Nonnie! This headcanon/not!fic got long! I guess Peter was feeling inspired? Hope you enjoy!
Peter has never been a fan of camping or spending time in
the outdoors unless said outdoors included a pool and a colorful cocktail in
his hand. The fact that he has committed to spending months in the fucking
rainforest is starting to make him question his sanity. In addition, the
presence of seventeen strangers not to mention the dozen crew members is
already proving to be more annoying than expected. It’s all Talia’s fault, of
course. She was on the third season of this stupid program, and she made it to
the top five. The family had been watching the current season during
Thanksgiving, and Peter had been commenting on the stupidity of the players
when she’d dared to throw down the gauntlet. “As if you could ever do any
better, Peter” were the nine little words that led to him conducting a producer
he met during Talia’s stint on the show and acquiring a place of his own for
the newest season.
Blinking furiously Stiles turned on a heel to leave. He didn’t even know what had drawn him to Derek’s loft in the first place. It was becoming a trend, arriving in strange places without knowing why he was there. Stiles had a little more sympathy for Lydia now.
“You were supposed to have Scott,” Peter’s voice said behind him, dripping with false sympathy. "You’ve been friends for so long. The bond between you two is nearly unbreakable. I’ve no doubt your abilities would have naturally woken when Scott became an Alpha if not for Deaton.“
Stiles froze, one foot across the threshold. He reached out, grabbing the door tightly to keep himself upright.
“What do you mean,” he asked over his shoulder. "Deaton warned us that there would be a darkness.“ Stiles couldn’t stop himself from shaking. Not now, he tried to tell him body. I can’t collapse here!
Leaning heavily against the door, he turned himself to meet Peter’s eyes. He wasn’t surprised to find the older man barely an arms length away.
“It isn’t the darkness that is causing your weakness, your blackouts.” Peter said. Leaning close, the wolf whispered, “You’re abilities were woken prematurely in that ice bath. Deaton knew it would happen and he still partnered you with the banshee.”
“Normally,” Peter said, raising his eyebrows. "Lydia would have been perfect to bring you back. But when you’re powers woke they sought out your Alpha but found a conductor for the dead instead. In the mean time, another Emissary had already attached himself to the Alpha you were destined for.“
Stiles swallowed, the tempo of his heartbeat picking up, as Peter closed the distance between them. The wolf braced his hands against the heavy door, bracketing Stiles between them. Stiles wanted to move but he knew if he tried that he would end up in a heap on the floor. Also, there was a niggling sensation, almost like an instinct, telling him that Peter was right.
“Alan Deaton made himself Scott’s emissary that night and, now, you’re dying because of it.” Stiles legs finally gave out beneath him. But Peter caught him before he could slip to the floor. Peter lifted him easy, cradling the boy to his chest with surprising gentleness. Then he bent his head, to whisper in Stiles’ ear.
“The worst part, is that he knew this would happen and did it anyway because he didn’t think you were worthy to guide the True Alpha.”
if youve never physically been in the presence of like, a real live wolf, and you probably wont get the chance to, heres some stuff about them you should know
a wolf’s fur is so unbelievably thick that you can get like, your whole hand into it while petting. and then you can keep going
wolves are a lot bigger than you think they are. think about how big you think a wolf is then just like double that
they dont really smell like dog but they DO smell and youre not going to be able to figure out if its a good smell or not
a wolf really wants to lick the inside of your mouth. he will not stop trying to lick the inside of your mouth at any cost, and generally speaking you need to press your lips together kind of tightly when he approaches your face so that he doesnt worm his damn tongue in there to give you what he thinks is an appropriate greeting
a wolf doesnt really want to look at you while you pet him but he wants you to pet him. hes embarrassed
if a grown ass wolf decides to lay down on you, you just have to deal with it and thats your life now
young wolves, much like young dogs, are overwhelmingly goofy and stupid. a teenage wolf will see your very fragile, very human shoulder and go “i can probably step on that with my full weight” and then he will do it
letting a wolf eat out of your hand is actually not remotely frightening, and youll want to do it all day
Happy Wolfenoot! A wolf!Peter ficlet felt like an appropriate celebration.
__________
“So he’s stuck like this?” Derek asked, rubbing a tension line in his forehead.
“Likely for a few days, yes,” Deaton answered, ignoring the growls coming from the wolf on the examination table in front of him.
“Shut up,” Derek growled back at wolf, glaring.
The wolf barked, snapping his teeth, but Derek’s no doubt scathing response was interrupted by Stiles running full tilt into the room, skidding to a stop next to the cabinets.
Expression frantic, he swiftly asked, “Is he okay? Is he-” He stopped, finally noticing the huge black wolf in the room. His expression suddenly flipped a 180 into sheer delight. “Oh my GOD is that him?? Peter is that you? Holy shit you’re adorable!!”
Peter immediately sat up straighter and preened.
Derek rolled his eyes.
“Take your idiot boyfriend home, Stiles. I’m not going to let him pee on all my furniture.”
Stiles wanted to protest in Peter’s defense, but knew that Peter would, in fact, do something exactly like that if Derek tried to take him home. However-
“I don’t even know what’s going on though. I thought you guys were just going to go talk to the witch?” he asked, moving over to the examination to sink his fingers into Peter’s new thick fur, grinning when Peter rumbled happily.
“That’s all we did,” Derek said grudgingly. “She… didn’t like what we had to say.”
Stiles rolled his eyes this time.
“I told you not to be rude to her.”
Derek scowled back at him.
“She walks around on literal chicken legs, it’s not like we were afraid of her-”
“You should have been,” he said bluntly. “Can you imagine what kind of power you’d have to get in order to be willing to live with chicken legs in return? You’re probably lucky this is all she did.” He looked disapprovingly at Peter, who looked indignant and started yowling and shaking a paw at Derek.
Stiles raised an eyebrow, looking back at Derek.
“What did you do?” he demanded accusingly.
Derek’s mouth dropped open.
“I didn’t do anything!”
Stiles gestured at Peter behind him, who was looking smugly at Derek over Stiles’ shoulder.
“Peter says differently,” Stiles said staunchly.
Derek opened his mouth to argue back, but Deaton interrupted.
“You didn’t tell me she had chicken legs,” he said slowly, brow furrowed. “If she was a Baba Yaga, then this might be an even more archaic curse than I thought.” He frowned contemplatively, and then looked at Stiles. “How long have you and Peter been dating?”
“A few months,” Stiles answered, confused at the abrupt change of subject.
Deaton nodded thoughtfully.
“Do you love him?”
Stiles startled.
“Uh, that’s kind of personal-”
“It’s important, Stiles, have you told him that you love him?” Deaton asked in that infuriatingly placid way of his.
Stiles shifted on his feet a little.
“Yeah-”
“Kiss him.”
Stiles’ and Derek’s mouths fell open.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Give him a kiss.”
Stiles waved a hand in the air expansively, trying to indicate the sheer amount of absurdity he felt the request deserved.
“Do you honestly think I can undo this with a true love’s kiss??”
Deaton shrugged.
“It can’t hurt to try.”
“It sure fucking could!” Stiles argued back. “Aside from you being severely unsympathetic to the possible emotional ramifications if this doesn’t work, exactly what kind of kiss are you talking about here? Because in the earliest versions of Sleeping Beauty-”
“Just a kiss, Stiles,” Deaton cut in, taking his own turn for an eye roll. “Like you would kiss the top of a pet’s head. And if it doesn’t work, that means nothing about the state of your relationship, it simply means it’s not the solution for whatever type of curse is on him. It’s best to start with the simplest answer.”
Derek and Deaton looked at Stiles expectantly.
Stiles sighed and looked at Peter, who was holding completely still aside from the occasional twitch of his furry little snout.
“You’re coming with me to therapy next week, and we’re gonna talk about this no matter how it turns out,” he said sternly. Then he leaned forward and dropped a smooch on Peter’s head.
Nothing happened.
Deaton nodded.
“Alright, at least we have the answer to that-”
While Deaton spoke, Stiles couldn’t help but be disappointed. The whole idea was absurd, of course, but…
Peter snuffled into his space, whining a little as he took in Stiles’ expression. He leaned forward and gave a little lick to Stiles’ cheek-
POP
Peter sat naked on the examination table, hair askew and looking just as surprised as everyone else.
“Ah,” Deaton said. Everyone was quiet for a beat.
“What the fuck does that mean?” Stiles blurted out. Did Peter love Stiles more than Stiles loved Peter? Was he Peter’s soulmate, but Peter wasn’t his? Was slobber a necessary component of the spell??
“It means she was a crafty old witch, Stiles,” Deaton assured him calmly as he fetched a spare set of scrubs. “She inverted the spell. Rather than receiving a true love’s kiss, he had to give one. It means nothing specific about your relationship. I’m sure you and Peter both…” He furrowed his brow just the tiniest amount. “Love each other very much.”
“Oh my God, please never go into relationship counseling. You’re the worst,” Stiles groaned out, leaning on Peter and scrubbing his face with his hands.
Derek quickly excused himself after that, clearly eager to get home and away from the love discussions. Peter pulled on the scrubs and allowed Deaton to check his heartbeat and lungs only because Stiles refused to take him home until he was cleared.
Stiles drove them both back to Peter’s apartment afterwards, and after a quick shower they rolled into bed together.
Peter immediately pulled Stiles back into his body as the little spoon, and whispered into his neck, “True love’s lick.”
Stiles snorted a laugh and brought Peter’s hand up to his mouth to kiss his palm gently.
“Personally I liked the kiss better,” he said. “What a dumb curse.”
Peter smiled against Stiles’ skin, peppering him with kisses.
“Very dumb.” He pulled at Stiles to flip him over so they were face to face. “I can think of a lot of uses for true love’s lick, though,” he said suggestively.
A slow smile spread across Stiles’ face.
“I’m not sure I can believe that without evidence,” he said, grinning.
Listen. Listen. I just took a double dose of cold medicine and I’m ready to ride this angst train into the jaws of hell.
Because Peter didn’t expect Stiles to take care of him. No one has taken care of him before, he’s always been perfectly self sufficient. Even as a child, his parents supplied his material needs and then left him to his own devices for everything else.
Peter doesn’t need anyone else to care for him, to care about him. If you ask him whether or not he wants someone to care for him, he’ll scoff and look down his nose at you… but he won’t answer.
And Stiles never wanted to be in this position again. After his dad got clean/Stiles left home/whatever, he was done. When he’s out with friends, Stiles stays for two drinks and leaves, every time. He’s never around when people get sloppy drunk because he knows he would feel obligated to help, and he’s done doing that.
So part of the reason Stiles turned the water on Peter was because he was angry. Angry at Peter for getting this drunk, angry at himself for seeking out Peter when he knew he would be this drunk- kind of hoping that the shock of water will sober him up enough that he’ll get up and take care of himself.
Instead, Peter just says “thanks” and then passes out in the shower.
And Stiles considers leaving him there. He really does, but he’s worried, and frustrated, and every of the other ten thousand feelings that come with caring about Peter Hale, and all of those feelings combined outweigh Stiles’ determination to never be put back in the same caretaker situation he was in with his dad as a child.
So he takes Peter home.
Cleans him up.
Puts him in recovery position.
And waits for him to wake up.
Peter’s hangover muddles his brain enough that it takes him a few minutes in the morning. When he finally realizes that he’s at Stiles’, that Stiles must have taken care of him last night, a part of him is thrilled. He feels loved in a way he’s not used to experiencing.
Stiles, on the other hand, upon seeing Peter awake and no longer in danger of choking to death on his own vomit, is furious.
He tears into Peter (loudly, with zero regard for Peter’s hangover) yelling about how irresponsible that was, and how Stiles isn’t a babysitter, and how Peter needs to start taking care of himself-
And that’s when Peter starts to cut back with words, because like hell is anyone going to accuse him of not taking care of himself when that’s all he’s ever done.
They’re both frustrated and confused and full of all those deep emotions that are so, so terrifying when you’ve had a childhood filled with coping rather than growing.
In the end, it comes down to Peter yelling (hangover be damned), “I didn’t ask you to come take care of me!”
And Stiles of course yells back, “You didn’t have to ask me to take care of you, that’s just what you do when you love someone!”
Peter is stunned into silence, but Stiles isn’t done yelling. He keeps going.
“I just never wanted to love someone who would put me that position again!”
And now they’re both silent, staring at each other.
Because where do you go from there?
JFC, @twothumbsandnostakeincanon , get your germ-encrusted fingers off the keyboard and go sit in the corner and think about what you’ve done. I need to fix this shit before you make me bawl like a baby at almost-2am.
Peter’s stunned like he almost never is, and Stiles is silent, won’t look him in the eyes as he starts to move around the apartment angrily, slamming around the kitchen as he makes breakfast and tortures Peter’s poor booze-soaked brain at the same time. It’s efficient, he’ll give the boy that.
He hauls his sorry carcass up and into the shower, and is too busy trying to wake up and put together the pieces of Stiles’s explosive cocktail of love and fury to snoop through the medicine cabinet while he’s in there. By the time he’s puttering back out in borrowed sweats and an old hoodie that has Stiles’s scent engrained in the fabric, he thinks he has the general shape of things–which is enough to make him push down his own resentment and bitterness, because he can indulge those later, but this, what Stiles said, that can’t be put off.
He waits until they’re both seated in front of scrambled eggs, toast, and coffee. “Why would you say you love me?” He asks it like it’s not important, like the answer he gets isn’t going to be the single deciding factor in where his life goes from here. Like this isn’t a fork in the road.
Stiles rolls his eyes. “Gee, Peter, I don’t know. Why do you think I said it?”
He raises an eyebrow. “I think your father is a functioning alcoholic, and that he had a non-functioning phase you had to steer him out of. I also think that you’re projecting your daddy issues onto a man old enough to be your father who happens to enjoy bickering as a hobby.” He smirks, and if it has more of an edge than usual, no one will know. “But, if it’s closure you’re after, kiddo, by all means, consider me at your service.”
Listen. Listen. I just took a double dose of cold medicine and I’m ready to ride this angst train into the jaws of hell.
Because Peter didn’t expect Stiles to take care of him. No one has taken care of him before, he’s always been perfectly self sufficient. Even as a child, his parents supplied his material needs and then left him to his own devices for everything else.
Peter doesn’t need anyone else to care for him, to care about him. If you ask him whether or not he wants someone to care for him, he’ll scoff and look down his nose at you… but he won’t answer.
And Stiles never wanted to be in this position again. After his dad got clean/Stiles left home/whatever, he was done. When he’s out with friends, Stiles stays for two drinks and leaves, every time. He’s never around when people get sloppy drunk because he knows he would feel obligated to help, and he’s done doing that.
So part of the reason Stiles turned the water on Peter was because he was angry. Angry at Peter for getting this drunk, angry at himself for seeking out Peter when he knew he would be this drunk- kind of hoping that the shock of water will sober him up enough that he’ll get up and take care of himself.
Instead, Peter just says “thanks” and then passes out in the shower.
And Stiles considers leaving him there. He really does, but he’s worried, and frustrated, and every of the other ten thousand feelings that come with caring about Peter Hale, and all of those feelings combined outweigh Stiles’ determination to never be put back in the same caretaker situation he was in with his dad as a child.
So he takes Peter home.
Cleans him up.
Puts him in recovery position.
And waits for him to wake up.
Peter’s hangover muddles his brain enough that it takes him a few minutes in the morning. When he finally realizes that he’s at Stiles’, that Stiles must have taken care of him last night, a part of him is thrilled. He feels loved in a way he’s not used to experiencing.
Stiles, on the other hand, upon seeing Peter awake and no longer in danger of choking to death on his own vomit, is furious.
He tears into Peter (loudly, with zero regard for Peter’s hangover) yelling about how irresponsible that was, and how Stiles isn’t a babysitter, and how Peter needs to start taking care of himself-
And that’s when Peter starts to cut back with words, because like hell is anyone going to accuse him of not taking care of himself when that’s all he’s ever done.
They’re both frustrated and confused and full of all those deep emotions that are so, so terrifying when you’ve had a childhood filled with coping rather than growing.
In the end, it comes down to Peter yelling (hangover be damned), “I didn’t ask you to come take care of me!”
And Stiles of course yells back, “You didn’t have to ask me to take care of you, that’s just what you do when you love someone!”
Peter is stunned into silence, but Stiles isn’t done yelling. He keeps going.
“I just never wanted to love someone who would put me that position again!”
And now they’re both silent, staring at each other.
Because where do you go from there?
JFC, @twothumbsandnostakeincanon , get your germ-encrusted fingers off the keyboard and go sit in the corner and think about what you’ve done. I need to fix this shit before you make me bawl like a baby at almost-2am.
Peter’s stunned like he almost never is, and Stiles is silent, won’t look him in the eyes as he starts to move around the apartment angrily, slamming around the kitchen as he makes breakfast and tortures Peter’s poor booze-soaked brain at the same time. It’s efficient, he’ll give the boy that.
He hauls his sorry carcass up and into the shower, and is too busy trying to wake up and put together the pieces of Stiles’s explosive cocktail of love and fury to snoop through the medicine cabinet while he’s in there. By the time he’s puttering back out in borrowed sweats and an old hoodie that has Stiles’s scent engrained in the fabric, he thinks he has the general shape of things–which is enough to make him push down his own resentment and bitterness, because he can indulge those later, but this, what Stiles said, that can’t be put off.
He waits until they’re both seated in front of scrambled eggs, toast, and coffee. “Why would you say you love me?” He asks it like it’s not important, like the answer he gets isn’t going to be the single deciding factor in where his life goes from here. Like this isn’t a fork in the road.
Stiles rolls his eyes. “Gee, Peter, I don’t know. Why do you think I said it?”
He raises an eyebrow. “I think your father is a functioning alcoholic, and that he had a non-functioning phase you had to steer him out of. I also think that you’re projecting your daddy issues onto a man old enough to be your father who happens to enjoy bickering as a hobby.” He smirks, and if it has more of an edge than usual, no one will know. “But, if it’s closure you’re after, kiddo, by all means, consider me at your service.”
Stiles drops his face into his hands, muttering, “You monumental fucking asshole,” before he lifts his head back up to glare. “Look, fuckface, you don’t get to tell me how I do or don’t feel about you, because last time I checked, your degree was in environmental engineering, and not clinical psychology, so clear the shit out of your ears, and listen carefully to my heartbeat.” He leans forward, jaw clenched and still furious, but his heart doesn’t stutter as he deliberately enunciates each word. “I love you, you fucking prick.”
“Oh.” That’s–Peter needs a moment.
Of course, he doesn’t get one, because Stiles throws his hands up in the air. “’Oh’, he says! Yeah, fucking ‘oh’!” He stops and rubs his eyes. “You know, I was never going to tell you. It was just, going to be this thing that existed quietly until it didn’t and that we never verbally acknowledged.”
“And why’s that?” Peter asks, whisper-soft.
Stiles’s eyes are sad, even as one side of his mouth quirks into a gentle half-smile. “Because, this? Us? This can’t work, Peter. No matter how much I want it to.”
And oh, but the threat of having it taken away before he ever got the chance to hold it, to try, to fuck it up, feels like claws in the gut. “Why can’t it? If we both want it, why not try?”
Stiles gives an incredulous huff. “Jesus, what do you mean ‘why’? As evidenced by this morning, we’ve both got a bunch of fucking issues–and don’t even try to deny you have them, okay, you would not have gotten blackout drunk if you didn’t–and that’s.” He huffs again, but it’s wet this time, and Peter wants to say no, please don’t cry, but Stiles goes on before he can. “And just. This? This morning? That is not what I want my life to be, okay? I’m in a place where I get to choose what I want it to be, and it’s not–it’s not this.”
He ducks his head, but it doesn’t do jack for the salt-scent of gathering tears. Peter slips from his chair, crouching on the floor beside him. “You are allowed to decide, sweetheart. But I still think we deserve to give this a shot. You want it, and I want it, and if get to choose, why not try?”
Stiles laughs, even as he covers his face to hide the tears rolling down his face. “Therapy. We are getting so, so much therapy. I’ll drag you there at gunpoint if I have to.”
Peter stands and wraps an arm around the young man’s shoulders, dropping a kiss on the top of his head. “No weapons necessary, darling. I have the numbers of a few who know about all this. We can call and set up meetings, see if there’s anyone we click with.”
Stiles drags in a deep, shuddering breath. “Okay. God, this–this is absolutely, off-the-reservation crazy, but. Okay. Just,” he looks up, and his gorgeous face is raw and tired and Peter’s never quite wanted to kiss him this badly, “don’t–don’t do that to me again.”
He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t have to. “I won’t,” Peter promises, and he means it, too. The look on Stiles’s face says he’s not convinced, but he’s got time, now, to convince Stiles that he means it.
He’s surprised when he’s gently pushed away. “Now sit down and finish your breakfast.”
He salutes sarcastically, but there’s a warm little glow in his stomach, at being fed, provided for. He doesn’t say anything about it, not now, not this soon, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t savour it.
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