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It’s a day ending in -y, so Peter and Stiles are arguing.
This time it’s at Stiles’ apartment rather than via text or somewhere “with the most basic of amenities,” which is how Peter refers to his own apartment. But Stiles insists that the mojo is better at his place, and strictly enforces an equal shared custody agreement for their late night discussions. Peter keeps pointing out that Stiles did much of the same runework on his apartment as was on Stiles’, and so the “mojo” (verbal air quotes dripping with disdain) should be the same. It’s true that after they had another run-in with some witches Stiles had done an exhausting array of spells on Peter’s apartment - fueled mostly by pique. But it’s just not the same, apparently.
Stiles is sprawled across the floor of his living room as the conversation shifts to what each of them have been working on recently. Peter got wind of a book of werewolf lore a few months ago that he wants to add to his collection, and is still working on tracking it down (“with all the tenacity of a bulldog,” Stiles snickers).
“And you?” Peter drawls. “What’s new in that terrifying Spark mind of yours?”
Stiles all but springs up in excitement. “A wolf amulet!” he exclaims. “To give me those mad werewolf skills. All the skills, none of the grr!” He makes his hands into a ludicrous parody of claws and shoots for an intimidating growl. It’s a bit hampered by the cookie he just shoved into his mouth, though.
Peter raises his eyebrows at that. “So, an amulet for speed and healing? Not a bad idea,” he concedes.
“Oh,” Stiles frowns. “No. I already have spells for those. It’s just the enhanced senses that would do better as an amulet. I mean, they’d also do well as tattoos, but I want to make sure they work exactly how I want them to before getting those done, and - “
“Wait,” Peter interrupts, “So you’re going to have werewolf levels of smell and hearing?”
Stiles gives him an odd look but nods. “Well, and sight, but that’s a little redundant honestly, since I do already have a tattoo for that.”
Peter stands abruptly, glass clenched in his hand and every line of his body tense. “Well, this has been lovely as always, but I have to go.”
Stiles raises his eyebrows in surprise and looks taken aback, but for once in his life, chooses to let it go. “I mean, alright dude. It’s pretty early but you do what you gotta do.” He gets a stiff nod.
“Goodnight, Stiles.”
—
Stiles doesn’t see Peter for another three weeks.
Stiles is worried, of course he is, but he’s also confused. After gradually - and perhaps begrudgingly - becoming friends, he and Peter have gotten into a habit of keeping each other updated on what they’re doing and where they’re going. It’s as much out of necessity as it is courtesy - while they might trust a few other pack members to help out in some circumstances, the two of them really only trust one another to help each other in any situation, at any cost, without asking questions first. (“Rescue first, interrogation after,” is what Stiles has dubbed it.) Their brand of loyalty is intense, all-consuming, more than a bit unhealthy, and murderous at times, but at least it’s shared.
Except for now, it seems.
Stiles is pacing his apartment when he gets the tingle from the wards that says Peter has entered the territory. By the time Peter walks into his own apartment, Stiles is on his pretentious leather couch waiting.
“Where did you go?” he says abruptly, irritation flaring irrationally at the sight of the werewolf.
“Nowhere dangerous or even particularly important. I just needed to go pick something up from a supplier.” Peter’s voice has the same amused nonchalance as usual, but his shoulders are a tense line as he turns back around from hanging up his coat.
“For three weeks?”
Stiles stalks over to him, impatient to cut through Peter’s bullshit in a way that he normally isn’t. Getting information out of Peter often feels like a game or a particularly rewarding puzzle (he’ll never forget the lengths that he had to go to to find out the man’s favorite ice cream flavor), but he’s not in the mood. His magic flows over Peter in a quick diagnostic spell - something that had become a habit since they started working so closely together. There’s a new amulet on a cord around Peter’s neck, and Stiles’ magic sweeps over it curiously. It seems to be layered with spells to conceal things that might give his feelings away to other shifters - making his heartbeat sound regular, moderating chemical changes - the whole nine yards, and functional, but done a bit sloppily, Stiles decides in distaste.
Peter is still all tense lines as he stands there and Stiles scoffs, poking the amulet. “This is mediocre work, at best. Why didn’t you come to me for this?” He starts muttering about spell quality and ingredient supply chains as he continues to poke at the amulet but then stops, suddenly.
“Peter,” he says slowly, feeling each word out, “why didn’t you come to me for this?”
Peter sniffs. “I couldn’t bother you with such a thing.”
“Do you - do you not trust me to do magic for you?” The confusion and hurt is clear on Stiles’ face.
“Please,” Peter rolls his eyes. “Not everything is about you, Stiles. This simply didn’t require your expertise.”
Stiles leans back, confusion and hurt switching over to sharp curiosity as his mind puts things together all too quickly for Peter’s comfort.
“Is this because of the amulet that I told you I was working on for enhancing my senses?”
“Again, not everything is about you,” Peter huffs. “Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he swans past Stiles towards the kitchen, but Stiles darts out a hand to catch him.
“No, you know, I don’t think I will excuse you,” he snarls. “Getting that amulet wouldn’t have taken long, which means you’ve both been avoiding me for weeks and then went to a different magic user for this shitty amulet.”
Peter smirks, though it’s forced. “Jealous?” He expects Stiles to be flustered, to drop his hand and back away flailing like he normally does. What he gets instead is Stiles yanking him back so that the two of them are standing close, facing each other. There’s a sharp gleam in Stiles’ eyes that makes Peter feel like prey. Suddenly, Stiles reaches out a finger and presses it to the amulet on Peter’s chest, and Peter feels the layers of spells on it just - unravel. He snarls in Stiles’s face but Stiles just raises an unimpressed eyebrow.
“This definitely started after I told you about the work I was doing to enhance my senses. What are you trying to hide from me, wolf?” Stiles murmurs. A new stylized wolf head tattoo below Stiles’ left ear that Peter hadn’t taken note of until now ripples, and Stiles’ eyes flash. They’re a bright violet so light it could be mistaken for white, and the display of power never fails to make Peter’s wolf sit up attentively. Stiles steps impossibly closer and takes a deep breath. He’s close enough that Peter can feel magic dancing across his skin.
“I paid good money for that, you know,” Peter sneers, doing his best to recover and affect disdain. He twists out of Stiles’ grip and begins to turn away again - only to be stopped, once again, by Stiles. Peter is incapacitated, this time held still by magic that feels like warm ropes around his body. The display of power makes him shiver.
“I see,” Stiles says quietly, low and dangerous. He can smell the spicy scent of lust rising from Peter clearly; when he inhales through his mouth it coats his tongue, thick and almost tangible.
“You want me,” Stiles breathes. “Is that what you were hiding, little wolf?” He smirks a bit. “How terribly embarrassing for you.” He reaches a hand out and trails a finger down the side of Peter’s face before wrapping those long fingers around Peter’s throat. Peter chokes back a whimper.
“You like how powerful I am,” Stiles croons, running a thumb along his jugular. “Is that right, pup?” Peter snarls, but Stiles just laughs before removing his hand from Peter’s throat.
“Alright Peter, you can keep hiding for now. I can wait. We’ll have to talk more later, though,” and with a wicked grin, Stiles vanishes from his apartment.
Peter collapses into the sofa, annoyed. Now he’s really done it.
—
Peter Hale, one of the most dangerous and respected Left Hands of the West Coast, does not hand other people weapons to use against him.
Until Stiles came around, apparently.
Now that Stiles knows, Peter gradually stops avoiding the magic user as he had been. If Stiles knows how Peter feels, Peter’s only recourse is to act like his attraction is inconsequential and purely physical. Stiles continues to sit next to him during the pack meetings, a little distance away from the others. The only difference is that now, when Stiles says something brilliant and Peter feels that flash of covetousness, Stiles looks at him with a knowing smirk. When Stiles deals an omega werewolf a particularly vicious blow from behind and Peter feels lust throb through him, Stiles just laughs at him and tells him to keep his mind in the fight. Sometimes Stiles will twirl his knife around his fingers, grinning, and when Peter looks over he’ll flash those violet eyes briefly before winking at Peter and turning away.
Peter has always been proud of his focus, but this? It’s enough to drive anyone to distraction.
Peter starts to drive himself crazy (again) trying to figure Stiles out. Stiles clearly hasn’t told anyone else, none of the other pack members would be able to resist taking a jab at Peter. Nor has the Spark made any moves towards Peter. But he also clearly hasn’t forgotten about it, and he doesn’t seem uncomfortable with the knowledge that Peter is frequently one good stab (on Stiles’s part) away from tearing all of Stiles’ clothes off.
Finally, Peter loses his patience and consequentially, any subtlety. He stalks into Stiles’ apartment, violence on the tip of his claws as he bursts through the door. The wards let him in, (and isn’t that a heady feeling, knowing that the wards that would incinerate other pack members before letting them in just accept his presence as a matter of course) and he stomps over to where Stiles is standing. Stiles just raises an eyebrow, entertained, but with a growl Peter shoves him onto the couch and climbs on top of him to straddle his lap.
“What are you doing?” Peter snarls.
Stiles still looks amused. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to be a little more specific, little wolf.”
“What game are you playing? What do you want from me?” Peter throws the words at him, hostility in every syllable. “Can’t make up your mind? Or are you too much of a coward to do anything?” He’s just angry, really, Peter tells himself. He doesn’t like being played with. He’s not insecure. Or worried.
Stiles’ face softens anyway.
“Oh pup. I know what I want. I was just waiting for you - for you to be able to be honest with me about what’s important to you.” Stiles runs a hand through Peter’s hair, scratching the back of his neck slowly, his other arm holding Peter securely around the waist. “I found out how you felt before you were ready because of my magic, so it only seems fair for you to get to decide what you want to happen and make the next move.
“What do you want, sweet wolf?”
Peter doesn’t hesitate. He has no reason to not be honest at this point.
“You,” Peter growls through his fangs. “All the time. In every way.”
Stiles takes a deep breath, inhaling the scent of Peter’s lust, relief, and slowly blooming happiness. He smiles, and leans forward to give Peter a deep, if all too brief, kiss. It feels like a promise, and Peter senses nothing but sincerity.
“Okay.”
And if Peter is going to start being honest - he might admit that what he feels right then is joy.