stiles’ door this time which means Stiles has to make him move to get inside.
He looks good but he always looks good. Must be the Hale genes.
”An iguana,” Stiles replies and raises a brow. ”Would you mind?”
”I come with gifts,” Peter says, holding out a black tote bag with a print of a Victorian man on a high wheel bicycle and the text ’Always remember to play a functioning adult.’ When Stiles doesn’t move, he sighs and opens the bag to show him a selection of fresh fruit and leafy greens. ”I know you have an iguana. These are for her.”
”How—you know what? Never mind,” Stiles huffs, shoulders him aside, and opens the door. ”Florence, honey? I’m home!” he calls.
The clicking of her nails on the floor proceed her arrival, as usual, but unlike usual, she stops when she sees Peter. And then she hisses.
”Well hello, gorgeous,” Peter purrs, sits on the floor, and pulls an apple out of his hipster tote bag. He casually flicks out his claws and cuts the apple into neat slices, holding them out to Florence.
Stiles doesn’t bother telling him that Florence is a vicious little shit. Peter’s a werewolf, he can handle an iguana. Instead, he heads into the kitchen and wonders if he has the energy to cook or if he should just make cup noodles for the fifth evening in a row.
(He is in no way surprised when, a moment later, Peter saunters after him with Florence draped over his shoulders like a leather stole, and tells him to get out of the kitchen because he’s going to cook.)
The first Christmas, Dad called him.
”Merry Christmas, Son,” he said. Stiles couldn’t tell if he sounded stiff because he was drunk and pretending not to be or because he didn’t actually want to talk to Stiles.
”Yeah,” he said. ”Merry Christmas.”
After a handful of awkward sentences, Dad hung up.
The next Christmas, he sent a text. They haven’t talked since.
Two years after Stiles left, Melissa texted him. Apparently, Dad had spilled his secret during some self-pitying drunken monologue, and Melissa had used the opportunity to pry his new number from Dad. She never expects anything back but she keeps sending him small reminders, birthday wishes, Happy Halloween, Happy New Year, an encouraging note on Mom’s death anniversary—messages that anchor him to his past.
He isn’t exactly grateful for them but doesn’t have it in him to tell her to stop.
No one else from his past has ever contacted him.
No one.
Until Peter.
He jolts back to consciousness with a start. The couch pillow under his cheek is damp with drool and there’s a lingering headache just behind his eyelids waiting to blow into a full migraine.
”You looked like you needed the nap,” Peter says, sounding amused.
”Fuck you,” Stiles mutters, pushing himself to sit up. Pain flares through his spine in a white-hot flame, familiar and expected. It lights his nerves on fire, turning his whole left side into a throbbing, searing mass of nerve endings that don’t function properly and—
”Stiles!”
Peter’s voice is a startled hiss and the next thing he knows, the pain leaks out of him, leaving behind a woozy, light-headed feeling.
Ah, werewolf pain-drain. He’s missed it.
”What the fuck is this, Stiles?” Peter asks, his voice a low and furious growl while his hands are gentle. ”Who did this to you?”
He snorts. ”This? This is just the consequences of my own actions.”
”What.” It comes out as a snarl.
Stiles sighs, going boneless in the warm haze of the pain-free moment, leaning against Peter in a way he probably shouldn’t. ”The ritual I did back in…” he waves his hand in a haphazard motion. ”…back in the day to get rid of the crazy lady? Yeah. Drained my Spark and apparently fucked up half of my body.”
Peter sighs. ”Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
”Like who?” Stiles would roll his eyes if it didn’t take too much effort. ”My dad fears and probably hates me. The others think I’m dead.” He yawns. ”Better that way,” he slurs.
”No, it isn’t,” he hears Peter say right before he slips back to sleep.
Stiles hadn’t thought about the future.
Before, everything had been so clear: take care of his dad, be best friends with Scott, survive high school and then college, stay best friends with Scott, take care of his dad, perhaps find someone to share his life with.
After…
He hadn’t thought about after much. In truth, for a good while he’d been sure there wasn’t going to be an after.
But there was.
His after was a small flat he shared with a murder lizard in a building that had no elevator and more cold spots than a non-haunted place should reasonably have. His after was lectures and assignments and a part-time job at the corner store and long nights spent shivering with the lingering pain and recurring nightmares.
His after was bitterness at the people he thought would always be in his corner.
His after was loneliness.
Until Peter.
”What do you want?” he asks one evening. It’s after dinner and he’s supposed to be working on his essay but instead, he’s tilting his head at Peter who’s puttering around in the kitchen.
”What do you mean?” he counters.
Stiles snorts, fiddling with his laptop. ”You know what I mean. Why are you here, slumming in my flat, entertaining a murder lizard and a burnt-out spark?”
”I’ll have you know that Florence is a very lovely lady,” Peter says haughtily, crooning sweet nothings at the iguana basking in his attention on her usual spot draped around his shoulders.
”Peter,” Stiles says.
Instead of replying, Peter hums a nonsensical tune for a good while before he walks to Stiles and hands him a thermos mug he knows will be filled with his favorite fancy, strong coffee. He doesn’t take it, just watches Peter levelly, waiting for his answer.
Peter’s lips twitch. ”I’m here because I want to be here,” he says, tucking the thermos between Stiles and the backrest. ”And for what I want?” he continues. ”Nothing more than you’re willing to give.”
He kisses Stiles on top of his head and takes his usual spot on the couch next to Stiles, takes out the book he’s tearing to shreds this week, and without looking, reaches out his left hand to gently hold Stiles’ ankle to drain his pain.
Well.
Okay.
Stiles closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly. He opens his eyes and looks at Peter with his book on his knee, a small smile in the corner of his mouth, and Florence snoring on his shoulders, and decides that yeah.
He can have this.