Archive of Our Own

“I had to touch you with my hands, I had to taste you with my tongue; one can’t love and do nothing.” Graham Green

It took until the Switch for Stiles to cotton on, which just shows how dumb a smart kid can get, (as his father liked to say). Peter had, offhandedly, shoved a nondescript paper bag at him, which Stiles had opened to find a Switch and all sorts of accessories; a carrying case, multiple controllers for playing with multiple people when it was hooked up to a screen, gift cards for games, that kind of thing.

Stiles had looked up at Peter. Peter had shrugged, then turned to rummage for snacks in Derek’s kitchen, even though the only snacks Derek was likely to have were disgusting protein bars (because Derek was a glutton for punishment) and the only snacks Peter liked were very expensive cookies (because Peter was a glutton for gluttony). “Got it because everyone was talking about that animal farming game, but I tried it out and it was really very tedious. I don’t like talking to people or farming in real life, why would I do it in a game?”

The Switch was still in the original packaging and showed no sign of even being opened. Peter hadn’t even made an effort. Stiles knew that if he took it out and turned it on, Animal Crossing wouldn’t be installed.

“Anyway, I knew it was one of those things you liked to play, so I figured if you’ll get more use out of it, why not give it to you?” Peter added, still in that offhand tone, now frowning at the contents of Derek’s fridge (95% vitamin water, 5% condiments).

In retrospect it was blindingly obvious. Peter did so many things for Stiles when he wouldn’t give anyone else the time of day. Like bringing Stiles and only Stiles fancy lattes and pastries and sandwiches from his favorite cafe. Stiles had written it off as Peter trying to piss everyone else off, but when had Peter ever had to go out of his way to piss people off?

Or Peter shoving his ‘spare’ laptop at Stiles, telling him he couldn’t stand how long Stiles’ craptop took to load webpages. Well, Peter often researched with Stiles, which often meant using the craptop, so that made sense, right?

Or Peter taking Stiles’ car into the mechanic after a unicorn had skewered the hell out of the side of it– that was because Dad would have grounded Stiles if the jeep had gotten damaged again, and Peter needed at least one tolerable person at pack meetings. And if he’d paid the mechanic to do some serious work to the engine while he was at it? He wanted Stiles to be able to make it to those meetings.

And on and on and on. Peter giving Stiles rare books from the Hale vault: ‘no one has even looked at them in years– you might as well get some use out of them’. Peter buying Stiles rare spell materials: ‘if you’re going to practice magic in my vicinity, I’d appreciate it if you at least got it right.’ Peter buying Stiles new clothes and sneakers: ‘I don’t want to be seen about town with a ragamuffin.’ Peter taking Stiles to restaurants when he’d been planning on getting fast food: ‘it makes you stink like a teenage burger jockey.’

Peter throwing himself in the way when a ghost rhinoceros tried to gore him… Well, Stiles hadn’t asked him why and Peter had never offered an explanation.

He looked down at the bag and up at Peter and smiled. “Thanks, this is great,” Stiles said. “But if you have anything else you want to give me, you can just give it to me and spare the subterfuge.”

He should have been prepared for this statement to open the floodgates– but, well, he was kinda dumb for a smart kid.

…

People often wondered, out loud, often in Stiles’ presence (rude), how an upstanding individual like the Sheriff could have raised such a lawless character as Stiles Stilinski. But Stiles had spent his childhood listening to the Sheriff decry the limits of the law; the three strikes law that landed people convicted of non-violent crimes rotting in prison for half a lifetime.

Meanwhile people who committed white collar crimes– harming broad swaths of the population through pollution or gambling away their retirement accounts, for example– got rich off of it and then went free. In his impressionable youth he had come to the conclusion that lawmakers were morally corrupt and that there was nothing ethical about following the law; every action should be considered based on who it helped or harmed rather than if it was illegal or not.

Graffiti, for example, might enliven a boring facade. Theft from a large corporation was just wealth redistribution. How could trespassing be harmful if you didn’t damage the property or come into contact with the property owners? (And wasn’t all land ownership unethical, really, when you considered the land had been stolen from the tribes?)

And yeah, okay, there was probably some rationalization happening there, because Stiles had to admit he did get a little thrill from being transgressive. Doing something people thought was wrong, even if it didn’t hurt anyone. Like, okay, a little bit of vandalism, trespassing, shoplifting from Walmart and dropping the proceeds into a donation bin for a food bank. Fucking around with Peter Hale.

Peter was a bitch and a bastard and an asshole. He was an utter drama queen and shit stirrer. He was unfailingly cruel to Derek who, for all his faults, didn’t really deserve it. He enjoyed instigating fights and then sitting back to watch the sparks fly (figuratively– he wasn’t comfortable around fire). Most of Stiles’ friends had damned good reasons not to like him.

And, let’s not forget, he had actually murdered people (nevermind that he had been insane at the time and most of the people he had killed had willingly participated in the murder of his entire family.) But he liked Stiles, was protective of him, even. When Stiles was hurt, he hovered over him like a mother hen. He was always complaining Stiles was too thin and trying to get him to eat more, always complaining Stiles didn’t sleep enough (and then waking him up in the middle of the night by crawling through his window).

And Stiles liked the thrill of being with him. When he’d finally pulled his head out of his ass and recognized all the gifts and food and touching for what it was (a super hot, rich, intelligent, snarky man being interested in a not-particularly-pretty not-even-legal twink), oh that pressed a few of his buttons.

So when Peter climbed through Stiles’ window that night, Stiles climbed right into his lap.

He’d put even odds on Peter being good at sex.

For: Peter was competitive, obsessive, and enjoyed flaunting his superiority. Plus, he’d definitely expressed an interest in taking care of Stiles.

Against: Peter was pretty, self-centered, and lazy. He might think that a bottom’s job was to give pleasure not to be given it.

Not that Stiles was a pillow princess (not entirely), but he’d like to be taken care of at least a little. He wasn’t interested in being the one always giving the blowjobs.

Turned out Peter was good. Very good. (Not that Stiles had had anything to compare it to besides some pretty vigorous wanking sessions. Maybe it was always like this when you had someone else’s hands on you– but he doubted it).

Stiles was, of course, inexperienced and completely willing to admit it, but he’d spent a fair amount of time researching kinks because that was the kind of person he was (a researcher), especially when he’d noticed that the people who most attracted him were significantly older. Not that he couldn’t find, say, Boyd, ridiculously attractive. Even Jackson, if you could look past his overwhelming douchiness. But there was a… je ne sais quoi about attractive older men. His first crush had been his sixth grade math teacher, after all. Mr. Lopez, with his six o’clock shadow and his gorgeous brown skin and the golden hoop in his ear (left is right and right is… mmm… even more right).

Peter had woken Stiles up by creeping in his window. (Stiles had wised up and attached a bell to it. Try to sneak in now, fuckers).

“I’ve got another gift for you,” Peter said, smirking at Stiles as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.

“I hope it’s in your pants,” Stiles replied, automatically.

Peter hid his startle well.

“Come on,” Stiles said, patting the bed beside him.

Peter wasted no time in dropping down onto the bed, grinning when Stiles climbed into his lap.

“You keep buying me presents,” Stiles said, looping his arms around Peter’s– drool– massive neck. “And bringing me food. One might think you were trying to take care of me.” He pouted and widened his eyes, ducking his head so he could look up at Peter through his lashes, despite the fact that sitting on Peter’s lap meant he was significantly higher than him.

“Might one?” Peter asked, raising his eyebrows.

Stiles pressed his hips forward, rubbing his hardening cock against Peter’s crotch. “I can think of another way I need to be taken care of,” he murmured.

“Oh,” Peter said as he slid a hand up to cup Stiles’ cheek and reel him in.

Stiles had only had a few kisses before, back-of-school-dance-on-a-dare-seven-minutes-in-heaven kinds of kisses. They’d either been dry-lips-pushed-together-for-a-few-seconds or too-much-saliva-and-tongue kisses. This wasn’t either. It started out dry, a tiny bit of tongue as Peter wetted their lips, but the moment Stiles moved into it, Peter pulled away, teasing. He peppered Stiles’ mouth with these light kisses, going a little deeper each time, pressing Stiles’ lower lip slightly between his, licking along the seam of Stiles’ mouth lightly, drawing back over and over until Stiles was pushing against the hand that cupped his face and panting, mouth open and demanding more.

Finally Peter gave in, slid his hand to Stiles’ scalp to press against his mouth, kissing into it deeper, stealing Stiles’ breath and sucking lightly at his lips, and licking into him until Stiles was dizzy and faint.

Then, faster than Stiles could follow, Peter flipped them. He hovered over Stiles, forearms pressed against the mattress on either side of Stiles’ head. “Are you trying to seduce me, darling?”

Stiles let his mouth fall open, his eyes still held wide. “Is it working?” he asked, making his voice a little breathless.

Peter laughed and after a moment Stiles broke down and laughed with him. Peter buried his nose in Stiles’ neck. “You trying to recreate a porn scene?” Peter asked against Stiles’ skin.

“Maybe.”

“Oh, pet, you don’t have to seduce me,” Peter said. He gently kissed Stiles’ neck. “Just ask nicely.”

“Ask for what?” Stiles gasped. His hips jerked up without consulting him.

“Whatever it is that you want,” Peter purred in his ear.

“Anything?” Stiles couldn’t help asking.

Peter chuckled. “I’m not forfeiting my right to say ‘no’.”

“I want to see you naked,” Stiles decided.

Peter grinned at him and sat back, still straddling Stiles’ legs. He gyrated, miming the movements of a stripper (at least the ones Stiles had seen on TV), reaching down to grasp the hem of his shirt, lifting it up a little to tease Stiles with the sight of his six pack.

Stiles decided he was taking too long and yawned, deliberately, then pretended his eyelids were growing heavy, even though he was keyed up to eleven. He closed his eyes and faked a snore.

“Brat,” Peter said, affectionately, pulling his shirt off with one fluid movement, then knelt up to work on his belt and fly.

Stiles watched avidly as he opened his pants and then pulled them down, releasing his erect cock. It bobbed a little as he pulled his pants the rest of the way off and Stiles couldn’t help giggling.

Peter palmed himself. “Something funny about my cock, baby boy?”

Stiles’ breath hitched– he’d known he’d had at least a low-key daddy kink, but, man.

“It’s like it’s waving ‘hi’,” Stiles explained, gesturing.

“You wanna say ‘hi’ back, sweetheart?” Peter asked. “Give it a little kiss?”

Stiles had thought that when writers said ‘his mouth watered’ they were being figurative. Turns out it was very real. “Yeah,” he said, swallowing. “Okay.” He sat up, and bending a little awkwardly, took Peter’s cock in hand. There wasn’t anything particularly special about touching the cock itself– he touched a cock all the time after all– but the way it jumped in his hand, the way Peter stifled a moan; that was special. He stroked it, delicately, teasing, then licked the head, tasting the salty, bitter precum.

Peter caught his shoulders and pulled him up and away from his dick.

“Why?” Stiles asked.

“Time for you to get naked, baby boy,” Peter said.

“You gonna undress me, daddy?” Stiles asked, coyly.

“You’re a kinky little boy, aren’t you?” Peter commented appreciatively, reaching down to grab the hem of Stiles’ shirt, dragging his fingers along Stiles’ side as he pulled it up, slowly.

“You started it.” Stiles gasped when Peter paused halfway up and spread his hands to roll his thumbs over Stiles’ nipples. He bent his head so he could take one in his mouth and suck on it lightly.

“Oh my god,” Stiles hissed.

“You can call me Peter,” Peter teased.

“Oh my god, Dad,” Stiles repeated in a much different tone.

Peter smirked and pulled Stiles’ shirt over his head, then pushed him down so Peter could pull his pajama pants off him.

He worked his way back up Stiles’ body, peppering little kisses here and there; on the side of his calf and the back of his knee, below his hip bone and on his belly button, before finally lifting his head to lightly suck on Stiles’ other, neglected nipple.

And then they were face to face, naked body pressed against naked body, hard cocks aligned for a moment. Peter moved his hips and their cocks slid together. Stiles moaned.

“That’s right, baby. You like rubbing yourself off on Daddy’s cock?”

“Holy shit,” Stiles whispered, arching his back to press their cocks together again.

Peter reached over to Stiles’ night table and opened the drawer, easily finding Stiles’ lube.

Peter scowled at it. “KY? Daddy’s gonna have to get you better lube.”

“You can get me whatever you want,” Stiles gritted out, “if you give me an orgasm first.”

Peter faked a disapproving look. “So demanding,” he said. “Do I need to teach you a lesson?”

“Nope,” Stiles said, grabbing the lube from his hand and squeezing it onto his palm, then reaching between them and wrapping his hand around both their dicks, coating them literally with the apparently sub-par lube. He grabbed Peter’s ass with his other hand and pulled him down so he was grinding their cocks together.

Peter laughed and moved as Stiles directed him. “This is going to be over fast if you keep that up,” he warned.

“That’s fine. I expect we’ll be doing this again,” Stiles said.

“So many assumptions,” Peter was thrusting against him now, taking control of the rhythm.

“Am I wrong?” Stiles asked. “You didn’t give me a, uh, laptop and, mmm, Switch, to get me in bed only once.”

Peter shrugged. “I’ve got money to burn.”

“I was thinking more of your investment of time,” Stiles bit his lip and tried to increase the pace, but Peter reached down and pinned his hips to the bed, taking over the movement entirely. Stiles stared up at him, at how easily he held himself up with one arm. Peter was so fucking hot. What the hell was he doing having sex with Stiles? Not that Stiles was going to ask that.

“Anyway, I’d think you’d want to take all my virginities.”

“Virginity is a heteronormative social construct,” Peter ground out, rhythm increasing despite himself.

“You don’t want to be the first dick in my ass?” The question madePeter swear, moving his hand from Stiles’ hip to their cocks, jerking them hard and fast. Stiles cried out– embarrassingly loudly– and came, Peter still pistoning his own cock, staring down at the cum dripping down Stiles’ lanky chest like it was the most erotic thing he’d ever seen until he came in bursts, spreading his seed all over Stiles’ stomach and chest.

“Shit,” Stiles breathed, as Peter collapsed on his side beside him, hot breath on Stiles’ neck and hand lazily tracing patterns in the cum painting Stiles.

He licked his fingers. “Yum,” he said.

Stiles raised his eyebrows. “Is it really?”

“You want to try?” Peter asked, holding a dripping finger to Stiles’ lips. Curiosity warred with the conviction that all cum probably tasted pretty much the same. Curiosity warred won out, making him gingerly lick Peter’s fingertip. Just as salty and bitter and weirdly sweet as it had been when Stiles had tried his own. But Peter’s breath stuttered and his eyes flashed blue.

Stiles raised his eyebrows. “Really? That does it for you? You want me to drink your cum?” He licked at Peter’s finger again, catching more of it, trying not to wince at the taste.

Peter licked Stiles’ neck. “I want you to drink my cum, I want you full of me. I want to coat your body in it and rub it in.”

“Gross,” Stiles said, vaguely intrigued. “Oh shit, is this a marking thing? Gonna pee on me like I’m a fire hydrant?” he wrinkled his nose. “Just in case you thought I was being serious just then, I wasn’t. This is a watersport free zone.” He gestured to his body.

“You don’t like water sports?” Peter asked. “Ever tried a jet ski? I think you’d enjoy it.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes at him. “I can’t figure out if that’s a euphemism for something or not.”

Peter laughed. “I was mocking you.”

“Oh, well then.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s a marking thing,” Peter’s hand was spread on Stiles’ belly now, rubbing their mingled cum into his skin.

Stiles looked down. “I’m going to smell like your cum now, aren’t I?”

Peter’s grin showed all his teeth.

“I’m looking forward to finding out how observant your little pack is,” he said.

“You’re such a shit-stirrer,” Stiles said.

“Yep,” Peter admitted. “Derek will know right away and I’m guessing Boyd too. Erica will be too distracted thinking about herself, Issac won’t give a fuck, and Scott is possibly the least observant person I’ve ever met.”

“That’s your bet?” Stiles asked, tilting his head. “Don’t think Derek’s head isn’t too far up his ass to smell anything but self-recrimination?”

Peter sighed. “Maybe,” he agreed.

Stiles sighed. “I’m going to have to get to Scott first,” he said. “Remind him of all the favors he owes me so he doesn’t rat me out to my dad. I don’t think any of the others would care enough.”

Peter laughed into his neck and then kissed him. “You do that, princess.”

…

Scott was neither impressed nor supportive. He ranted and raved for some time, so focused on his moralizing that he didn’t even notice that Stiles had tuned him out and was playing Candy Crush until Stiles beat a level he’d been stuck on and exclaimed in glee.

Scott looked at him and crossed his arms.

“Still got those pics from freshman year,” Stiles said casually, not looking up from his phone. “I took the fall for you.”

Scott’s visible irritation melted away, replaced by his big puppy dog eyes and pout. “Stiles,” he whined. “You said you’d never tell anyone.”

“And I won’t,” Stiles said. “But you owe me.”

“It’s my duty as your best friend to stop you from doing stupid things,” Scott claimed.

Stiles snorted. “Everyone knows we only ever egg each other on when it comes to doing stupid things.”

“He’s a murderer!” Scott exclaimed.

“No one’s perfect.”

“But he’s…”

“I’m not asking for your opinion,” Stiles said. “I’m informing you and I’m calling in that favor. You will not tell anyone about my relationship with Peter, especially my father.”

Scott opened then closed his mouth. “This is a mistake.”

“I know you think so, and I appreciate that you care about me and want to protect me, but I need to trust you to allow me to make my own choices.”

Scott took a deep breath and nodded. “Okay,” he said, finally.

Stiles smiled. “Remember how much you told me about your and Allison’s first time?”

Scott went pale. “You wouldn’t.”

Stiles considered this. “Maybe not, if you order pizza.”

Scott sighed dramatically. “Fine. Also, please shower really well before you go to Derek’s.”

“I showered!” Stiles exclaimed.

“Really well,” Scott stressed.

Peter slipped through Stiles’ window shortly after he got home from Scott’s. He wrinkled his nose. “You smell like Scott.”

“According to him I smell like you, so.”

Peter grinned and caught his shoulders, pulling him in so he could rub his bristly cheeks over Stiles’ neck.

“Ah, that itches,” Stiles cried, pretending to fight against him.

“I got you a present,” Peter said, producing a wrapped package from somewhere and handing it to Stiles.

“Oh, and I thought your excessive gift-giving was at an end,” Stiles joked, turning it over in his hands. “Why give presents to the cow when you can get the milk for free?”

Peter smirked and shook his head. “I’ll never stop giving you presents,” he said, with a wink.

Stiles felt himself blush and ignored the way the words ‘I’ll never stop’ made his pulse jump, relieved when Peter didn’t comment on it. He turned to his desk to open the present gently– odds were it was expensive and he didn’t want to drop it even before he opened it.

The unwrapping revealed a box and the box opening revealed a book. Handwritten and old. He checked to make sure his hands were clean, then opened the cover gently. Someone’s journal. He looked at Peter.

“It’s the journal of a spark,” Peter said. “How she cultivated her power.”

“Oh,” Stiles breathed. “This wasn’t in your library.”

He shook his head. “Took me a while to track down.”

“Wow,” Stiles said. “Wow.” He put the book back in the box and laid it down on his desk carefully, then went over to Peter and hugged him. “Thank you,” he breathed. “Thank you.” He pulled back. “Want me to show you just how grateful I am?” He grinned and wiggled his eyebrows.

“You gonna be a good boy for me?” Peter asked, amused.

“What if I was a naughty boy for you?” Stiles replied, grabbing Peter’s ass.

“That works too.”

Stiles scrubbed in the shower until his skin was pink, but it didn’t seem to make a difference. As soon as he was through the doors of Derek’s loft, Derek’s nose was up in the air, nostrils flaring as he sniffed and scowled. He turned to glare at Peter, who was sitting on one of the couches, playing on his phone.

The other pack members turned to look at Derek, and then at Peter, curious. Derek stood, eyes flashing red. Peter still didn’t even look up at him.

Stiles decided to head this off at the pass and went over to plop down in Peter’s lap.

“Well, hello there, darling,” Peter purred. Stiles wrapped his arms around him and pulled him in for a deep kiss.

“Eww,” Issac said.

“Hot,” commented Erica.

Lydia issued a deep sigh like she didn’t know how she put up with them.

“I didn’t know your family’s financial issues were that bad–” Jackson began and then someone cut him off.

“Peter, can I talk to you?” Derek asked, through gritted teeth.

“I’m a little busy right now, nephew,” Peter replied, kissing Stiles again.

“Do you have to do this here?” Issac demanded.

“I’m enjoying it. Keep going– maybe lose some clothes though,” Erica encouraged.

“You’re such a perv!” Issac exclaimed, throwing something at her.

“Did you bring me a present?” Stiles asked, finally pulling away and resting his head on Peter’s shoulder.

Peter pulled out a box of chocolates, wrapped in a large red bow.

Stiles grabbed it and opened it. “Mmmm.” He popped one in his mouth and savored the sweet, rich chocolate as it slowly melted over his tongue. “Wow, this is incredible– this is the best chocolate I’ve ever had.”

“This is what chocolate is supposed to taste like,” Peter said. “Not that mass-market too-sweet crap.”

“Wow,” Stiles said again, eating another, ignoring the pleading looks coming from all sides.

Peter took the box away from him and closed it, putting it away. “They’re meant to be savored, not scarfed down,” he chastised.

“No,” Stiles whined. “Just one more. Gimme.”

With a sigh, Peter pulled the box out again and let him take one more.

Stiles made an effort to savor this one, nibbling at it slowly, allowing the taste to flood his mouth.

Peter growled softly. “You’re such a tease,” he groaned.

Stiles smirked at him and popped the last bit of the chocolate in his mouth. Peter grabbed his hand and sucked the chocolate off his finger tips, one at a time.

“Oh my god,” Scott whined– he must have come in when Stiles was distracted, “Get a room.”

“You knew about this!” Lydia accused.

Peter nipped gently at the finger he was sucking.

“I think Scott is right for once,” Stiles began, in a choked voice.

“Hey!” Scott protested.

“We really should get a room,” Stiles finished.

“I’ve got a whole house,” Peter said and, hefting Stiles in his arms, stood up.

“Fuck,” Stiles murmured, clutching onto Peter.

“We’re going to talk about this,” Derek growled.

“Great, Der, looking forward to it,” Stiles lied. “Byeeeeee, everyone! I’m going to go get sexed up now.”

“That’s blindingly obvious,” Issac muttered.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” Erica called after him.

Stiles didn’t have much of a chance to fully appreciate Peter’s house at first, busy being distracted by Peter’s body. Or, rather, he didn’t have much of a chance to appreciate anything besides the softness of Peter’s sheets (incredible) and the structural support of Peter’s bed, which was soft without sagging, somehow.

(“Memory foam,” Peter explained, when Stiles had commented on it.

“Oh, this is what memory foam is? It’s amazing.”)

He then got a chance to appreciate Peter’s ceiling, which was a perfectly ordinary ceiling, sadly lacking in the interesting cracks and stains that Stiles’ ceiling had. (What did you make up stories about when you were having trouble sleeping if you didn’t have a stain in the shape of a whale and a crack that looked like a crooked smile?)

After that, while coming down and cuddling, he appreciated Peter’s windows, which were large and sparkling clean and looked out onto the preserve. There were a few low-maintenance looking plants on the window sill and one of those white and blue sun catchers that are supposed to ward off the evil eye. His curtains were a dark blue, matching the bedspread and the upholstered chair in the corner and went well with the eggshell walls and polished hardwood floors, in Stiles’ opinion. There was a rug on the floor– dark blue as well, with a faint geometric pattern.

He then got a chance to appreciate Peter’s bathroom, which was twice as large as Stiles’ bathroom at home. The shower was particularly nice– one of those rain-style shower heads and some lovely mosaic stripes between white subway tile and, oh god, he needed to stop watching those home renovation shows.

The nicest thing about Peter’s shower was Peter’s hands smoothing over Stiles’ skin, soaping him up, then rinsing him off, then getting him off, then washing him again. He tried to give Peter a blowjob, but he laughed and told Stiles it was too soon in their relationship for waterboarding, and got off instead by pressing Stiles’ against the wall of the shower and rutting in his asscrack (and then had to wash Stiles off again).

He appreciated Peter’s towels, which were amazing, large and soft and fluffy– why hadn’t anyone told Stiles towels could be like that?– then Peter tugged him back into the bedroom and pulled out some wonderfully soft joggers that were exactly Stiles’ size. When Stiles wondered about that, Peter said: “I knew you were going to be over here eventually,” which made Stiles kiss him and then investigate the dresser.

There were the style of boxer-briefs Stiles liked to wear, though much nicer than he ever bought for himself. There were socks patterned with Captain America shields and BB-8s and alligators and cats with mustaches and little berets. There were jeans and joggers and even basketball shorts, which he knew Peter hated, in his size. There were graphic t-shirts with funny slogans and comic book characters and nerd franchises he didn’t even know they sold merch for. There were flannels and jackets and a whole row of Converses in bright colors and embroidered with cartoon skulls and made out of leather and with rainbow soles.

Stiles sat down on the bed, blinking fast. Now he took in the art on the wall, a series of retro style posters of Stiles’ favorite video games.

“What the hell, Peter,” he managed, in a choked voice.

Peter shrugged. “Like I mentioned,” he said casually. “I wanted to be prepared.”

“You hate my flannels. You hate the way I dress.”

Peter shrugged again. “But you like it.”

Stiles turned and wrapped his arms around him, burying his face in his shoulder. “I know we don’t really do emotional,” he said, “but you’re going to have to give me a moment.”

Peter chuckled and pulled him closer, rubbing his back. “Take all the time you need.”

Peter’s house had been clearly and obviously decorated with Stiles in mind. The open-plan first floor was lined with bookshelves, a mix of books that were obviously Peter’s; textbooks from college and law school, those detective novels he was into, a worn set of Douglas Adams novels he was always trying to convince Stiles to read, and books he obviously thought Stiles would like; shelves of graphic novels, the entire Discworld collection, all the names he’d been seeing popping up on his social media; Iain Banks and Neal Stephenson and the Vorkosigan saga and N.K. Jemison and China Miéville and so many more.

“Did you rob a bookstore?” he asked, eyes wide.

“Rob? No. Bought out? Possibly,” Peter responded.

There was a big flatscreen on the wall, a row of gaming systems beneath it. The red southwestern style rug had subtle stormtrooper heads woven into the pattern. There was a series of three wall hangings, each with a World of Warcraft monster painted on it in a traditional Chinese ink painting style.

It was comfortable; soft wool throw blankets on the red couch, charming lamps and cozy furniture and a back patio with chairs arranged around a fire pit, a big kitchen that looked outfitted to cook almost anything. It was stylish; everything was well made and cared for, the furniture sturdy hardwood– no Ikea flatpack, the art original and nicely hung or framed. And it was durable: there were no fragile knicknacks lying around or spindly-legged endtables Stiles would be afraid to breathe near.

“Did you…” he swallowed. He sat down on the couch. Oh, it was comfortable. It was the most comfortable couch he had ever sat on. The wool throw was so soft. He wanted to pick one of those books and cuddle up and read in the golden light streaming through the large windows.

He picked up one of the coasters on the coffee table– it was made to look like a slide with the cross-section of a brain on it. Oh, that was hot– and turned it around in his hand.

“Is this all for me?” Stiles asked.

Peter laughed. He loved this laugh of Peter’s; it was so warm and happy. He came up behind Stiles, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and kissed him on the top of his head. “Of course not, sweetheart. It’s a trap.”

“A trap?” Stiles asked.

“I lured you in with sex and gifts and now I’m trying to get you to stay.”

“Via Star Wars rugs?”

Peter smiled. “Among other things. Come on– you haven’t seen the whole house.”

He led Stiles back up to the second floor to show him the offices; Peter’s office, which already looked well used, folders neatly arranged on the desk and a half-drunk coffee mug beside it. Then another office with large monitors just waiting to be hooked up to a laptop, a book shelf with some of the books Peter had loaned him and some more graphic novels, large windows overlooking the Preserve, and framed posters of Stiles’ favorite movies in the same retro style as the ones in the bedroom.

Stiles looked all around the room, then at Peter, picking up a stress ball and playing with it. “You weren’t kidding,”. On the wall across from the framed posters there were two large cork boards and a floating shelf holding thumb tacks and red string.

Peter grabbed his hand and showed him to the last two rooms; a library, where the rarest of the texts seemed to be stored along with a work table and arm chairs for reading, and a guest bedroom, which was the most boring and neutral room in the house.

“Want some dinner?” Peter asked, leading him down the stairs again.

“You cook too?” Stiles teased.

Peter grinned in reply.

…

The worst part of all his friends (reasonably) hating Peter was that he didn’t have anyone to gush to. Not about the iPad Pro Peter bought him, not about the Amazon account he encouraged Stiles to use, not about the winter coat he draped around Stiles’ shoulder one evening when Stiles hadn’t prepared for how cold it had gotten, brushed wool lined with fleece and so wonderfully soft and fluffy and warm Stiles kind of wanted to live in it.

Not about studying in the office Peter had set up for him and Peter coming in with a warm cup of tea and a few cookies, pressing a kiss to the top of his head and then leaving again. Not about cooking alongside him, laughing as they tried a new recipe, playing footsie when they ate, talking about anything and everything (because Peter was interested in the world– everything about the world– in a way no one else was, besides Stiles himself).

Not about sinking into Peter’s soft heat the first time they’d had anal sex, Peter telling him he was doing a good job until he was too wrecked to speak, Stiles cumming inside of him and thinking smugly about how Peter was marked now. Peter was marked as Stiles’.

Or mornings spent warm and cozy, cuddled up together reading when it was cold and raining outside. Or afternoons where Stiles practiced the exercises written about in the spark’s journal in the backyard, Peter encouraging him, them both yelling in surprise when Stiles accidentally lit a tree on fire and then laughing when he put it out again.

That’s what surprised Stiles the most; all the laughter. Laughing when one of them made a mistake, laughing during sex, Peter picking Stiles up and whirling him around. Sitting beside each other at pack meetings and trading snarky comments trying not to giggle, Stiles tickling Peter’s feet, launching a tickle fight that lasted until Stiles was gasping for breath and pleading for mercy.

“You should go look at colleges,” Peter said, near the end of Stiles’ junior year. He was making some kind of elaborate eggplant dish while Stiles studied for his finals on the kitchen table, muttering over a page of trigonometry problems.

“Yeah,” Stiles agreed, “but Dad can’t take the time off and we can’t afford it.”

Peter dropped slices of breaded eggplant into a pan and turned, frowning. “He can’t take time off? He must get at least two weeks of vacation a year and he’s worked all of the holidays so far.”

“They’re understaffed,” Stiles explained. “That’s why they work so much.”

Peter’s forehead wrinkled, “That’s stupid. They could pay a new deputy on the amount of overtime your dad must get. His base pay must be around $80k, and with all the overtime he does, his actual pay has got to be about double that. So why wouldn’t he have the money to send you on a college trip?”

“My mother’s hospital fees were really big,” Stiles said, his gut clenching a little at Peter’s reasoning. It wasn’t wrong– his dad did make about that much.

“That was over ten years ago. Is he just putting all the money into a college fund?”

Stiles shook his head. “If I have a college fund he never said anything.”

“Huh,” Peter said.

“What are you suggesting?” Stiles demanded, feeling kind of sick now.

“I’m not suggesting anything.” Peter held up his hands, which were covered in breading. “I was just thinking aloud, really. It just struck me as strange, but I don’t know your father’s financial situation.”

Stiles looked down, biting his lip.

“Hey,” Peter said. “Sorry I mentioned it. It’s not something you have to worry about. The reason I brought up college tours was because I thought we could go together.”

“Really?”

Peter nodded. “We can go anywhere you want.”

“London?”

“Sure– England has some great schools.”

“China?”

“Do you speak Mandarin?”

“I could learn.”

Peter laughed. “I don’t put it past you. We can come up with a list later– I just wanted to put the idea in your head. I figure we can take two weeks or so? A little bit after you get out of school?”

Stiles nodded– he couldn’t even think about that, all these new thoughts buzzing through his brain. What was his father doing with the money? It wasn’t in his main savings or checking accounts; Stiles had gotten access to those after the electricity had gone out for the third time. Did he have some kind of secret account? What was he doing with it? Why?

Explanations flooded his brain, each more unlikely than the last. He had a secret family. He was spending it all on baseball cards. He was saving up to buy a house in Jamaica. He had a gambling addiction.

“No,” Stiles said out loud, realization coming to him suddenly. “He has an alcohol addiction.”

Peter looked at him sharply.

“He had all that trouble with it after mom died, but he promised he’d given it up. He hasn’t even touched the whiskey in the house in months.” Thoughts raced through Stiles’ brain. It all clicked. It all made sense. “He’s lying to me,” he said. “He’s not working all that overtime. He’s drinking. He’s telling me he’s at work and he’s going out and drinking!” He told himself he was catastrophizing; that he should wait to come to any conclusions until he had evidence. There were dozens of possible explanations, but this one felt right.

Suddenly Peter was there behind him, hands on his shoulders. He didn’t tell Stiles he was wrong, didn’t tell him he should wait for evidence, didn’t tell him not to borrow trouble.

“All those nights he’s left me alone.” Stiles was crying. When had he started crying? Peter knelt down beside him and pulled him into his arms. He carried him over to the couch and tucked him into his side, rubbing a soothing hand over his back.

He didn’t say anything; there was nothing to say. Stiles cried until he was hollow, until he felt like a wrung-out rag, limp and useless, still in Peter’s arms. Peter called for takeout, extravagant eggplant dish forgotten. He made sure Stiles ate some of the soup he’d ordered for him, then he tucked him into bed. Peter a warm, constant weight beside him, stroking his hair until he managed to fall asleep.

He woke up in an empty bed, head aching, feeling hollow. Stiles padded down to the kitchen where Peter was cooking, all the abandoned eggplant dish ingredients already cleared away. Peter looked over at him and smiled as Stiles sat down at the table.

“What do I do now?”

“Focus on your finals,” Peter advised. “That’s the most pressing issue for now. After they’re over, we can figure out what to do.”

Stiles nodded. It was good advice. After all, whatever it was that was going on with his dad had been going on for a long time now– a few more weeks wouldn’t make a difference. He looked at his books and notebooks; Peter had neatly piled them up. Peter never saw a mess he didn’t itch to straighten up or clean.

“Okay,” he swallowed. “But I… I don’t know how I can interact with him knowing this and not saying anything.”

“You don’t spend a lot of time interacting with each other as it is,” Peter reminded him.

“I know,” Stiles said. He looked down at the table, tracing one of the lines of wood grain. “I know that alcoholism is a… a mental health condition. That he didn’t choose it and it’s not a matter of will or weakness or whatever. Like my ADHD. He’s not doing it because he doesn’t love me or doesn’t want to spend time with me and doesn’t want to help me pay for c–” he swallowed– “college. But it still feels that way.”

Peter nodded. “Maybe one of the differences between this and your ADHD is that you make an effort to manage your ADHD. You take medication and you exercise and you have other ways of coping. If your dad is hiding his drinking and lying about it he’s not managing it.”

Stiles nodded.

“The other difference is that your ADHD is part of you– it doesn’t just make it hard to focus on certain things and make you restless. It’s part of your personality, part of what makes you brilliant and amazing. It’s not a pathology or a disease.”

“Because I manage it,” Stiles said, “and keep it from controlling my life. Maybe alcoholism is the same way? Maybe it comes from the same place that makes my dad good at solving cases and protecting people, but when it’s not managed it gets out of hand and becomes a problem.”

Peter nodded, “That makes sense. Brains are complicated things.” He turned back to the pancakes he was making. “What you said about your feelings– you know your feelings are always valid. And he didn’t choose his alcoholism, but it doesn’t seem like he’s choosing to manage it, especially if he’s lying and making an effort to hide it.”

“Maybe I’m wrong,” Stiles said, after a moment. “Maybe there’s another reason he’s working so much and there’s not as much money as there should be.”

“That’s true,” Peter agreed.

“But it feels right.”

“Occam’s razor.”

“I don’t know how to not obsess about this.”

“Do you want to go for a run after breakfast?”

Stiles took a deep breath, “Yeah– maybe that’s a good idea.”

Peter nodded and began to put the dishes on the table; a bowl of cut up strawberries, sugared so they were leaking juice, maple syrup, butter, freshly whipped cream because Peter was a snob and refused to buy Reddi Whip, sausages, and enough pancakes to feed a werewolf and a growing boy.

“Thank you,” he said, and meant for everything, not just breakfast.

“Always, darling boy,” Peter said, running a hand through his hair and kissing him before sitting down.

…

Stiles didn’t go home between then and the end of finals and his dad didn’t notice, or at least didn’t call him out on it. Peter was extra devoted, cooking him all his favorite foods, taking him on runs or out for ice cream when he got antsy, cuddling him and murmuring affectionate things in his ear whenever he got the chance.

Stiles threw himself into studying as best as he could and came out of his exams feeling pretty good. To celebrate, Peter took him out to dinner, driving them over to Bethel to a Chinese restaurant he claimed was more authentic than anything he could get in Beacon Hills.

It was extraordinarily good; different from any of the places he was used to. He didn’t recognize any of the dishes on the menu. He ate until he was stuffed and they talked about the colleges he wanted to visit. Peter suggested a road trip– they could drive cross-country, see the sights. See the Grand Canyon and visit New Orleans and everything.

“Can you take the summer off?”

“Darling, I’m a freelancer and I’m independently wealthy. I can do whatever I want,”

“It must be nice.”

“You know I’d give you anything, don’t you?” Peter asked. “And I’ve got a lot.”

“I kind of got that impression,” Stiles said. “I don’t get it.”

Peter tilted his head. “Don’t get what?”

“Why?”

Peter snorted. “You need me to convince you of your value?”

Yes, Stiles didn’t say.

Peter’s face softened a little, as if he had heard him. “You’re smart and curious and snarky,” he said. “You’re the only person I’ve met since… everything… that I really enjoy spending time with. I like you and I want you to have everything you want. I want to delight you. I want you to be happy. Why does anyone like the things they like?”

Stiles stared at him. “That simple, huh?”

Peter shrugged. “Something in life should be.”

Stiles laughed. “Yeah, that’d be nice.”

Peter reached over to take his hand. “I think it could be, if we let it.”

“Yeah, this super normal relationship we have.”

“Normal is overrated, sweetheart.”

“So now we deal with Dad,” Stiles said in the car on the way back to Peter’s. “I guess I could grab his phone and set up the GPS on it.”

“I hired a private detective to check into it,” Peter admitted.

Stiles stared at him. “What?”

Peter shrugged. “Figured it would be easier and less painful for you.”

“So?”

“He goes to a bar sometimes,” Peter said. “And a liquor store a lot. He’s got a little cabin up in the hills he goes to.”

Stiles’ heart slumped. “So it’s true?”

Peter nodded.

“What do I do now?” Stiles asked.

“You could confront him about it,” Peter suggested. “Or you could just let it go. You could hold an intervention. You could tell other people. It’s your choice.”

Stiles swallowed. “If I were going to college now– if I were eighteen, I think I might just let it go. But I’ve still got to spend a year here. I don’t think I could spend that year around him, knowing and saying nothing.”

Peter nodded, his eyes fixed on the road.

“I guess I’m going to confront him,” Stiles decided.

“Before or after our trip?”

“Before,” Stiles said. “I don’t want it hanging over our heads. Then we can leave– I figured I’d pretend I was going to a summer camp. I’ve got brochures and everything– and he can sort it out himself, if he wants to. If he doesn’t then he can just keep going the way he is, I guess. And I’ll keep going the way I am.” He laughed without humor. “It’s a pretty pathetic way to lose your family. Not with a bang but with a whimper.”

“Always feeling like maybe if you just tried a little harder you could save them,” Peter added. “But you can’t change who people are– you can’t make them better or fix them.”

“You sound like you have some experience with this.”

“I had a good friend who developed an addiction. After a while I had to let her go.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you, but it was a long time ago. Hardly the most devastating thing that ever happened to me.”

“That doesn’t make it insignificant.”

Peter glanced at him and smiled. “No,” he agreed.

His first step, he decided, was to see the cabin. After calling up the station and determining that his dad was actually on shift, he and Peter went up there. There wasn’t much to see. It was decrepit and small, only one room and the pervasive smell of mildew and old beer. There was a twin mattress on one side of the room, a sink and a few cabinets on the other, a pile of empty liquor bottles on the counter, and a stack of Playboys near the mattress.

“There isn’t even a bathroom!” Stiles exclaimed.

“There’s an outhouse.” Peter was sitting on the concrete stoop outside the house; he couldn’t stand the stench.

“This is such a depressing place,” Stiles said, sitting down beside him.

“All the better to wallow in,” Peter replied, wrapping an arm around him.

“Wallow?”

“Why do you think Derek lived in the burnt out husk of a house his family died in?” Peter asked. “Then an abandoned train station, then that terrible loft?”

“Oh,” Stiles said. “He’s punishing himself. And you think my dad is doing the same thing?”

“I don’t know for sure, but it makes sense. He knows what he’s doing is hurting you, but he doesn’t know how to stop, so he makes things as miserable for himself as possible.”

“But why doesn’t he ask for help?”

Peter shrugged. “Who knows? Toxic masculinity? Maybe he tried to get help before and it failed so he’s given up? Maybe asking for help would mean revealing to another person something he’s ashamed of? Maybe it just feels easier not to deal with it?”

“Oh,” Stiles said. “It’s harder to be mad at him when you put it like that.”

Peter squeezed his shoulder. “It’s always best not to learn about people you want to be mad at. Otherwise you might discover some compassion.”

“That seems unusually understanding for you,” Stiles commented.

“I know you met me while I was in the middle of a trauma-induced psychotic break, but I am not actually a psychopath.” He paused, grinning. “And people are easier to manipulate when you make the effort to understand them.”

“And there it is,” Stiles said, but he was smiling back.

He returned to the cabin later, when he knew his dad was due to get off work, parking his car a little ways down a side road and walking to the cabin so his dad wouldn’t realize he was there. He sat on the stoop and looked up at the stars, the words he was planning on saying to his dad repeating over and over in his head. They all dried up when his dad parked and got out, a bottle of whiskey held in each hand.

He hadn’t realized that this whole time he’d been hoping he’d been wrong, that the PI was wrong, that there was an innocent excuse for all of this.

“Stiles?” Dad asked. He dropped one of the whiskey bottles and it hit the gravel and dried leaves of the driveway with a clatter, clacking against the gravel as it rolled a little. “What are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here?” Stiles asked. “I thought you had to work late.”

“Uh, yeah,” Dad said. He shifted from foot to foot.

Stiles stood.

“You’ve been lying to me this whole time,” he said. “You promised you were dry. You promised you’d gotten help. You said the department was understaffed so you had to work extra shifts.”

Dad swallowed and looked away.

“I’m sorry,” he began.

Stiles shook his head. “I don’t want apologies. I want you to actually try to get this under control.”

“I tried– I’ve been trying,” Dad protested.

“Okay,” Stiles said, remembering what Peter had said. “I know it’s hard. Maybe you need some more help. Maybe you need more accountability. I need you to try a little harder. For me? Maybe a rehab program? Have you tried medication? There are a few medications approved for alcoholism.”

Dad blinked at him.

Stiles wiped his face with the back of a hand and only then realized he was tearing up. “I don’t want to lose you, Dad, but it feels like I’ve already lost you.”

Dad swallowed and nodded, not fighting as Stiles took the remaining bottle of whiskey from him and escorted him home.

Stiles called Melissa and told her everything while Dad was in the shower. She’d been the one to confront Dad about his drinking the first time and had remained his closest friend, as far as Stiles knew.

Melissa came over, lips pinched shut, and hugged Stiles and said she’d help. She had a pile of brochures from rehab clinics– even better, she was familiar with their reputations.

When Dad came downstairs and caught sight of Melissa, he took a deep breath. “I’m in trouble now, aren’t I?”

“We’re here to help you, not scold you,” Melissa said, gently. “Blame and guilt aren’t helpful. What happened in the past is in the past. The only thing you have control over are your actions now and in the future.”

“And what is going to happen to me now?” Dad asked.

“You’re going to go to rehab.” Melissa laid the pamphlets on the table, pushing two of them towards him. “I recommend these two– I know some of the staff personally.”

Dad sighed. “I don’t have time for that. I have a job.”

“You’ll take a medical leave.”

“If my opponents find out, I’ll lose the next election.”

“Maybe that’s for the best,” Melissa said.

Dad stared at her.

“Maybe all the pressure of your position isn’t good for you. Maybe it’s time to move on.”

Dad’s head dropped into his hands. “I know I fucked up,” he said. “I knew it the whole time. Every morning I kept thinking ‘I’m going to change today’ and every evening I found myself doing the same fucking thing.”

“You need help,” Melissa said. “You don’t have to go it alone.”

“It’s like my ADHD,” Stiles cut in. “I get help from my medication and I get support from the school and that’s how I manage it. If I didn’t have Adderall or an IEP I wouldn’t be able to do as well.”

“That’s right,” Melissa said, gently. “You wouldn’t tell Stiles he had to go without help or medication. So why do you think you do?”

“I can’t believe you’re so forgiving,” Dad said.

Stiles wasn’t sure he was forgiving, but it wouldn’t help to say so.

“Being mad and holding a grudge isn’t going to help,” Melissa said. “Now, can I make these calls for you?”

Dad hesitated, then nodded.

“I don’t know how we’re going to pay for this,” he said.

“Your insurance will pay for some and they can do a payment plan for the rest,” Melissa said, reassuringly. “It will be cheaper than buying alcohol in the long run.”

Dad nodded. “I guess I have to call Parrish.”

Melissa nodded and began dialing.

Stiles sat back on the couch, still feeling stunned by how all this was turning out. He’d thought Dad would be argumentative, defensive. He’d thought he’d refuse and get angry at Stiles. Instead he seemed relieved. Like this whole time he’d been hoping for someone to notice and call him out on it.

He texted Peter a few updates about how it was going, then watched Melissa and Dad talking on their separate phone calls; Dad pacing back and forth, agitated, running his hand through his hair, Melissa calmly giving information to the person she was talking to.

Dad was going to get help. He was going to go to rehab and then come back and go to a therapist. It was a good thing; good for his dad, good for Stiles. But maybe not good for Stiles’ relationship with Peter. If Dad was around more often he’d probably start noticing that Stiles never slept in his bed. He’d probably wonder where Stiles had gotten his laptop and iPad and Switch, why he had ten pairs of Converses, how it was that his Jeep was running smoothly with its fenders replaced, or why he never ate at home.

This is a good thing, he reminded himself. This is a good thing.

…

The bright side was that no one even asked any information about the summer camp he was going to. (Actually, that was a little disappointing– he’d had a whole story about a scholarship and everything). Melissa got Dad signed up for a program that was supposed to last 6 weeks and everyone was relieved Stiles had somewhere to go where he wouldn’t be alone.

He saw Dad off the following morning; Melissa was driving him and was going to help him settle in. Stiles hugged him and told him how glad he was he was getting help.

“It felt like I was lying,” he told Peter later, sitting on his counter as he made BLT sandwiches for them for lunch.

“Sometimes lying is the right thing to do,” Peter said, slathering a thick layer of mayo over irregular shaped slices of artesian bread.

“I know, I know,” Stiles said. “White lies and all. It’s just… I don’t really feel a connection to him anymore. I’m glad he’s getting help in the abstract, in the same way that I’m glad there are treatments for cancer and whatever. But I’m still so angry at him, I don’t really know how to feel any other emotions towards him.”

Peter shrugged. “It’s the people we trust who betray us the most.”

“Did you read that off a fortune cookie?”

“Facebook.”

“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised you use Facebook like all the other old people.”

Peter cuffed him lightly on the side of the head.

“Abuse!” Stiles cried. “Abuse! Abuse!”

“I’d suggest you call the Sheriff, but I heard he’s out of town,” Peter quipped.

“Oh my god,” Stiles muttered.

Peter brought the plates of sandwiches to the table and Stiles followed him.

“So we have two months for our road trip.”

“This trip keeps getting longer and longer,” Stiles said. “How do I know you’re not planning on kidnapping me and taking me away for ever?”

“Oh, believe me, I’ve considered it,” Peter teased.

“Reassuring,” Stiles muttered.

Peter laughed and wrapped an arm around him, pulling him in to kiss him. “Why buy the cow when I can steal it?”

Stiles tried not to laugh and failed.

They headed out the next day. Peter had acquired an SUV from somewhere, not trusting his Cobras to the dangers of traveling, and outfitted it with a full mattress and bedding, in case there weren’t any ‘decent’ motels around, a portable fridge that could be plugged into the SUV (he hadn’t even known that those existed) and a bag of camping supplies. There was barely enough space for their luggage.

It was appallingly early when they left, but that was okay, because Stiles put his pillow against the car window, wrapped one of Peter’s comfy throws around him, and slept the whole way to Monterey Bay. Their road trip began not with a college, but with an exclusive, behind-the-scenes tour of the aquarium that Stiles suspected was the result of a very generous donation from his filthy rich werewolf sugar daddy.

After Stiles had seen his fill of ocean creatures (including getting to feed the penguins!), they ate lunch at a charming sea-side bistro where Peter made him try calamari (it wasn’t terrible) and ceviche (shockingly good).

They then went to the harbor for a private whale watch, where they got splashed by a humpback whale (how the fuck was it actually that big?) then back to the city, where they ate Mexican food far better than anything they could get in Beacon Hills. They stayed for the night in a cozy bed and breakfast where no one said anything about Stiles’ age.

When he asked, Peter grinned and said “when I made the reservations, I told them you were self-conscious of how young you looked and asked them not to mention it.”

Stiles laughed. “I can’t believe that works.”

Peter shrugged. “You’ll meet plenty of people who are much younger or older than they look– and your fake license is convincing. A preemptive lie often works wonders.”

Stiles shook his head. “I’m glad you’re on my side.”

“Always, darling,” Peter said and kissed him.

After Monterey Bay they went to Berkeley, where Stiles toured the school and they ate lunch with a professor Peter knew (a selkie, it turned out). The selkie knew Professor Hai, a folklorist who was the person at the college Stiles was the most interested in working with, and had asked her to join them.

While Peter caught up with his friend, Stiles pushed past his hero-worship of Professor Hai, to first rave about her research and then ask her all the questions he’d wondered while reading it until she managed to redirect the conversation to Stiles’ interests and he found himself telling her about supernatural folk he’d encountered and his work developing his spark, and how he’d compiled his digital bestiary.

“She was impressed with you,” Peter commented, as they walked back to the bed and breakfast they were staying in. “What did you think about her and her research?”

“She’s so smart,” Stiles gushed. “And I like the fact that she focuses on Asian creatures,” Stiles said. “I mean, it’s fascinating because most of what I’ve come across in the bestiaries and your books are European, but with all the immigrants from other continents– did you know the largest proportion of immigrants are currently arriving from Asia? We’re bound to come across something from somewhere. And she said there might be a chance to study abroad in China or India, so that’s amazing. But she really focuses more on the lore as known and available to humans who aren’t in the know, which means it might not be that useful.”

“I think you’re probably going to find that’s the case with everyone you talk to,” Peter said. “They have to publish in academic journals to keep their jobs.”

“Publish or perish, yeah.”

“And those journals require references available to regular people.”

“That makes sense. Maybe I shouldn't go to college at all.”

“It’s your choice,” Peter said, because he always treated Stiles as an adult. “But I think you’d really enjoy it, and it would give you a lot of useful skills, even if you don’t study what you ultimately want to.”

“That’s great and all, but it’s hella expensive. Is enjoying it and getting some new skills really worth being in debt the rest of my life?”

Peter huffed a laugh. “You’re not going to be in debt the rest of your life.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes at him. “You’re not paying my college tuition.”

“We’ll see,” Peter said.

Stiles would have argued more, but they were already walking into a tiny magic shop and Peter was greeting the owner.

All of the colleges they’d chosen to visit had someone Stiles wanted to work with who was either a supernatural creature or was in the know. Peter had advised him to choose colleges based on what professors he wanted to work with.

“It’s a much better reason for you to put on your application,” Peter had suggested, “than whatever nonsense you’d put otherwise. And if you can develop a good enough relationship with them for them to write a recommendation, that will look pretty impressive. And it’s actually a good reason to go to a school.” And then he’d proceeded to suggest professors he’d known or heard of, had Stiles look through various journals, connected him with his friends and acquaintances who were interested in the study of folklore and could offer advice.

After Berkeley, they’d gone up to the University of Washington, then across Washington State to Moscow. From there they traveled east and spent a few days hiking around Yellowstone– Peter snuck away one night to run with actual wolves. East and east to the University of Wisconsin and then south to Chicago. Around the Great Lakes to watch the water pound down in Niagara, then over to Itheca. Through the endless forests of New York to Middlebury, down to UMass Amherst then across the state to Boston. A stop for a few days on a small island off of Cape Cod (Peter had a friend with a summer house there), almost an entire week in New York.

They stopped in D.C. to visit the Smithsonian, headed down to Atlanta to tour Emory, braved Florida to visit the Everglades (where Stiles had always wanted to go). Werewolves turned out to be repulsive to mosquitos, which was deeply unfair, in Stiles’ opinion. North and then west to New Orleans; Bourbon street turned out to be a big disappointment, fully of middle aged women flashing their boobs (ugh), but they were able to watch a Second Line parade and Peter dragged Stiles to three different jazz clubs and made him try gumbo and tour Toulane.

They skirted around the Gulf of Mexico to a tiny town deep in the bayou, where Peter had a friend who was a practitioner of Vodun, and spent a day educating him about the Vodun religion and Vodun charms in return for a tin of a special type of tobacco Peter had acquired in Atlanta.

West to Austin to the University of Texas, Northwest to camp on the edge of the Grand Canyon for a few days, then over to Las Vegas where Peter introduced Stiles to a con man who taught him how to count cards. They drove into Death Valley just to experience the heat, then it was only a little way from there to get back home.

…

After all that, somehow, Beacon Hills hadn’t changed at all. It felt like they’d been gone forever. The hills should have eroded, the streets changed, all the shops been replaced, but it had only been five weeks.

Derek turned up at Peter’s house the evening they’d gotten back, when they were still unpacking and doing laundry and sorting through the mail. He didn’t really say anything, turned down offers of beverage and the alligator jerky Stiles was planning on trying to convince everyone to try.

Peter casually brushed past him a few times while Stiles nattered on about their trip and the Everglades and Niagara and the Grand Canyon and wasn’t it weird that Las Vegas was plop in the middle of the desert, what were they thinking, the Ogallala Aquifer was drying up at a rapid rate.

Derek said maybe two words, failed to appreciate any of the pictures Stiles tried to show him, then left again.

Peter looked out the window at the Camaro peeling out with a fond smile.

…

Two days later Stiles was headed to the rehab clinic for family therapy with his dad. Peter sat in the passenger seat of the car and distracted him with a long winding story that Stiles appreciated but didn’t really follow. He dropped Peter off at a coffee shop near the clinic and continued the rest of the way alone.

He’d talked to Dad during their trip; texted, spoke on the phone. Nothing heavy– he and Dad really weren’t the kind of people who discussed their emotions. His dad often sounded like he was on the verge of apologizing or telling him something he realized about himself, but he held back, like always.

Stiles had a feeling he wouldn’t be allowed to do that today.

The clinic looked like any other doctor’s office; boring industrial carpet, slightly dingy walls, a few framed posters of slogans ‘it works if you work it’, a billboard plastered with community events and offers to rake people’s lawns and walk their dogs.

Stiles sat in an uncomfortable chair and spent a few minutes staring at the book he’d brought like he was going to read it before giving up and pulling up Candy Crush on his phone. Some time passed and then a hispanic woman was trying to call his name, doing the awkward ‘I can’t pronounce your first name, did you maybe forget to include a few vowels thing.

“Just call me Stiles,” he said, interrupting her stumbling.

“Sure,” she said with a bright smile and held a door open for him.

They passed down a maze of hallways until they reached what he could recognize anywhere as a counselor’s office. His dad was sitting in one of the chairs across from the counselor; a middle-aged Asian man, talking to him a little awkwardly.

“Hey kiddo, it’s good to see you,” Dad said, jumping up and holding out his arms.

Stiles hugged him a little uncertainly, then pulled away.

“You don’t have to hug anyone you don’t want to,” the counselor said with a slight accent. He held out a hand. “I’m Mike.”

“Nice to meet you,” Stiles said.

“Your Dad tells me you prefer to go by your nickname, is that right?” Mike asked.

“Yeah,” Stiles said shrugged. “Most people can’t say my name.”

“My given name’s the same– some sounds just don’t make sense to English speakers.” Mike sat back down, crossing his legs.

“Yeah,” Stiles agreed. He glanced at Dad, and then back at Mike.

“We have three of these sessions scheduled,” Mike said, easily, “and we can add more if we think it’s necessary. You two have a fair amount of history.”

“About 17 years worth,” Stiles joked.

Mike smiled. “Do you mind just jumping right in?” he asked. “Or would you prefer to spend some time on small talk? Whatever will make you more comfortable.”

Stiles shrugged. “I guess we can jump right in.”

“Okay,” Mike said. “I want you to remember that if at any point you feel uncomfortable or unsafe you can just tell us that you need to leave the room for a moment, or you need to leave and resume the conversation next time, or we can simply change the topic. You are free to say ‘I don’t know how to answer that’ or ‘I’m going to need some time to think about this.’ I want this to be as safe a space for you as possible, but I’m going to have to trust you to let us know when you feel unsafe. Does that make sense to you?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said.

“Okay.” Mike smiled again, then his expression sobered. “It seems to me, from my discussions with your father, that your mother’s sickness was a really traumatic event for both of you, but I’d like to hear your perspective on it.”

“Okay,” Stiles glanced at his dad, licked his lips, then tried to figure out how to begin.

Peter was waiting outside the coffee shop with a mocha piled high with whipped cream and a tight hug. They went home and he plied Stiles with triple chocolate cookies and an afternoon of cuddling and binge-watching Community.

“You don’t want to know?” Stiles asked.

Peter lightly scratched at his skull. “I want to listen if you want to speak.”

Stiles let his head drop onto Peter’s shoulder. “You’re too good to me.”

“Impossible,” Peter scoffed.

Stiles couldn’t help laughing. “Do you think I was abused?” he asked, after a moment later.

Peter was quiet. “I think when people hear that word they immediately think of the extreme. But like most things it’s a spectrum and it’s hard to say where to draw the line.”

“Sounds like something a therapist would say.”

“Believe it or not I’ve spent some time with therapists.”

Stiles pulled his head away to look at him.

“Almost my entire family died and then I spent six years in excruciating pain that drove me insane and then I killed my niece and a whole bunch of other people and then I was killed and then I manipulated a teenage girl into resurrecting me.”

“Do you have a supernatural therapist or something?”

Peter huffed out a laugh. “I think even just the parts I can tell a human are enough to spend the rest of my life on.”

Stiles found his hand and threaded their fingers together. “The therapist told me that if I had been younger, telling him about my life, he’d have felt obliged to call Child Protective Services.”

“What did your dad do?”

Stiles looked down. “He cried.”

Peter squeezed his hand.

“I thought it was my fault,” Stiles whispered, “for the longest time. If I’d been better at keeping the house clean and doing the laundry and cooking my dad would be around more, he’d drink less. If I was less of a trouble-maker, if I talked less, if I was less hyperactive…”

“And today they told you that there was nothing you could have done?” Peter finished.

Stiles nodded.

“How does that feel?”

Stiles frowned at him. “Maybe you should see your therapist less often.”

Peter laughed.

“Feels hard to believe.”

“It takes a long time to change your beliefs. A long time and a lot of consistent messaging.”

Stiles nodded against his chest. “This is a boring conversation,” he said, finally. “Can we talk about something else?”

“Anything you wish, darling.”

…

Stiles went back to family therapy and every time Dad cried and apologized and cried. Sometimes Stiles did, but only when he was safe at home with Peter. He couldn’t figure out how Peter, serial killer, possible sociopath, and self-admitted asshole, was the person he felt the most safe with.

Maybe it was because Peter always seemed to understand. Maybe it was because it never felt like he was judging him. Maybe it was because he knew Peter would do anything for him.

It wasn’t all crying and cuddling and eating ice cream. It wasn’t even all Peter. Sometimes Peter got caught up in something in his freelance job and worked for two days straight and Stiles went and hung out with Scott and/or the betas. Sometimes he went to the abandoned paper mill with Allison and they practiced shooting and Allison taught him some mixed martial arts. Sometimes he went to Jungle with Erica and Issac. They used their fake IDs to get drunk, danced until they were exhausted, and Issac picked up sweaty sparkly boys while Erica and Stiles egged him on. Sometimes Derek came over and listened to Stiles and Peter banter while they cooked and ate dinner with them with a look on his face like he was being forced at gun-point, even when Peter made him his favorite meals.

It was frustrating, though, how careful he and Peter had to be. Especially after their road trip, where they’d been able to be as affectionate with each other as they wanted in public, with the only repercussions being scandalized looks and whispers (which only encouraged Peter to grope him more or Stiles to loudly call him ‘Daddy’).

But in Beacon Hills, where everyone knew Stiles and his dad, they didn’t dare go anywhere in public together. It would have been too easy to find out the truth; the whole pack knew they were having sex, after all, and while the fact that it was statutory rape increased the thrill of it for Stiles, it also meant his dad wouldn’t even have had to trump up charges to arrest Peter.

They went out of town whenever they could; weekends to the beach, evenings at a restaurant, a movie a few towns away. Even being in the same car was risky; Peter wasn’t the type of person who even noticed speed limit signs and none of the deputies would have thought twice before letting the sheriff know they’d pulled a car over and found his son getting a ride from a man more than twice his age.

Peter’s house was a safe space. As was the preserve, as long as Peter kept his ear out for hikers, but it was so limiting. He wanted to go to the diner with Peter and hold hands, wanted to go to the movies with him and make out in the back, wanted to tell everyone how much he loved him. Everyone; his dad and his non-supernaturally inclined friends and his neighbors and complete strangers on the streets. He wanted to yell it in the streets and buy an ad in the newspaper and hire a skywriter to tell the world that Peter was his.

The closer they got to Stiles’ dad getting released from the inpatient program, the more anxious about it Stiles felt. Seven months to his eighteenth birthday, twelve until he left for college. If Dad somehow found out and forbade them from seeing each other, he could manage it, in theory. He’d gone sixteen years without Peter, after all.

But the thought of it– of not being able to see Peter every day, of having to go months without seeing him– made him feel a little more panicked as the day of Dad’s release got closer and closer.

What if Peter got sick of being with a kid who was unavailable so much of the time? What if he figured Stiles was going to go to college soon anyway and cut his losses? He knew if he’d asked Peter he’d say it could never happen; Peter had spoken about Stiles moving away from college as if he was planning on moving with him. When they’d visited college cities and towns Peter had talked about the neighborhoods they might buy an apartment or condo in, had mused about whether it would be better to live in Chelsea, near enough to walk to NYU or to live in Brooklyn where they could have more space.

His therapists had tried to help him deal with his anxiety through facts and reason, but it had never worked because he’d already known his anxiety was stupid, caused by fear and not belief. Peter had fucking decorated his house with Stiles in mind. He made it clear over and over again that he wasn’t in it just for the sex or the short term. He was going to sneakily find a way to pay for Stiles’ college education, Stiles knew he would. He’d given every proof that he was serious, short of tattooing Stiles’ name on his ass or proposing marriage to him. Yet the fear was still there, eating at him like acid from the inside, keeping him awake at night and distracting him during the day. Whispering in his brain when they were having sex maybe it’s the last time. Telling him, when Peter was busy with work, that it was because he didn’t want to spend time with him any more.

He got clingy and then worried that he’d push Peter away with his clinginess. Texted Peter constantly while he was out with his friends and then fretted if it took him longer than a few seconds to reply.

“What are you so worried about, darling?” Peter whispered into his hair when he was close to working himself into a panic attack.

“That you’ll get sick of me,” Stiles didn’t mean to answer.

“It will never happen,” Peter told him, rubbing his back.

“I know, but I’m still worried about it.”

“I should be more worried about you walking around all anxious,” Peter said, sounding a little smug, “but I’m tickled you care so much about me.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“Your asshole,” Peter agreed, kissing his neck. “And I promise you’re not going to be able to get rid of me, even if you want to.”

“That should not feel reassuring.”

Peter huffed. “You’re just as fucked up as I am.” He wrapped his arms tight around Stiles. “I’d handcuff us together if I could. I’d lock a collar around your neck and never let go of the leash. I’d find a witch to curse us so we couldn’t get more than a yard apart. I’d find a vampire to turn me and make you into my thrall.”

“So romantic,” Stiles laughed. “You’re a kinky bastard, aren’t you?”

“Part of my charm, darling.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” Stiles told him, more seriously. “It’s just sometimes I get thoughts into my head I can’t get out again.”

Peter nodded, running a hand through Stiles’ hair. “You can always call or text me, if you get anxious,” he said. “Any time day or night. It might take me a few minutes if I’m caught up in something, but I’ll reply as soon as I can. And you know you can come over whenever you want, even if I’m not here.”

“I know,” Stiles said.

“I’m an obsessive, possessive person, darling,” Peter said, kissing him. “You’re never going to be free of me.”

“Is it strange that I find that reassuring?”

Peter laughed. “I’m really the wrong person to ask.”

…

Stiles went with Melissa to pick Dad up, Melissa making small talk about this and that, not commenting on Stiles’ uncharacteristic silence, chattering about how excited Stiles must be about senior year and how summer camp was and where was he applying for colleges, and this and that.

Finally, they were pulling up to the rehab, and going inside to join Dad’s exit celebration. They ate a little supermarket cake, and listened to all the well-wishes of the counselors and other patients. Dad looked better than he had in years– Stiles hadn’t really noticed how red and bloated his face had gotten or how sunken his eyes had been. Now they were bright and sharp and his smile was genuine. Stiles was reminded, yet again, how selfish it was to have wished his dad not recover just so he could spend more time with Peter.

Dad hugged him and told his rehab-friends “I wouldn’t have been able to do any of this without thinking about my boy here. He’s my reason for getting dry and I know he’s going to be my reason for staying there.”

Stiles didn’t ask why he hadn’t been enough to keep him dry.

He helped his dad bring his bags to Melissa’s SUV, then sat in the back, texting with various people to occupy himself while Melissa and Dad chatted.

“Let’s all go out to dinner to celebrate,” Dad said, turning around in the passenger seat. “We can go to that new vegetarian place if you want.”

“You hate vegetarian food,” Stiles pointed out.

“I’d rather be there for you for longer than eat meat,” Dad said, but Stiles shook his head.

“Mike was right. You’re an adult and I need to trust you to be able to look after yourself. We can go wherever you want.”

Melissa caught Stiles’ eye in the rearview mirror and beamed at him.

“I want to be there for you, kiddo.”

“Personally,” Melissa cut it, “I’d like to go to the Thai restaurant on Green st. And they’ve got both vegetarian and meat options.”

“That’s pretty good thinking,” Dad said, and Stiles agreed. He texted Scott and Allison (they were on again) to see if they wanted to come and the night actually ended up being pretty fun.

Dad hugged him again when they got home. His dad was a hugger now. He’d promised he was going to try to be more open about his emotions, which was probably very healthy from a personal development standpoint, but that didn’t mean Stiles was looking forward to it.

“Thank you so much for standing by me and being there for me,” Dad said, getting a little choked up. “It means so much to me to have such a wonderful kid like you.”

Oh, gods, now Stiles was going to tear up. He wished Peter was there.

“Of course, Dad.”

“I know we haven’t had the best relationship.” His dad was still hugging him and Stiles was trying not to squirm away, “but I promise I’m going to work on it.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, trying to smile. “That sounds great. Amazing. Awesome. Uh– look, it’s been a pretty long day and I’m tired, so…”

Dad ruffled his hair. “Yeah, kid. Go to bed.”

He did his nightly routine and climbed into bed. It was small and hard, compared to the bed he’d been sleeping at at Peter’s for the last month. He pulled out one of the graphic novels Peter had given him and texted him he missed him for like the seventh time that evening. Every time Peter texted back ‘I miss you too’.

…

School started about a week after that, which for the first time in Stiles’ life seemed like a blessing. His dad had taken it into his head to make up for ten years of parental neglect in one week with non-stop father-son bonding time. Mini-golf and movies and playing catch and going to laser tag (his dad was very impressed with his ‘natural talent’ for shooting). Stiles had stopped trying to push healthy food on him, but his dad tried to eat healthy food anyway to prove to Stiles that he could take care of himself.

“He wants me to go camping this weekend,” Stiles complained to Peter. He’d only escaped because Dad had to meet with his therapist. “I can just tell he wants to do one of those ‘privation builds character’ trips.”

“Poor baby,” Peter said, stroking his hair. They were lying naked in bed; Stiles had jumped Peter as soon as he’d seen him, all of Peter’s plans for a delicious lunch falling by the wayside.

“I told him I’d neglected to do my summer reading until the last minute and was going to have to spend the whole summer making it up. Too bad, so sad.”

“Did you?” Peter asked.

Stiles rolled onto his back and stared at the perfect, unstained ceiling. “No, but I’ve already read like half the books on the list so I figure I don’t really need to. Told him I was going to get together with a group of friends for a book group. Figured I could just hang out here. Erica will cover me.”

“Oh,” Peter said. “Um, I actually have some work to do this weekend, in the city.”

Stiles’ heart fell until he caught Peter’s expression out of the corner of his eye, then he turned and smacked Peter in the stomach. It hurt Stiles more than it hurt Peter, but Stiles figured it was the thought that counted.

“You’re such an asshole,” Stiles said. “You’re honestly the biggest asshole to ever asshole.”

Peter pouted. “I thought you liked my asshole. You said it was so tight and felt so good.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles said. Horribly, his cock began to stiffen.

Peter rolled on his stomach and wiggled his ass. “You want a reminder?”

“You’re literally the worst,” Stiles said and kissed him.

…

Stiles decided not to rejoin lacrosse for senior year– instead he went for runs with Peter and learned mixed martial arts with Lydia, Allison, and Allison’s dad. He continued to communicate with a few of the professors he’d met over the summer and even co-authored a paper with one, on modern reinterpretations of folklore, using much of the research he’d done when he was looking things up for the pack.

His dad continued to try to do better. They had a chore chart now, and Dad did about half of the cooking (and was improving, thank goodness). They spent a lot of the evenings he had free together. They had family therapy together, and Stiles even agreed to see a therapist on his own, with Peter’s reassurance and at Mike’s suggestion.

It was… good. Stable. Not enough Peter, but it was nice to have his dad around again. He applied to colleges, studied for classes, hung out with his friends, and went to pack meetings. Every once in a while there was some supernatural trouble, but it was never as bad as it had been.

…

Things were pretty great, actually, until the beginning of December. Between classes and application deadlines and finishing up the journal article and a few mysterious disappearances in the Preserve, Stiles was run down and exhausted. All he wanted to do was go home to Peter and curl up in his bed. Even if Peter was out in the Preserve, helping Derek and the betas track down whatever it was. So instead of going home he drove out to Peter’s house, let himself in, had a late night snack of Peter’s fancy lemon cookies, and curled up in their bed, hugging Peter’s pillow tight and breathing in his smell. (Hey, he didn’t have fancy werewolf olfactory senses, but that didn’t mean he didn’t love Peter’s scent).

He woke up rested for the first time in a long time, warm and lying on top of Peter. He nuzzled Peter's neck until Peter swatted at him, then laughed.

“When did you get to bed?” he asked.

“Only a few hours ago,” Peter complained.

“Did you find whatever it was?”

“Yeah,” Peter said. “It was a cougar.”

“Like an actual mountain lion?”

“An actual mountain lion.”

“Wow,” Stiles breathed. “That’s a Beacon Hills first.”

“We chased it out of our territory. It will do better up in the mountains.”

Stiles kissed Peter, then slid out of bed. “Do you want me to make you breakfast, or do you just want to sleep?”

“Sleep,” Peter said, rolling over and pressing his face to Stiles’ pillow.

Stiles kissed the back of his neck, “I’ve got that paper to write, but I’ll see you later today.”

“Okay,” Peter mumbled into the pillow. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” Stiles said, feeling warm and giddy.

Dad was waiting when he got home, looking exhausted. “Where have you been all night?” he demanded. “You didn’t answer your phone.”

“Sorry,” he said, “my phone ran out of batteries and I was so tired I forgot to plug it in.”

“Where were you?”

“At a friend’s house,” Stiles said, a familiar anger boiling up.

Dad crossed his arms over his chest, “I’m going to need more than that.”

“Yeah?” Stiles asked. “Good for you.”

“Stiles,” Dad said. “I’m still the parent here.”

Oh, this was happening.

“No,” Stiles said. “No, you don’t get to do that. You don’t get to disappear on me for years, years where I actually needed you and then decide to come back and start parenting when it’s convenient for you. I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time and I’ve been doing fucking fantastic. I’m healthy, I’m happy, I’ve got an amazing GPA, and none of that is because of you. So forget about this ‘I’m still the parent here’ bullshit, because that position is no longer available. You lost the right to tell me what to do when you stopped coming home.”

Dad looked heartbroken and Stiles hated it, but honestly.

“A dead body was found in the woods yesterday,” Dad said. “I was worried about you.”

“Okay,” Stiles said. “That’s fair. I’m sorry I forgot to charge my phone. I’ll try to do better about that in the future.”

“In the future you’ll let me know where you’re going to be,” Dad instructed.

“No. Like I said, you don’t get to do that.”

“As long as you’re under my roof…” Dad began.

“I can very easily not be under your roof,” Stiles countered. “If that’s where you want to go with this. I wasn’t planning on moving out, but I can.”

Dad opened his mouth, like he wanted to say something, then shut it again. He sat down. “You’re seventeen.”

“And I was fending for myself when I was ten,” Stiles reminded him.

Dad scrubbed his face. “I’m sorry…” he began.

“No,” Stiles said. “This isn’t about how apologetic you feel. This is about the consequences of your actions. Parenting isn’t a movie you can put on pause for years and then start up again. I’m willing to build a relationship with you. I want to build a relationship with you. But it’s going to be a new kind of relationship. It’s going to be between adults, the consequences of you not being around for me was that I grew up when you weren’t looking.”

“Where would you go if you left?” Dad asked. He sounded beyond tired now. Numb.

“My boyfriend’s.”

“You have a boyfriend old enough to have an apartment?”

“A house,” Stiles corrected.

“That’s statutory–” Dad began.

“What if we never had sex?” Stiles cut him off. He huffed. “What is this obsession with sex anyway? I could fuck someone in a nightclub bathroom and it would be illegal, but some predator could groom me for years without any action and that would be fine?”

“Did your boyfriend groom you?” Dad demanded.

Stiles rolled his eyes. “No,” he said. “He did the opposite.”

Dad looked confused.

“Groomers, abusers, they try to make you dependent on them. Try to isolate you, make sure you don’t have anywhere else to turn, make you feel like they’re the only ones who will ever love you. He’s not like that. He’s supportive of me spending time with my friends. He encouraged me to rebuild a relationship with you. He helped me apply for colleges; he connected me with a lot of the professors I’ve been talking to. He’s constantly telling me how great I am– how attractive, how smart, how funny. He loves me for who I am.”

“How long have you been seeing him?”

Stiles shrugged. “About a year.”

“And how did you meet?”

“He’s the uncle of a friend of mine.”

“So he’s a lot older than you.”

“Yes.”

Dad scrubbed his face.

“And you trust him?”

“More than I trust you,” Stiles admitted.

Dad looked like he’d been slapped. He closed his eyes. “I guess I deserve that. I want to meet him.”

“Are you going to threaten him?” Stiles asked. “Are you going to arrest him? Are you going to interrogate him or sic your deputies on him every time they see him out driving?”

Dad sighed, “I have a feeling that wouldn't go well for me.”

“No,” Stiles told him pointedly. “It wouldn’t.”

Peter was, of course, surprised.

“I just got mad and it spilled out,” Stiles muttered, his face pressed against Peter’s chest.

Peter laughed and scratched his scalp lightly. “That does sound like you.”

“Don’t needlessly antagonize him,” Stiles begged.

“Moi?!” Peter replied. His feigned offense wasn’t very effective, since it was obvious he was trying not to laugh. Stiles poked him in the ribs.

“I want my two favorite people to like each other,” Stiles couldn’t help whining.

Peter hugged him a little tighter and rocked him in his arms. “Of course, darling boy,” he said, kissing his forehead. “Anything for you.”

So, Dad came over to Peter’s for dinner. He eyed the house skeptically as he followed Stiles to the door. “This is very fancy,” he said. “You didn’t say he was wealthy.”

“He’s comfortable,” Stiles replied, with a shrug, opening the door. “Peter, we’re here!”

“In the kitchen, darling,” Peter called.

Dad’s eyes were large, taking in the comfortable living room, the shelves of books, the World of Warcraft wall hangings, the soft furniture, the massive TV. He trailed after Stiles, head turning right and left, until they finally came to the open kitchen, Peter hard at work at the stove.

Stiles headed over to him, slipping an arm around his waist and kissing his cheek.

“Hi sweetheart,” Peter said. “Nice to see you again, Sheriff.”

Dad looked at Peter, then at Stiles, who headed over to the fridge to get them some drinks, then back at Peter. “Peter Hale,” he said. “Missing coma patient.”

“In the flesh,” Peter said. Stiles handed his dad a bottle of seltzer and then slid the appetizers– cantaloupe wrapped in prosciutto– on the counter.

“What happened to your scars?”

“Dad,” Stiles interrupted. “You can’t just ask someone about their scars. Rude.”

Peter turned back to the stove. “It’s fine,” he said, amused. “I was fortunate enough to be enrolled in a phase 1 clinical trial. It was a deeply unpleasant process– they must have removed half of the skin on my face, and I looked like a swollen chipmunk for a few months– but you have to admit it worked. Unfortunately, several of the other patients contracted MRSA and the trial had to be discontinued.”

“Huh,” Dad said. Stiles was impressed. Lies always worked so much better when you had the right level of detail.

Dad looked at Stiles. “You said he was your friend’s uncle.”

“Yep.” Stiles threw a piece of the cantaloupe in his mouth and tried to keep himself from moaning. “You remember Derek, don’t you?”

“I arrested him for murder,” Dad said, dryly.

“Alleged murder,” Stiles corrected. “That you cleared him of. It’s a little rude to hold that over someone’s head.”

“You’re the one who accused him in the first place,” Dad reminded him. “And you’re hanging out with him now?”

“I feel a little sorry for him,” Stiles admitted. “He’s had a pretty hard life. And sure, he’s got resting murder-face and his James Dean inspired clothing choices do not help with that, but deep down he's a squishy little marshmallow who just wants some love.”

“So, you were hanging out with a man six years older than you who has ‘resting murder-face’ and then you saw his even older uncle and thought…?”

Peter, still at the stove, laughed.

“Look at him, Dad,” Stiles fake-whispered. “He’s extremely hot.”

Peter looked over his shoulder at him and winked.

Dad winced.

“I mean, actually it was pretty organic,” Stiles said, getting up to fluff the rice, then help Peter bring dishes to the table. “We just got to talking and became friends and over time we got closer and closer. Peter worried that I wasn’t eating healthy, so he kept bringing me food, and…” he smiled at Peter. “I never met anyone who understood me as well as he does.”

Peter kissed his cheek as he passed him, bringing the platter of salmon to the table. “Same, darling.”

“And that’s what you get out of it?” Dad asked Peter. “Someone who understands you? A teenager?”

Peter looked at Stiles. “I lost most of my family in that fire, and my entire life. I wasn’t in a coma– I had locked-in syndrome. Almost seven years of being conscious every day– at first covered in excruciating burns, always entirely alone. When I met Stiles… When you’re people like we are, you’re used to not being understood. Used to feeling like no one will ever get you. After everything I’d been through, to find someone I connected with on the level we connected on– how could I ignore that? Yes, our age difference is unfortunate, but meeting Stiles is the best thing that ever happened to me. If I can spend the rest of my life with him, it won’t be long enough.”

Stiles tore his eyes away from Peter to glance at Dad, who was looking down at his plate. He looked back up at Peter, who smiled and took his hand and kissed his knuckles.

“I love you too,” Stiles said, heart in his mouth. Peter pulled him into a hug, kissed his forehead, then they both took their seats at the table.

Dad swallowed, staring down at his plate. “You seem pretty sure about this,” he said, after a moment.

“I am,” Peter said.

“And what about when he goes to college?”

Peter started filling Stiles’ plate. “I’m a remote freelancer,” he said. “I’ll go with him.”

“You will?” Stiles asked.

“You knew that,” Peter chided him.

“We never agreed explicitly.”

“Is it okay with you?”

“Of course,” Stiles said, stopping Peter from putting more meat on his plate. “I don’t want to miss you.”

“That’s really serious,” Dad said, beginning to fill his own plate.

“I am very serious about this,” Peter agreed.

“But he’s so young,” Dad countered. “What if he changes his mind?”

“Then I’ll accept it, of course,” Peter said, his voice steady in a way Stiles knew meant he was hiding annoyance. “I would never want him to be with me if he was unhappy.”

“He should get to party at college– to date.”

“People pretty much universally agree that dating is terrible,” Stiles interrupted. “Why would I want that experience? And Peter’s not going to stop me from going to parties.”

“Of course not,” Peter agreed. “Not like Stiles needs my permission to do anything. I’m his boyfriend, not his parent. I trust him to make his own choices.”

“He’s seventeen,” Dad repeated.

“And I’ve been taking care of myself for years,” Stiles reminded him.

Dad sucked in a breath and closed his eyes. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Stiles asked.

“You’re right,” Dad said. “I haven’t been your parent in a long time. And Peter…” he closed his eyes like he was in pain. “Peter’s been there for you when I haven’t. And you obviously care a lot about each other. I can’t believe I’m okaying my seventeen year old son having a relationship with a man whose age I don’t even want to know, but I’m pretty sure if I tried to stop it, I’d just end up making everything worse.”

Stiles let out a breath and took Peter’s hand. “You’re right,” he said. “And I know you don’t approve of cour relationship, but I appreciate that you’re going to try to accept it anyway. It’s been really hard to hide my relationship from you. I really love Peter.”

His father scowled and looked down at his plate.

Dad left and Stiles stayed. He told Dad he was going to stay at Peter’s and Dad opened his mouth but then didn’t argue. He just flushed a little, got in his truck and drove away. Stiles texted Melissa and asked her to check on him in a little bit. He didn’t want to drive his dad to drink but it wasn’t his responsibility to change himself so his dad wouldn’t. Mike had been pretty clear on that.

“I guess we’ll talk about this in family therapy,” Stiles said, when the kitchen was clean and he and Peter were cuddled up on the couch.

“Isn’t the therapist a mandated reporter?” Peter asked.

“We can couch it in vague terms,” Stiles threaded his fingers through Peter’s. “Thanks for standing by me. If you dated someone your own age, you wouldn’t have to deal with all this.”

“Every age has its own baggage,” Peter replied, running his fingers down the outside of Stiles’ arm. “And I knew what I was getting into.”

Stiles snorted. “No one expects the Spanish Inquisition.”

Peter’s fingers found Stiles’ side and he tickled him just enough to get him to squirm. “I’d put up with a lot more for you.”

“Ugh, you’re so sappy,” Stiles complained, trying to catch Peter’s hands and not to giggle. “You’re supposed to be smirking and cynical but instead you’re a Hallmark card.”

“Sappy for you,” Peter cooed, licking the back of Stiles’ neck and holding him tight when he shrieked and tried to get away.

“Help!” Stiles yelled, laughing. “Help! Come see the violence inherent in the system!”

“I’ll show you violence,” Peter threatened and licked him again.

“So you’re going to college with me, is it?” Stiles asked, when they were enjoying the afterglow, Stiles tracing idle patterns on Peter’s neck, Peter scratching at Stiles’ scalp just the way he liked.

“Not if you don’t want me too,” Peter said. “If you want to have a normal college experience; dorm rooms, frat parties, all that.”

“Oh, yeah,” Stiles said, sarcastically. “Frat parties were always in the cards for me.”

“Seriously,” Peter said.

“I can make friends without living in the dorms,” Stiles said after a long minute. “Sure, I’m going to be the weirdo who lives with his sugar daddy, but what’s the alternative, going four years without you?”

“Not a sacrifice you’re willing to make?”

“I mean I’m always going to be a weirdo. That’s just who I am, so I guess you can come if you want.”

“You guess I can come and buy you a house and pay for all your meals?” Peter asked dryly.

“If you really want,” Stiles said, loftily. “I’m not going to stop you.”

“So generous. So magnanimous. Thank you for letting me serve you, your highness.”

Stiles waggled his eyebrows at him. “I know another way you can serve me.”

“I’ll serve you with a spanking, you little brat,” Peter threatened lazily.

“But daddy, don’t you want to take care of me?” Stiles pouted.

Peter rolled them over and pinned him down. “I want to take care of your attitude.”

Stiles lifted up his head and licked Peter’s nose, chortling when Peter lurched back with revulsion.

…

Life hurdled onward, thudding through Stiles’ senior year. College applications went out, then the holidays hit. Stiles insisted on spending them with Dad and Peter, since Dad was trying to be around for him more often. With Peter came Derek and with Derek came Issac and then it wasn’t even strange that Scott and Melissa showed up too, that Boyd and Erica dropped in. (Lydia was off somewhere fashionable doing something fashionable.) Every holiday and seasonal event that passed made them more aware that it was the last one they’d spend in their hometown, together. Stiles and Lydia were applying for multiple colleges and universities, Issac and Scott would attend the local community college, Erica was planning on going to school to become a masseuse and Boyd was being mysterious.

He talked to Peter about it, his head in his lap, Peter combing his fingers through his hair. “Everything’s changing,” he whispered.

“Not everything,” Peter reminded him, smoothing his hair away from his face. “And it’s time, don’t you think? Aren’t you ready to move on?”

“I am,” Stiles admitted, “but I’m still a little scared.”

“Me too,” Peter said.

Stiles turned his head so he could look up at him. “What do you have to be scared of?”

“That you’ll go to college and suddenly be around people who realize how amazing you are and suddenly I’ll seem like a graying cradle-robber,” Peter told him.

Stiles snorted. “You’ll never be graying because you’ll dye your hair the moment a white hair appears, if you don’t do that already.”

Peter gasped. “I don’t have any white hairs!”

“That’s what you and your stylist want me to think.”

“You’re a demon child,” Peter said. “I changed my mind. The college boys can have you.”

“But Daddy…” Stiles whined, fluttering his eyelashes up at him. “None of them would spoil me like you do.”

“That’s for damn sure,” Peter muttered. “Good luck finding one with my kind of disposable income.”

“I was really thinking of your skill at sucking dick,” Stiles admitted.

Peter smacked him lightly. “You rotten child. Is that all you want me for? Sex and money?”

“You’re a pretty good cook too,” Stiles said, and rolled off the couch before he could smack him again. “And you buy me things!” he called, as he raced off down the hallway, his socks slipping on the hardwood.

“You ungrateful brat!” Peter called as he took off after him. “That’s it, I’m not buying you anything else ever again!”

“Or cooking me anything?” Stiles shouted down the stairs.

“You can starve for all I care.” Peter grabbed the landing and started up it, taking two stairs at a time.

“And you’re not going to fuck me ever again?” Stiles teased, skidding into the bedroom.

“I’m going to fuck you until you can’t see straight.” Peter rounded the corner and tackled him onto the bed.

“Just the way I like it.” Stiles grinned up at him. “I’ve got you wrapped around my little finger, don’t I?”

“Just the way I like it,” Peter whispered back and kissed him.

…

Christmas, New Year’s, Valentine’s Day. Peter made Stiles Italian food, complete with handmade pasta and tiramisu. Spring Break was mostly spent chasing after some kind of swamp monster that was stealing and eating people’s cats.

(“When will people learn to keep their cats inside?” Stiles complained, covered in swamp ooze, as Peter tended to a cut on his forearm. “Nevermind how devastating they are to the local ecosystems– do you have any idea how many songbirds domesticated cats take out a year?– but you’re just asking for your cat to get eaten.”

“Hold still,” Peter ordered.)

The college acceptance letters started arriving. Stiles had gotten in everywhere he’d applied except MIT which, admittedly, was a long shot. He looked at the five letters in front of him.

“How do I choose?” he complained to Peter as they walked back to his car, dangling a bag heavy with spell craft supplies from one hand.

“Where would you most rather live?”

“I kind of want to see the winter,” Stiles admitted. “But that only eliminates Tulane. Do I want to eliminate Tulane? Caribbean magic is so interesting! And New Orleans is such an exciting city!”

Peter laughed. “Would you rather live in a city or the countryside?”

“Argh!” Stiles exclaimed, putting the bag down in the car. “I don’t know! I should really just go with the cheapest, get myself into the least amount of debt.”

Peter strapped himself into the driver’s seat. “You still think you’re paying for college yourself?”

“Peter, you’re not paying for my tuition.”

“Why not?” Peter asked. “It’s pocket change to me. This car is worth more than all four years of college.” He started the engine and began driving, unusually slowly for him, turning the Cobra toward the concrete wall that surrounded the parking lot.

“What are you doing?” Stiles asked. Peter began speeding up, shifting again and again.

“I’m going to wreck the Cobra,” he said, in a conversational tone.

“Why?!” Stiles exclaimed.

“To show you how little the money means to me. Don’t worry– I’ll get us out right before we crash.”

“Oh my god, stop!”

“You let me pay your tuition or we crash.”

They were hurtling at the wall.

“Holy fu– okay, okay, you can pay it!”

Peter spun the wheel and the tires skidded on the ground with a loud squeal, missing the wall by what seemed like only a few inches. A moment later they jerked to a stop.

Stiles clutched his chest, panting, on fire with adrenaline. “Holy shit, oh my fuck, I can’t believe you just played fucking chicken with my college tuition.”

Peter smirked at him. “Won too,” he bragged.

Stiles bounced his head lightly off the dashboard. “You’re gonna kill me aren’t you? It’s fun and games until Stiles is dead.”

“But we’re going to have a lot of fun doing it.”

He rolled his head to look at Peter, then opened the door and climbed out of the car.

“What are you doing?” Peter called after him.

“You’re going to fuck me on the hood of this car,” Stiles said. “Right now.”

“Not the hood– it’s still hot,” Peter said, following him out of the car. “I’ll fuck you over the trunk, though.”

In the end, he chose UMass Amherst because he really liked Professor Baghaii, because the surrounding area was very queer-friendly, and because he’d corresponded with the Alpha of the nearby werewolf pack, and she’d been very aimable to the idea of both Stiles and Peter moving there.

Peter sent in the enrollment deposit and immediately started talking to real estate agents about buying a house in the area, while Stiles focused on finishing up his senior year classes and spending bro time with Scott and father-son time with Dad.

He celebrated his birthday in the loft, with the whole pack and Dad (with Melissa there for company) and then Peter took him home and ravished him.

(“I think I might like illegal sex better,” Stiles reflected after.

“It was never illegal for you, only me,” Peter retorted.

“You gonna leave me now? Go find some pretty young thing?”

“Nah; you’re still gonna be barely legal for a few more years.”

“That’s fine,” Stiles said. “I’ll have milked you dry by then. You better have gotten me that tennis bracelet I wanted for my birthday, by the way. You know what they say: diamonds are a girl’s best friend.”

“Oh, my sweet little gold digger,” Peter cooed. “Wait until you find how iron-clad the pre-nup is.”

“Prenup?” Stiles scoffed. “I’ve been stealing from your funds for years.”

“What?!” Peter exclaimed, clutching at his heart.

“I’ve been having an affair with your accountant,” Stiles continued, dramatically. “He thinks I’m going to run away with him, but I’ve really just been using him for the money.”

“You harlot,’ Peter said. “But I’ve also been having an affair with my accountant and convinced him to funnel the stolen money back into my account.”

“Gasp!” Stiles said. “Double crossed!”

“You need to choose your accomplices better,” Peter sighed.

“You need to choose your accountants better!” Stiles exclaimed. “If we’re both going to try to seduce him he should at least be pretty.” He sighed. “I guess I’m stuck with you for a few more years.”

“What a shame,” Peter said, rolling over and kissing behind his ear.

Stiles laughed.)