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If you told fourteen-year-old Stiles Stilinski that in ten years, he would be the emissary to a pack of werewolves, he would have checked you into Eichen House himself. Despite all of the shortcomings and failures, here he was, emissary to the Hale pack. He had a strong pack, close friends, a healthy family, and a great job as a detective at the Beacon Hills Police Department. There was only one problem: he was in love with Peter. Yes, that Peter. Peter Hale.
So, he did what any pining idiot would do in his place and avoided his alpha as much as he could. After a few weeks, that plan was not going very well.
Truth be told, Peter cornered him in the rebuilt Hale house after the latest evil creature was defeated. Without beating around the bush he said, “You’re a critical member of this pack yet you haven’t been around for weeks.”
“Sorry that I have a real job outside of all this supernatural shit, I guess.” Stiles took a pause, knowing that this was a low blow. “Unlike our rich alpha,” he said while gesturing to the other man.
The warning growl should have scared Stiles but he personally found the sound cute. Mentally shaking this thought, he reminded himself that this was a supernatural, bloodthirsty creature in front of him and not an adorable, well-mannered puppy.
Taking no notice in Stiles’ internal turmoil, Peter continued on with his nagging since his emissary snapped his jaw shut. “I’ve already spoken to your father. If it means that you’re spending time with your pack, he said that you’re free from work. In fact, you’re banned from picking up extra shifts—something he informed me that you’ve been doing a lot of lately.”
“The old man needs to retire, now more than ever.”
Peter’s lip formed into a fine line as if he was trying to not smile. “Due to your continued absence, we are having a pack bonding session every day this week. Don’t try to get out of it, Stiles. I can and will drag you here by your ankles myself.”
“Fine! Whatever! I’ll come!” He stormed off, not bothering to look back.
What the stupid alpha didn’t realize was that he was the reason why Stiles stopped hanging out with the pack like he used to do. Well, Stiles didn’t blame Peter—not really. It was Stiles’ own fault. He was the one that developed the annoying crush on Peter; he was the one that couldn’t bring himself to end it. Hell, this was the same guy that was in love with Lydia for nearly six years. Peter somehow managed to replace her with little downtime.
Whatever, Stiles thought to himself in bed that night. He was determined to use the mandatory pack time as a way to firmly end his little crush once and for all.
*
Stiles wasn’t pouting. He wasn’t! He only had his arms crossed over his chest because there were two beefy Hale werewolves on either side of him, taking up too much room on the shared couch. Also, his bottom lip only slightly stuck out because he was hot from the literal heaters of the two. He wasn’t actually slightly cold; not at all.
“I’ll even let you pick the movie,” Peter said from his right side, attempting to un-pout Stiles.
Multiple groans bounced around the crowded living room.
They were well in their rights to do so, Stiles thought. If he was going to suffer then they would have to suffer with him. He hummed and stroked his chin, pretending like he didn’t already have a movie picked out the second his alpha said those words. It was an easy choice but a fine line. He had to stay true to his personal taste but also had to add a sprinkle of surprise. The worst superhero movie ever made was the obvious answer.
“Catwoman. The one from 2004,” he said. From Peter’s hands, he grabbed the laptop that was currently sharing its screen with the large TV and started searching for it.
Both Scott and Erica booed while the others gave the impression that they were confused. Apparently, they haven’t seen the film. No matter; they would learn of the cinematic horrors committed against the fans and to superheroes in general.
The movie was soon found and started. Now was time to forget about the situation he was in and focus on the terrible movie for a little over an hour and a half. Except for, this was Stiles. Anxiety and ADHD riddled Stiles, who forgot to take his medicine today.
All he could think about was how cold he was despite the presence of two warm-blooded ‘wolves on either side of him. Especially in his fingers and toes. He glanced over to Peter who had triggered the leg rest of his seat up. Although he looked bored, the alpha didn’t move his attention from the flat screen with eyes on him. In an attempt to be sneaky, Stiles slowly raised his legs off of the hardwood floor. When Peter still didn’t react, his emissary struck, shoving his bare toes in the space under the knee.
Peter’s only reaction was to look over at Stiles with a raised eyebrow before turning back to the movie.
The mission was successful! Victory, Stiles thought with a half-grin to himself as he shifted into a more comfortable position. A position that involved him curling around Peter and placing the side of his head on the soft shoulder.
Oh.
Oh.
He was basically cuddling his alpha. This was why he didn’t want to go to pack bonding nights in the first place!
A small, amused sound escaped Peter’s lips, almost unheard over the fighting scene in the movie. Stiles, forever curious, craned his neck forward and to the side in order to see what type of face Peter was making. That was when Peter carried out an attack of his own by slipping his arm around the smaller man’s shoulders and holding him closer. From this angle, Stiles couldn’t see Peter’s face. But, luckily, that meant that Peter couldn’t see his face either.
Knowing that he was now blushing furiously, Stiles turned his attention back to the movie. Like the coward he was, he bolted as soon as the movie credit scene started scrolling, claiming he had an early shift at the station the next day.
*
“Hiking? Seriously dude?”
“Seriously,” Peter said, crossing his arms over his chest to prove his point. In Stiles’ mind, all it proved was that Peter’s arms and chest looked like they were literally made out of nothing but pure muscle.
The pack was gathered at the trailhead of one of the preserve’s hiking trails, on the far side of the forest, miles from the Hale land. It took them an additional thirty minutes to drive that far out on the backroads.
Stiles kicked one of his Jeep’s muddy wheels as Peter explained which route they would be taking by using the erected map on the side of the gravel parking lot. At least the rest of the pack looked excited. That was fine; Stiles was capable of being grumpy enough for all of them.
The looping trail was a total of 4 miles, at least, according to the map. Slightly knowing the area from the pack’s regular dealings with supernatural creatures in the forest, it looked like it went around the valley. That meant no going up or down any hills. Finally, Stiles thought, a silver lining.
Without much fanfare, they started hiking. The path was well traversed and wide so they had no problem going down it two by two. He made sure to snag the place next to Scott, who greeted him with a friendly shoulder nudge.
Stiles hated to admit it but it was quite beautiful, even at the start of the hike. He grew up in these woods. Yet he believed he could never grow tired of the scenery they provided. The California weather made it to where the trees were vibrant all year round.
Sweat started to drip down Stiles’ neck and pooled against his collarbone. Well, there was one downside to the heat. Waving a hand in front of his face, also Stiles wished that someone remembered to bring bug spray. Stupid nats and mosquitoes. He turned to mumble this to Scott but when he moved, he saw that it was now Peter next to him.
Peter turned and gave his emissary a soft smile, the corner of his eyes deepening into their small crow’s feet. The action humanized him and, for a reason Stiles couldn’t and wouldn’t place, caused a lump to form in his throat. He swallowed it while turning his attention back to the dirt path in front of him.
A little while later, the werewolf at his side spoke up. “I know you don’t want to be here, Stiles,” Peter said softly. “But I’m glad you joined us.”
Stiles didn’t respond, not knowing how to feel about the sentence. He was the pack’s emissary so of course he was used to his alpha saying things like that. But this time, this time it felt different.
Soon the dark green trees faded away and were replaced with the light green shrubs and grasses of a valley. Low on the horizon, the sun turned into a deep red, stark against the navy blue sky. The faint twinkling of the stars caught Stiles' attention and he found himself looking for the patterns of constellations, stopping in his tracks. He didn’t notice the rest of the pack continuing down the path nor Peter staying beside him.
After a few moments, Peter spoke up, breaking up the peaceful stillness of the world that only they shared. “I love this trail for this reason.”
“Do you come out here often?” Stiles asked, slowly turning from the view to face the other.
Peter nodded as Stiles met his eyes. “Yes. I find it calming, especially in this light. I have since I was a teenager.”
It was just then that he realized that they were alone. And close to each other. Very close. Stiles' nerves felt like they were on fire and he attempted to calm the fluttering of his heart, knowing better than to show such weakness to a werewolf with supernatural hearing. His eyes snapped to a very interesting-looking twig. “Was it even an actual hiking trail back then?”
“No, I suppose it wasn’t,” Peter said with that familiar amused chuckle of his. The alpha stepped closer, towering over his emissary and almost caging him against the broad pine tree behind him. “Look me in my eyes, Stiles.”
He obeyed his pounding heart over his rational head for once. Meeting Peter’s eyes, Stiles felt like he was the main character of some irrational romance novel about supernatural creatures that sparkle. Only this time, his love interest had more hair on his chest than glitter.
“I only wanted to thank you for being my emissary. I couldn’t manage this rag-tag pack without you helping me,” Peter said as he recreated the soft smile from earlier. A second passed filled with silence between them. Then, Peter stepped back towards the middle of the path. “Come on, let’s go catch up with them before they somehow get lost.”
It was only two days in and Stiles’ plan was looking less and less likely to succeed.
Damn it all to hell.
*
Apparently, Peter wanted his pack to come over to cook personal pizzas for dinner on the third day of mandatory pack bonding week. Stiles scoffed to himself as he drove towards the preserve. Why couldn’t they just order a bunch? Surely it was more expensive to have everyone cooking their own pizzas (yes, plural, he knew by now that all werewolves were as hungry as, well, wolves).
He pulled into the driveway and, judging by the number of cars present in front of the house, he was the last one to arrive. Too peeved to care about his tardiness he jumped out of his Jeep and slammed the door as if to announce his annoyance towards the situation to the large trees surrounding the yard. The wind picked up, swaying the trees, and Stiles swore he heard laughter coming from them. As he made his way up the stairs of the porch, he flipped them off.
When Stiles walked through the unlocked front door and into the open floor plan living room and kitchen, he was greeted with a flurry of busy bodies and their equally busy hands. Moving closer into the large kitchen area, he noticed that there was powdered flour on every last inch of the room.
Stiles locked eyes with Peter and raised a curious eyebrow at the mess.
“You’re late,” Peter said, not explaining the state of the room. Once Stiles was at arm's distance, the older werewolf handed him a metal mixing bowl with an already prepared ball of dough. “I did the hard part for you.”
Stiles reached for the bowl but stopped halfway, blinking owlishly. He realized that Peter Hale did something nice for him without expecting anything in return. A shrill phone timer went off from somewhere in the room, breaking his trance to allow him to grab the bowl with both hands. Peter then broke away to turn off the timer and fetched a finished pizza from one of his two ovens.
As if Erica had a sixth sense for noticing he was free from the alpha’s claws, she stepped closer and taught him how to properly stretch out the sticky ball until it was properly flat pizza dough.
While he waited for others to be done with using the toppings laid out on the kitchen island, Stiles couldn’t help but stare at Peter. He was awfully domestic in this kind of setting. A lot has changed since Stiles first met him. Peter even had on a frilly neon pink apron that said ‘Kiss the Cook.’
“I just might,” he mumbled out loud, forgetting that he was surrounded by werewolves with supernatural abilities, including hearing. Thankfully, most of them didn’t react, too busy in their own little pizza worlds. Most of them but one.
Beside him, Erica stopped putting toppings on her own pizza and glanced at where Stiles was staring. She grinned at the apron she bought the alpha for his birthday. “You just might what?”
“Um. Nothing,” Stiles said as he turned around to face the she-wolf. “Only thinking about what toppings I want. Obviously.”
“Obviously.”
His packmates were soon done with hogging the kitchen island, allowing Stiles to top his own pizza. He made sure to put on extra cheese and sausage, plus some mushrooms and red peppers because, you know, health.
As if Peter was the head chef of his own restaurant, he snatched the pan from Stiles’ hands and put it in the oven himself. “Set a timer for sixteen minutes.”
“Sure,” Stiles mumbled, almost on instinct, still bewildered as he grabbed his cell phone.
In the end, Stiles didn’t remember much about the pizza he made or the conversation around him. What he did remember was Peter, smiling in the middle of the mess, still wearing that stupid apron.
*
Peter | 5:28 P.M.: Be sure to bring cards against humanity.
Stiles glared at the text message on his phone screen, half hoping the device would combust in his hand due to the heat of his eyes. Sure, he would end up in the hospital with more than a few stitches, but at least a hospital room would be free of Peter. He hated the things for a reason—a good reason, at that.
“I should hide out there,” Stiles muttered to himself as he left his comfortable gaming chair to search his overflowing bookshelf for the box of the requested card game. It took longer than he thought it would find it. The box was pushed to a back corner of the lowest shelf and was covered in a fine layer of dust. Has it really been that long since he went to game night with the pack? Enough for the dust to form?
The question must have put him on auto-drive because the next thing he knew he was hugging Scott in greeting on the pack house’s large and homely front porch.
“Man, I’ve missed seeing you every day,” his best friend said with a beaming smile.
Stiles faked a smile back, hoping it didn’t look too sad or guilty. “Yeah, dude. Me too.” Although he felt bad, everything was better if no one knew about his real reason for staying away.
Care-free and light-hearted as ever, Scott must not have sensed anything wrong with how Stiles was acting. He lightly slapped the emissary on the shoulder, leaving his hand there to lead them into the home.
There was no escape from those paws so Stiles allowed him to herd him to his death like the dedicated canine he was. Yes, Stiles realized he was being dramatic. No, he didn’t care. He figured that he was doing everyone a favor by bitching in his own head instead of out loud.
When they stepped into the entranceway, the only pack members Stiles could see were the two Hales in the living room. Derek was cleaning off the coffee table while Peter set up a few more lawn chairs around it. The two friends made their way over there—that was where the pack usually had game nights, after all.
Once Derek was finished cleaning, Stiles put down his card box and Scott put down his stack of board games on the low, rather large wooden table.
“Hi, Der-bear,” Stiles said to the younger Hale who lightly growled at the nickname. Maybe he should have opted for the grumpy-wolf nickname that time. It was more fitting. He turned to greet the older Hale as well but stopped in his tracks once he realized what he was wearing.
By now, Stiles had long grown used to his alpha’s preference for deep v-neck shirts that showed off the ‘wolf’s thick pectoral muscles and light salt-and-pepper chest hair. Hell, it would have been better to see him in the apron from yesterday.
No. This was way, way more dangerous.
What was the only thing more domestic than a cooking frilly apron?
Before that exact moment, Stiles would have said nothing could possibly be more domestic than an article of clothing that a housewife from the 1950s adored. But, he was wrong, dead wrong.
Peter was wearing pajamas—thin, probably old, with splatters of stains, pajamas.
Somehow, Scott wasn’t nearly as shocked as he was; not that he had a crush on Peter as well, but because this was a rather rare event. Stiles had been a part of Peter’s pack for close to ten years at this point and he never once saw the alpha in sleep-wear. If prompted, Stiles would have betted on Peter sleeping naked on top of silk sheets, or the skins of his enemies, whichever one stroked his fancy that night.
“Are you wearing pj’s?” Stiles asked once he finally found his voice, trying not to care that the said voice was high-pitched.
“It’s laundry day,” Peter said with a shrug, before looking him up and down. “You’re also wearing pajamas, Stiles.”
“Yeah,” said Scott, flopping down on one end of the couch. “Most of us usually wear pj’s on movie nights. What’s the big deal?”
Even Derek seemed intrigued by the conversation, pausing his walk into the kitchen with a head tilted in their direction.
“I’ve never seen Peter wearing them though,” Stiles said. It wasn’t exactly a lie but it wasn’t the whole truth; a fine line he was well used to walking when it came to werewolves.
It worked. No one asked questions and the pack game night went smoothly after that. Even if Stiles checked Peter out every five minutes.
*
Ready for the dreadful week of bonding to be over with, Stiles was surprisingly early to the second-to-last event: going out to a bar on Friday night. The chosen bar was only a handful of blocks away from Stiles’ downtown apartment. It was perfect for him to not worry about a ride and let himself get trashed. And, damn, he knew he needed it.
Yes, work has been stressful, and, yes, he wanted to blow off some steam.
No, the whole crush the crush on Peter plan was not working and, no, he did not dress up in order to woo the damn alpha werewolf; he dressed up to woo some hot stranger that he could use for a night to forget all about Peter.
Stiles was the first member of his pack to arrive. In fact, there were just a few customers that watched as Stiles sauntered over to the bar. Sauntering was the only way to describe how he walked in those skin-tight, black designer pants that he knew made his ass look heavenly. With them, he wore a light grey fitted tee and light grey combat boots. It was a simple but effective outfit.
After ordering his usual gin and tonic and opening a tab with the bartender that he knew far too well, he made his way over to the long high-top table. Although he needed a drink or two before the others—or, rather, one particular person—showed up, retaining the best table in the room was reason enough to be early. It was perfectly situated between the bar and the pool tables.
Pack members filed in slowly over the next half-hour, with all of the girls making some type of comment about his outfit and the guys already breaking up in teams to play pool. When the rest of their medium-sized group were distracted by Isaac and Jackson bickering over the game rules a few feet away, Lydia and Allison suddenly pounced on Stiles without any warning.
“You’re wearing the clothes I helped you pick out last year,” Lydia said from the stool next to him while Allison stood on his other side, leaning into his personal space.
“Yeah, Stiles,” Allison chimed in, tongue in cheek. “It looks like you're on a hot date instead of hanging out with friends.” As she took a swig from her pint glass of light beer, she narrowed her eyes at him, showing that she was definitely suspicious of him.
Stirring the straw of her fruity pastel-purple drink with a well-manicured finger, Lydia nodded sagely before asking, “What gives?”
Stiles was glad he was on his second alcoholic drink for the evening and their alpha had yet to arrive or else he would have been struggling to come up with a reasonable answer to all of their prodding. “Girls. Girls,” he said with a wave of his hand, flipping a friendly smile. “You know as well as I do that I have been single for far too long. I’m only trying a new method; that’s all.”
Both of them opened their mouths, probably to call him out—honestly how did they always know when he was lying by omission when the werewolves didn’t?—but they were interrupted by the clicking of high heels and two familiar voices heading their way.
They all looked over to see the last two packmates, Erica and Peter, finally arrive. They were only about ten minutes late to the agreed-upon time. Honestly, that was still rather early for the two drama queens, Stiles thought. Distracted by watching Erica, Stiles missed the way that Peter’s eyes trailed up and down his body.
She bounced over, kissed Boyd on the lips, stealing his half-finished beer while she was at it. After giving a boastful grin, she downed the drink, slammed it on the table, and declared that she was going to buy everyone a round of tequila shots.
Most of the things that happened that night after the shots were a blur. One thing was for certain: Stiles let the cat out of the bag. Looking back on it, he should’ve known that mixing getting drunk and being around the man that he had a huge crush on would not turn out very well for him. It was terrible planning on his part.
*
With a soft groan, Stiles woke up, opened his eyes, and then immediately closed them again. Even in the calm morning, the room he found himself in was too bright and too loud with only a fleeting glance at it. He hoped he wouldn’t have to move from the bed anytime soon. With his pounding headache, Stiles knew he had too much to drink last night and swore off tequila shots forever. Also, the next time he saw Erica he planned on strangling the she-wolf.
Shifting slightly in the warm comfortable bed, his stomach complained, making Stiles feel queasy. With his shift, there was an answering shift next to him. It took longer than normal for Stiles’ pounding brain to catch up.
Shit. Did he take some stranger home? Stiles was not in a state to remember some random person’s name or to even deal with them.
He took a steadying breath to brace himself and slowly cracked his eyes open again. After his gaze focused, Stiles blinked a few times. What he faced was not a person, but off-white walls, an empty glass side-table, and a dark wood dresser with various knickknacks—definitely not Stiles’ own bedroom.
That meant that the stranger was behind him. Silently wishing he wouldn’t puke on the nice soft bed sheets by moving, he turned to his back. When Stiles’ stomach held steady he took the plunge and turned his head towards his bedmate.
There, less than an inch away and sleeping soundly beside him, was Peter.
The werewolf was lightly snoring, bedhead galore, with a peaceful smile on his face. The next thing he noticed was that they were, thankfully, both wearing clothes—Peter in the set of pajamas he saw a few days ago and Stiles in his boxers and tee-shirt from the night before.
Suddenly feeling like he was intruding on a moment, he almost turned away to inwardly panic until the other man woke up. Before he could, though, Peter’s eyes snapped open as if he was awakened from Stiles’ gaze alone.
Stiles brought out one of his hands from under the covers and awkwardly waved by wiggling his long fingers. His lips parted but no words came to his tongue. After all, what do you say to someone in this situation?
Luckily for him, it seemed like his alpha knew the answer to that question. Peter sat up in the bed, reached towards the bedside table next to him, and produced a glass of water and a couple of pain pills in front of Stiles’ face. “Here you go,” Peter said, his voice roughly deep from sleep.
Stiles carefully moved next to him, leaning back on the plush bed frame. Once upright, he took the pills, downing almost half the glass afterward. The room temperature water reminded him of his tequila-laced morning breath and he grimaced at the taste. “Thanks,” he managed to croak out.
“How are you feeling? You remember much of anything?” With Peter’s questions, he appeared to be concerned, even more so than usual.
“Feel like a trucker ran me over and then tried to bring me back to life by pouring tequila all over me,” Stiles said with a dry laugh. “Speaking of tequila, I think that the second shot of the stuff is the last thing I really remember. Wanna tell me why I’m in your room?”
Peter leveled him with a disapproving look but answered the question anyway. “As if I would let you walk home alone in that state. You wouldn’t have even been able to find your own front door. I brought you here instead so I could watch you.”
“Doesn’t explain why I am in your bed. I know for a fact that you have plenty of extra bedrooms, dude.”
At this, the tips of Peter’s ears started to turn pink, which was an interesting reaction. “You really don’t remember what we talked about at the bar?”
Stiles shook his head as he started to struggle to think hard about last night.
Peter cleared his throat, looking far more awkward and unsure of himself than he usually did. “You said that you have feelings for me.”
“You do, too. I’m starting to remember now,” Stiles said, recalling a snippet of at least one of their conversations from last night. His voice was straining from dehydration so he took another sip of water before asking: “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
Stiles frowned. That was fair but… “I didn’t want to cause a rift in the pack or anything.” Trying to approach the situation with humor, he added, “What if I made the big, scary alpha uncomfortable with my feelings?”
“How do you think I felt? I’m the alpha; I’m supposed to—” Peter cut himself off with a frustrated growl.“Even if you weren’t my emissary and you were just a beta, it changes the packs’ whole dynamic. And that’s the best outcome.”
“What’s the worst outcome?” Stiles asked, almost whispering.
“You’d leave and we’d get torn apart.”
“So my concerns were valid.”
“And so were mine.”
Stiles finished his glass and gently placed it on the glass table on his side of the bed, saying, “I feel like we are both being idiots about this.” Peter opened his mouth but Stiles continued talking. “We both confessed to liking each other. Isn’t this the part where we start dating?”
“Well,” Peter said once Stiles was done rambling, with a tiny grin. “If you would shut up for a second, I can perhaps ask you out.” At that, the doorbell rang from downstairs, causing Peter to flinch in surprise and then curse.
Stiles groaned. His shoulders slumped in disappointment as well. “Today is the pack brunch, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Peter said as he reached for his cell phone. “What? You still don’t wanna spend time with us?”
“Of course I am excited about the pack brunch. It’s just,” Stiles paused as he looked over to Peter through long eyelashes and placed a hand in the middle of his warm, broad chest, “I don’t want them to stay too late, you know? We need some bonding time of our own.”
Peter chuckled as he took his hand, holding it softly. “I hear you loud and clear.”