Chapter Text
The crash and splinter of glass woke Stiles from a dead sleep. He froze at the muffled swears and loud crunching that followed.
Earlier that night, his dad had put leftovers in front of him and sat down to drink his own dinner of Jack Daniels. All the crashing had come from his parent’s room. If his dad wasn’t passed out somewhere, then it must be him.
Stiles’ lips tightened. If it was a robber, then they were screwed. He swallowed hard, clutching the covers.
If it was a robber, then Stiles should be brave.
On silent feet, he crept out of bed and across the hallway, but he need not have bothered with stealth. His dad was in clear view of the the partially open door, but in no state to notice his son.
Stiles’ nose twitched. There was something in the air—something strange. Like the days when customers sprayed too many incompatible perfumes at the fragrance counter but worse. Stiles edged closer. He nearly gagged at the cloying taste of alcohol on the air. He knew this taste, this smell.
Stiles bit his lip, hard, to keep from crying out.
Just outside the door, the wall of scent was almost solid. How much of his mom’s perfume had been ruined tonight?
His dad picked up another bottle, Stiles couldn’t tell which one, and hurled it at the wall. The shattering glass released a powerful cloud of green, medicinal citrus and intense clove, revealing itself as vintage Opium. The notes bloomed. Juicy plum freshened dusty cinnamon and creamy florals as rich resins and dry woods held it steady. It billowed out, searching in vain for warm, living skin to complete its chemical transformation.
“The sillage was so intense that they would open the windows in my office.”
“Just for you?” Stiles had asked, wide-eyed at his mom’s presumption.
She’d smiled at him then. Amusement touched by arrogance. “No, darling. Not just for me. The fashion of the day was to wear strong perfume.” She’d sniffed. “Not like today and these preposterous scent-free establishments! Are we beasts?”
She’d tickled him then, chasing him around the room until he’d grown dizzy from laughing and her ever-present cloud of perfume.
It had been something strong and fierce. Bandit? Stiles couldn’t remember anymore, no matter how he tried to grasp at the memory and hold it tight.
Her perfumes had been locked up for the last few months after his dad had caught him sneaking into the wardrobe and spraying himself, but now the house would smell like her for days, maybe weeks, after this. The thought comforted Stiles, as he watched his dad destroy his mother’s prized collection one bottle at a time.
New and vintage bottles met their untimely ends that night, victim to John’s grief.
Later, when his dad finally slumped on the bed to sleep off the whiskey, Stiles braved the heady fumes and glass shards to examine the big wooden case that dominated the back wall of the master bedroom. She’d had it custom-built long before Stiles, even before she’d met and married John.
Stiles heart sank as he pulled open doors and empty velvet-lined drawers, but his thorough search was rewarded by small glass vials, hiding in the last compartment.
Clutching his prize, he tiptoed through the mess and dashed back to his room, leaving fragrant footprints on the carpet.
Slowly, remembering his mom’s care, Stiles set the little vials on his dresser and inspected his loot. The tiny spray bottle could not have been more than a dram, and the tag said Mitsouko, edp, 1983 in her fine, almost calligraphic hand. The other was tiny, one of the many one milliliter sample vials in her collection.
Chypre, edp, unknown.
A jolt went through him. With trembling fingers, he unstoppered the vial, terrified of spilling a drop. Slowly he lifted the wand out and sniffed it.
Bitter, warm, and resinous with a wallop of dark moss. Floral notes lurked within the composition, waiting to unfurl themselves through the heart. Here was autumn: glowing and golden. If Stiles closed his eyes, he could recall so many moments when he’d buried his face in his mom’s neck and smelled this, rising from her skin and hair.
His eyes stung, wet with unshed tears, and he jammed the vial shut again.
Stiles dumped the perfumes into a handy sock and tucked them in the back of his underwear drawer. They’d be safe enough for now.
Tomorrow he’d help his dad clean up the mess, if his dad would even take his help. Then maybe later, he’d be able to find a better place for his new treasure, his memory in a bottle. Somewhere no one could ruin again.
That one milliliter vial had helped Stiles through the hardest things. Werewolves and kanima and murderous hunters all seemed a little less dire when he could crack open the top and inhale a hit of pure nostalgia. All the best times with his mom, preserved in a fragile, glass package.
Of course, with Stiles’ life being what it was, he should have known better.
They were in the middle of chasing down a rogue sorcerer, and he’d just gotten a text to meet at the Preserve. Normally, he was so methodical about putting it away, but his brain and body failed him today. Stiles pocketed his phone and slipped the Chypre into his shirt pocket as he grabbed his bag of tricks.
He hadn’t given it a second thought until the sorcerer had magicked huge roots to rise out of the ground like tentacles. One of them had whacked him right in the chest, sending him flying into Peter’s arms.
They’d crashed in a pile of dead leaves, and the sting of bruises and broken glass were immediately driven from his mind as Peter’s signature scent, Sartorial, was obscured by the sudden burst of oakmoss and bitter bergamot. His heart sank into his worn out Converse.
The vial. He’d put it in his pocket instead of its box.
He’d kept it safe for years. Through impromptu room searches and drunken grief. Through werewolves and regular teenage mishaps. Through his own clumsiness.
All for nothing.
Sharp tears stung his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. Even though he could pass it off as pain from the tentacle root, there was no way he’d let Peter see him cry over something so… childish.
“Stiles?” Peter’s arms tightened around him. His hands wandered over Stiles’ chest in an almost appropriate injury check. He paused at the wet spot. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” He jerked away from Peter, stumbling to his feet and pasting a wide, insincere smile onto his face. “Looks like we missed the end.”
Scott and Kira were standing by the fallen sorcerer, and by the whole bisection he was rocking, it looked like Kira had been the one to mete out his messy end.
“Gross.” Stiles sighed. “I guess there’s no way you could lightning bolt the evidence away?”
“Sorry, Stiles,” Kira apologized and sheathed her sword. “If it wasn’t for the drought…”
“I know.” He patted her on the shoulder. “It’s cool. I can work with this.”
At least the fecal stench of severed intestines meant that no one should notice his little perfume mishap.
“What’s that smell?” Lydia demanded, wrinkling her nose.
“There is a dead man lying in front of us,” drawled Peter. “Surely you can recognize the smell of corpse by now.”
Lydia sniffed in disdain and grimaced as it must have drawn more of the offending odor into her nostrils. She covered her nose and mouth. “You’re absolutely right, Peter. I do recognize eau de corpse, but there’s something else. It’s disgusting. Like mildewed basements and old nail polish.”
Stiles narrowed his eyes at Lydia. Mildew and old nail polish. This from the person whose signature scent involved sickly-sweet violets and licorice. The least she could do was wear one of the licorice-free flankers.
Scott lifted his head, taking in the air. His brow furrowed. “The dead guy’s pretty bad, but. Huh. There’s something else… kind of familiar?”
Danny and Jackson jogged up to stand by Lydia. “Sorry we’re late. Those roots had us pinned down. Good job, taking care of him, Kira!” Danny gave her one of his megawatt grins, complete with a thumbs up for a murder well-done.
She beamed back at him.
“Yo, Stilinski. You stink.”
Of course, Jackson ruined everything by opening his mouth.
Before Stiles had a chance to respond, Peter snorted. “No more than you. Didn’t you notice the root sap? It’s all over our clothes.”
Jackson glanced down, unable to help himself from checking, but he scowled when he saw the dark sap stains on his probably designer t-shirt. “Damn it. This is Armani.”
“Now why don’t you all run home while Stiles and I handle the messy bits?” Peter suggested with a hint of fang.
Astonishingly, it worked. No one else said anything about the mysterious smell, and in a few minutes, it was just Stiles and Peter.
And the dead sorcerer who Stiles had decided to call Doug.
“Am I supposed to thank you or something?”
Peter smirked. “I’m never one to turn down gratitude.”
“I wouldn’t hold your breath on that one,” Stiles muttered. He opened his bag, running practiced fingers over the tops of wax-sealed bottles and jars. He drew out a travel sized pot, two squat jars of spider venom and a slim tube of ground parsley. He paused before adding a baggie of dried pomegranate seeds to the lot.
“There.” Stiles reached back in for the folding shovel. “You can dig the hole.”
“I’m beginning to find this division of labor unfair.”
Stiles ignored Peter’s complaint and scraped the ground free of loose leaves and sticks before placing his pot in the center. He concentrated on the idea of heat. He thought of cracked earth and magma. He meditated on the precise feel of scorching pavement in the summer sun until the base of his pot glowed cherry red.
Quickly, he poured in the spider venom and parsley without measuring. Fuck. He’d forgotten the stirring rod. Stiles turned back to his kit, but the rod appeared in front of his face. He blinked at Peter who still held it out for him.
“Oh. Thanks”
“Think nothing of it.”
With a few stirs, the powder started to disappear into the goo. Stiles dropped in six pomegranate seeds and whipped the rod through the boiling mixture. When it took on a pearlescent sheen, he judged it ready.
“Okay. Time to break out the brushes.”
Ten minutes later, Doug the sorcerer lay in his shallow grave, evenly coated in a potion that was guaranteed to dissolve him before sunrise.
“Not bad for an amateur,” Stiles said.
“You’re getting to be quite good at this. I certainly wouldn’t call you an amateur,” Peter disagreed.
“I guess.” Stiles shrugged. It had been a long day, and he’d suffered a huge emotional blow with his mishap. He didn’t have patience to play Peter’s usual games of innuendo and implication.
“I’ll see you around, Peter.” Stiles hesitated as he turned away. “Do you need a ride somewhere?”
Peter shook his head and sat against a nearby tree. “I’m staying a bit longer. Just to make sure that no one disturbs our friend here.”
“Well okay.” He fidgeted with his bag’s strap. “I’ll leave you to it.”
Stiles trudged back to his Jeep, errant wafts of Chypre assaulting him with every step. He could handle this. It was fine. Tonight he would mourn. Tomorrow he’d start looking for a replacement.
How hard could it be?
● ● ●
As it turned out, it was incredibly hard to find a replacement for Coty’s Chypre when he didn’t even know how old his sample had been.
When a quarter milliliter sample ran him anywhere from twelve to thirty dollars, Stiles couldn’t afford to strike out too many times.
With an explosive sigh, Stiles hit the purchase button and surrendered to chance.
If all went well, this would be exactly what he wanted.
Four days later, Stiles received two packages. One of them, he found in the mailbox. The other sat on his pillow, wrapped in gold and navy paper.
Stiles rolled his eyes. What was it with werewolves and illegal entry? He’d deal with that later… but first, his sample.
His hands trembled as he sliced through the tape and pulled out the protective bubble wrap. The invoice fluttered to the floor.
Funny how his hopes and dreams rested on the tiny vial in his hands. Carefully, he wiggled the cap, side to side, until it loosened enough for him to pull it out.
Stiles brought the wand to his nose, and just like that, his hopes crashed and burned.
It wasn’t right at all.
“Damn it.” Stiles thrust the cap back in the vial and threw himself on the bed.
Restrained. Ladylike. Powdery oakmoss and the wispiest ghost of bergamot to usher in smooth jasmine and rose.
It wasn’t Claudia Stilinski’s Chypre, and while she likely had owned some of the 1986 reformulation, this wasn’t the smell of his childhood. Stiles would never breathe in desperate whiffs of this pale pretender and feel his mom’s arms around him.
“Next time, Gadget.”
He indulged in a good, old-fashioned mope, but eventually, curiosity motivated him to investigate the other package. Stiles sat upright and grabbed the rectangular box, shaking it with caution. Too many people had left him weird shit in the last few years.
Satisfied that it probably wouldn’t kill him, he took the time to admire the paper. The antique gold paisley managed to stay just on the right side of classy. It was a perfect foil to the deep blue. Whoever wrapped it had known what they were doing. Every crease and pleat was executed with style and absolute symmetry. It was almost too nice to destroy.
Almost but not quite.
Stiles slipped his fingertip into the tiny gap between tape and paper. Once he had a good grip on it, he ripped. Blue and gold wrapping paper fell to his bed, and Stiles was left holding a bright yellow box, bearing a familiar name. Penhaligon’s.
“Of course, he did.”
He stared at the bottle of Quercus for three seconds before bursting into laughter. Stiles laughed hard enough that the box fell from his hand, dropping harmlessly to the bed with the wrapping paper.
“Quercus,” he gasped. “Oh my god. Can he be any more predictable? I can’t—” Stiles dissolved into more manic giggles. “I wonder how fucking hard he thought about sending me Sartorial before going with this.”
Unable to stop himself, Stiles opened the box and gave the bottle a few spritzes. Fresh citrus touched by basil floated around him; hints of oakmoss and sandalwood deepened the summery scent. The comparisons to CK One were inevitable, but it wasn’t as sharp or harsh—the unmistakable Penhaligon’s restraint at work.
“Huh. That’s pretty nice.” Stiles looked down at the bottle. For years, perfume and everything to do with it had been solely reserved for his mother. His interest had always been secondhand, just another way to preserve his memories and feel close to her. He’d never actually chosen something for himself.
Stiles breathed in the cheerful, summery citrus. Maybe he’d have to start wearing cologne every now and then. No, Quercus wasn’t remotely similar to Coty’s Chypre, but it did smell good. He wavered.
His phone chirped, warning him that he had places to be and people to see.
“Oh, what the hell.” Stiles sprayed his shirt and his wrists and dropped the flacon on his comforter. It gave a weak bounce before he grabbed the milk crate by the door and ran downstairs.
It was time to make some magic.
● ● ●
“You’re late,” Peter said, opening the door before Stiles even had the opportunity to knock. Stiles gave him a quick once-over, appreciating the navy cardigan and white polo that clung to Peter’s chest. The thin cardigan stretched over Peter’s wide shoulders as he held the door just wide enough for Stiles and the milk crate to squeeze past.
“A wizard is never late!” Stiles set the crate down with a flourish. “He arrives precisely when he means to.”
“Ah, yes.” Peter’s lips tilted into a smile. “I’d forgotten that you’re a wizard now.”
“Rude,” Stiles declared as he stretched out on the leather couch. “One day my revenge will be complete. You’ll never even know it was me.”
Peter wedged himself into the tiny space between Stiles’ shoulder and the armrest, wrapping his right arm around Stiles and clinging like ivy. “Except you just warned me, so now I’ll be on my guard.”
“A mere detail!”
“Is that so?”
“You should have more faith in me, Peter.” Stiles leaned into Peter and licked his lips, amused when Peter’s gaze zeroed in on his mouth. “I can think of several ways to disappear you with what’s in your kitchen.”
“Of that I have no doubt.” Peter smirked. “I’m sure your revenge will be complete one day. But that will be after you’ve mastered the concept of an inside voice.”
Stiles lifted his hand in a sloppy gesture, the laziest middle finger he’d ever offered anyone, but their barbs weren’t intended to draw blood. Not anymore. How weird was it that Peter had gone from the final boss battle to… not their friend, Peter could never be so benign a figure. Their association was too complicated, fraught with betrayals and unspoken hurt, but Stiles couldn't have imagined then that Peter could be this: urbane, sharp-tongued, self-serving, decadent, and entirely too useful to get rid of.
Now the Peter Hale who had been the rogue alpha only existed in memory and micro expressions. In the flashes of barely restrained violence. In the werewolf who would gut man or monster and immediately pull out a handkerchief. In the moments when he and Stiles sometimes locked eyes, united by irritation and disbelief.
And always, in those moments, Stiles was shocked, jolted by recognition. In a strange way, they’ve circled back around to the beginning.
Still want him in your pack?
The answer had been and still was yes. Yes to Scott and Derek and all the rest of them, but the question implicit in those seconds of agreement, in magic lessons, and monster hunting—somehow it had changed, turning previously stable ground into a quagmire of uncertainty.
Peter shifted his weight, tipping Stiles further into his body, so that he pressed against Stiles, a line of heat draping over his back. He brushed his nose against Stiles’ hair and hummed, low in his throat. Peter’s hand crept down, trailing the length of Stiles’ sleeve before closing his fingers around Stiles’ wrist. He pulled it up in arrogant, agonizing slowness, like he knew Stiles would allow these liberties without protest.
Barely moving, cradled against Peter’s chest, Stiles’ eyes drifted shut when Peter’s nose touched his wrist. Soft stubble and smooth lips followed, lingering over Stiles’ skin. Peter inhaled, the noise loud in the room.
“It suits you, Stiles.”
Peter’s breath stirred the tiny hairs on his arm, blowing across his pulse. Barring deadly situations and supernatural shenanigans, they hadn’t been this close since the night of the winter formal. What would happen if Stiles didn’t move? If he lay here, in Peter’s arms, and conceded, acknowledging the end of their long-played game?
Do you want the bite?
Abruptly, Stiles pulled away, shoulders hunching. Two years later, and he still wasn’t sure what Peter had wanted—if he even had it to give. What Stiles knew was this: there was no way he’d let Peter win without making him work for it.
He still had his pride to think of, such as it was.
Wrist held tightly to his chest, buried in his shirts, Stiles bounced his shoulders up and down in a mechanical shrug.
“Thanks,” he said, daring a glance at Peter’s face.
The soft intimacy of the moment had fled, and all that remained was the pleasantly neutral expression of a bored Peter. He smiled brightly, blue eyes empty and cold.
“I think you’ll like the books that arrived today. Barthélémy Aneau’s book of emblems in particular.”
“Uh, that’s great. ” Stiles cleared his throat. “Thanks.”
“I live to serve,” Peter deadpanned, breaking the horrible tension.
Stiles glanced around the room, taking in the leather sofa set, real marble coffee table, and the distressed “Persian” rugs artfully arranged over hardwood flooring. He leaned into the welcoming back rest, away from Peter’s steady heat.
“Oh yeah. It really shows.”
“Now who’s the rude one.” Peter stood, leaving him uncomfortably, ridiculously bereft. “I’ll be right back with those books.”
In the safety of his solitude, Stiles grabbed the collar of his overshirt, tugging the back of it up to his face. He drew in deep, greedy lungfuls of the spicy lavender and beeswax that was Peter’s signature scent. Hints of his impulsive sprays of Quercus combined with Sartorial, and he had to hold back a moan.
Their colognes smelled amazing together.
Stiles bit his lip and released his shirt, willing his arousal back down to a more appropriate level. His wrist ached, longing for Peter’s breath, his lips and teeth. He glared at his traitorous limb.
“Get it together,” he muttered. Later, when Stiles was back in his room, he’d replay every millisecond of their couch encounter, but for now he was a rock, an island, totally unaffected.
“Here they are,” Peter said as he re-entered the living room, weighed down with books and missing his white polo.
Stiles’ mouth fell open. Stone, he chanted to himself. He was stone. Peter’s cardigan gaped open, exposing the smooth lines of tanned chest. His mental chant sputtered and died when he caught a flash of nipple.
“Right,” Stiles croaked, grabbing for whatever books Peter handed over. “Emblems. I’ll get right on that. Heady stuff.”
“Mm hmm.”
Stiles opened the top book and bent over it, peering at tables filled with spidery writing—the perfect picture of a young wizard immersed in a new tome.
“Stiles,” Peter said, laughter edging his voice. “You do know that your book is upside down?”
Oh. No wonder he hadn’t been able to make sense of the charts. He sniffed. “I was trying something out. Just wizard things. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Of course. Mere mortals such as myself could never hope to comprehend your arcane sorceries.”
Stiles stuck his tongue out at Peter. “You should remember that before questioning my methods again.”
Distracted by familiar teasing and laughter, the throb of arousal lost its urgency. Relieved, he settled in for an afternoon of research, while the back of his mind picked at the puzzle of Peter’s new behavior.
He’d never taken Peter that seriously when he flirted and ignored anything resembling decent boundaries between adult men and teenagers, but the recent events bore closer consideration.
Stiles flipped to the index, tracing over the faded letters. He furrowed his brow. Peter was too lazy at heart to do anything without a goal.
His heart sped up. Maybe it really was as obvious as it seemed?
The gift, the bold offers of intimacy, and the blatant tease of his missing shirt were simply a new dimension added to their usual game. For whatever reason, Peter had finally put an end to the uncertainty, revealing the true stakes.
Soon, Stiles would have to make a decision, but for now, there was a comfortable couch, easy company, and Barthélémy.
Anything more would just have to wait.