Archive of Our Own

Long legs dangled off the side of a roof on a warm summer night. Red Converse hovered in the air, lazily kicking to the beat of whimsical dreams, of loud, eccentric laughter, and the sizzle of butter on a pan. Stars twinkled above, the moon was beautiful… but Stiles had no interest.

“— here, the trick is to let the butter burn, just a little bit before— you got it, that’s it—”

The Pantry was an old staple in downtown Los Angeles, open twenty-four hours since 1924, but Stiles had only started visiting recently. As the world kept turning, as time kept spinning, empires rising and falling, Stiles had to find some form of entertainment. Technology helped, it had grown leaps and bounds over the past few decades, especially in comparison to centuries ago.

Still, nothing beat people watching.

He moved quietly along the roof, toward the open skylight that was there to let off extra heat from the kitchen. Warmth and light made his pale skin glow as he eavesdropped, peeking into the scene below.

Batter sizzled on massive stove top. His favorite subject had a pink apron tied around his waist and was showing a new hire tiny tips and tricks. Stiles watched him move, like an erratic ballet dancer, spinning tools in his hands and laughing loudly around story after story. Typically, getting closer to a human, observing them without painting his own imaginary threads around them… took away from the mystique.

Not Bobby Finstock.

Long fingers lingered on the window before Stiles slipped away into shadow. He gave himself three hours to feed, then if he moved fast, which he always did, he would be back in time for Finstock to wrap up his shift and follow him home. With his meal still fresh on his tongue, Stiles weaved through smoke and shadow.

Gentrification was still a couple decades out from really catching on and downtown wasn’t exactly safe back in those days. Stiles was there often, case files in his backpack, addresses seared onto his mind. The trick to staying fed was to space out his selection. He’d never take more than ten from a particular place, and then he’d give that area at least five years to breathe. Criminals that managed to slip away from convictions, from solid jail time, lined his jacket.

The police had a habit of not looking too closely at bodies if the sentiment was eh, this asshole had it coming.

He’d come across Finstock by chance.

It had been a night like any other, with Stiles idly sucking on some blood that still clung to the inside of his mouth. His mind was a pleasant, peaceful hum. A momentary reprieve of reality.

The sound of glass clinking together and the smell of trash made Stiles turn. He had been leaning against a wall, he hadn’t been paying attention to where he was, and that was how a series of panicked curses made his lips uptick in a smile.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” a man had just finished flinging a bag of trash into a dumpster, but the sight of Stiles made him jump. His eyes had dark circles under them, his teeth were distractingly large, and when he looked at Stiles it was with a mixture of irritation and concern. “What the hell are you doing out here, kid?”

Kid.

There used to be a time when the word would send Stiles into a blind rage, tearing the syllabells off tongues. Time, as it had a habit of doing, healed over that anger. He felt a dull throb of amusement, the man’s heartbeat a drum in his ears. Life was so loud.

He shrugged, wanting to bask in his blood-drunk state a little longer. The man hissed, his eyes darting back towards the staff door.

“You got cash on you?” At Stiles’s lifted brow, the man rolled his eyes. “Look, you have three bucks and I’ll make you some pancakes, okay? You’re so… fucking skinny. Come on. Coffee is fifty-cents and free refills.”

Stiles wondered if the Thrall felt like this, like he couldn’t look away, like he’d gone up a flight of stairs and took an extra one, feeling a momentary pulse of terror and excitement mid-fall. The uptick of the man’s lips when Stiles took his weight off the wall with a soft all right, the way his eyes twinkled when Stiles sat down at the booth, and the sound of a plate sliding against the wood were hypnotic.

Stiles had a few hours to kill before he had to go. He rested his elbows on the sticky bar and cut into the pancakes.

They were delicious. Certainly worth more than three dollars. He swallowed them, and grinned at Finstock’s see, good shit, huh? It was a shame he’d be throwing them up later.

Finstock didn’t say another word to him, but would occasionally sneak a glance over, to make sure that Stiles had finished. He talked to the other cooks, every story dripping in obscenity and amusement. Stiles imagined that he would have been blushing the first night, feeling hungry even though he’d just eaten. Adjusting his schedule was easy, learning the nights that Finstock worked was even easier.

He never went back into the Pantry. He preferred watching. Listening.

Years passed like water through fingers, like blood through teeth. Stiles rushed his meals so he could get back to the Pantry rooftop. He would have an hour left with Finstock’s stories, taking notes at any books or films he’d speak of fondly. Depending on how long Finstock took cleaning his station, Stiles could spend up to two more hours following him back home to his apartment, a stark, bachelor style box a half mile east.

While Finstock slept, Stiles liked to poke through his dishes, the ceramic cups, the strange baubles he’d picked up along the way. When he was feeling particularly greedy, he’d steal one, a quick slip in the pocket as Finstock snored, unaware, behind him.

That night was supposed to be like any other. The air was humid and everyone was hoping for rain. Stiles landed on the Pantry roof, and he lingered by the skylight.

Silence greeted him.

Not true silence. Absolute and utter silence was impossible.

The stovetop sizzled but there was no movement. Sneakers didn’t squeak on tiles, plates didn’t clatter into lukewarm water, and a raspy laugh didn’t float into the night sky. His mouth was sticky with copper aftertaste and for the first time in centuries… it soured. Stiles ripped open the skylight and dropped down.

His sneakers landed in blood. He tasted gunpowder that lingered in the air, eggs burned black on the stove, and the cash register had been torn open. He moved quickly, ignoring everyone except the remaining living body. His knees hit the kitchen tile, his fingers skimming over a nasty shotgun wound.

Finstock’s hands were slick with his own visera.

“You’re dying.” People died all the time. Crimes were often random. Just getting out of bed in the morning was a constant gamble… for most people. Finstock’s hand flung out and Stiles caught it, threading their fingers together. Finstock’s heartbeat was usually so strong, turned into a mere whisper under Stiles’s open palm. “I don’t want you to,” Stiles’s throat caught on the words, his fingers shaking as he gripped Finstock’s blood-soaked apron. “If you’ve made your peace with death, then I’ll let you go.”

“Fuck no I haven’t made my peace with it,” and the heart Stiles didn’t have broke at the tears that spilled over Finstock’s lashes. His breaths were shallow and wet. Stiles leaned over him as Finstock blinked, half-delirious. “It’s not fair—”

“I know.” Stiles did. It wasn’t fair that Finstock was the last one left, clinging to life, as his peers laid cold around him, it wasn’t fair that drug cocktails got stronger and made users more desperate for cash. It wasn’t fair for the world to be robbed of the man who’d entranced Stiles at first glance. “I can stop it.” He pulled his hand from Finstock’s to cup his face, to trace over the harsh lines and stubble that tickled Stiles’s skin. His green eyes that were still so bright. “You won’t be able to live a normal life. But you won’t die.” His fingers traced down his neck, to his pulse. Still kicking against Stiles’s fingertips. “Is that something you want?”

Please say yes, Stiles prayed for the first time in centuries. His other hand crept behind Finstock’s neck, effortlessly drawing him close. Finstock nodded, an ugly sob retching from his chest. It was all the permission Stiles needed.

It was easy to bite into his own wrist, to press it into Finstock’s gasping mouth as he sank his teeth into Finstock’s neck.

::::

Wolfsbane infused metal dug deep into Peter’s thigh right as a second trap clamped down on his arm. He snarled, tail bristled and the full moon did not come to his aid as curdled breath washed over his fur.

“Well, well, well,” a slimey voice bled out across the flowery breeze. “I thought it would be harder to catch the Hale Second.”

It should have been harder. It should have never happened. Peter should have blood on his fangs, a payment for the thought even crossing the hunters’ mind. There were two of them. He could smell them. Nicotine, sweat, and masculine posturing. He couldn’t stop the animalistic whine that left his jaws, hating how his pain just made them laughter harder, made the deep sting in his muscles sharpen.

Grimy hands fell hard on his back. He heard a knife being unsheathed.

“Gonna leave your Pack behind a nice pelt—”

Before the knife could penetrate his fur, something yanked the hunter backwards, his scream choked off almost immediately. The other one took off running, but only made it eight steps before he stopped. No, stopped wasn’t the right word. Even over his frantic heartbeat and the burning pain in his limbs, it was as though the hunter vanished. His footing didn’t skid to a halt, didn’t jitter with a sudden change in momentum.

He had been running, and then he was no more.

As Peter’s heartbeat slowed, his tail lowering to the ground as his pulled against the metal traps, he heard wet sucking. Sloppy sucks, wet pulls and greedy swallows. If he strained his ears, he could hear a few wheezes, weak gurgles, then nothing. A pause. A sigh. And the thud of two hundred and eighty pounds of dead flesh hitting the forest floor.

“You think you’ve seen everything, and then mankind just decides to wipe its ass with its hand and slap you in the face as a gross surprise.” The voice was new, the weight distribution over dead leaves was not familiar. “Who tries to gut a dog?”

The leaves crackled and shifted under new feet. Peter stilled, his body shaking from blood loss and fear.

The first thing he saw were American Flag board shorts and a white, blood-spattered tank top. Green sandals. Lips pulled back to reveal white teeth. The man grimaced. Blood stained his chin.

“All right,” his eyes flickered down to the traps. “All right.” His hands were gentle on Peter’s flank. He grunted, hot breath pushing out of his snout. “I know, I know it hurts. But it’s going to hurt a lot less once I get this bullshit out of you.” The man’s hands gently felt around Peter’s neck. “No collar. Hm.” The man grimaced and shifted to the side, his attention on the first trap that had nabbed Peter’s thigh. “Hopefully you’re microchipped.”

He whistled a meandering tune that constantly varied in pitch and speed. The first trap came undone and it was a relief. He moved to the next one, petting Peter’s side with a soft, “almost there, you’re being such a good boy.”

Peter sat, his back leg giving out. The man ruffled the fur between his ears. Peter listened for a pulse, but didn’t hear one. With a grunt and a twist of the man’s wrist, the trap separated. Peter whimpered when the last of the metal’s teeth left his arm. He slumped over, his head landing in the vampire’s lap.

The man pet him in long, calming strokes.

“All right,” the man murmured to himself, running his thumb along Peter’s ear. “Okay. Stiles is old as shit, he’s probably had a couple of dogs. He can sort you right out,” he pet Peter. “I can carry you no problem, just be cool,” and the man shifted, his arms wrapping around Peter, distributing his weight. Peter felt the man’s muscles tense right as the last of his wounds healed themselves. “Just be a good dog and—”

Peter flung himself back into his human form and smirked at the vampire’s flailing, his eyes going wide as he fell backwards, hard enough to knock the wind from the lungs he didn’t need to use.

It wasn’t the first time he’d been naked, straddling a man in the forest, but it was the first time Peter had straddled a vampire. The vampire wheezed.

“You’re not a dog.”

Peter smirked.

“Astute observation.” The vampire narrowed his eyes before pushing himself up, his fingers scrambling to find purchase in the dirt. Peter didn’t move and the vampire stilled. Peter had never seen one up close for so long, not without killing it. They always came at him, fangs out and eyes red. He’d never seen one flustered before. “What, aren’t you going to kill me?”

Peter rocked his hips on kill, his eyes flashing under the moon. It would be easy to tear the vampire’s throat out. Still, he didn’t like killing without reason.

“No,” the man’s voice cracked. When Peter cocked an eyebrow he settled, falling back onto his elbows as he tried to glance anywhere that wasn’t Peter’s nude body. “I didn’t even know you were a,” he waved his hand in the air, “whatever.”

Whatever? Peter went slack with confusion, the weight making the vampire grunt.

“Did you just turn yesterday?”

“Get off my dick. Figuratively and fucking literally.” The vampire’s hands clamped down on Peter’s hips and forced him off. “Look, I thought it was fucked up those guys were going to cut up a dog. And I still think it’s fucked up that they were going to cut up you. You’re welcome.” The man brushed off his stomach, dirt smeared along side with the blood. “See you around, asshole.”

Peter stood. Or… he attempted to stand. His leg spasmed, wolfsbane still eating at his muscle. He fell down immediately.

“Shit.” Peter growled, his knees hitting the dirt painfully. “Fuck.”

A hand fell on his shoulder. Peter twisted, refusing to flinch.

“Leg still fucked up?” Peter nodded, begrudgingly. “All right. You live nearby?”

Peter sighed.

“I do.”

Over two hours later, Talia and the rest of the Pack waited up on the porch, standing as they saw Peter walk out of the woods naked, his arm thrown around the shoulders of an increasingly bored looking vampire.

“Uh,” Talia’s eyes flickered between Peter, the vampire, and the American flag board shorts. “Peter,” she kept Laura, Derek, and Cora behind her. Cora, bless her adorable little heart, had her claws out. “What’s going on?”

The vampire was quiet, for once, and nudged Peter with his elbow. Peter sighed, wishing he could have a hot shower and four days of sleep. He struggled to think of a version of the story that didn’t end in endless humiliation, but apparently he took too long.

“I thought these assholes were going to cut up a dog, and it turns out that it was this guy.” The vampire glanced up at the light peeking up over the horizon. “Can we move this conversation inside?” Talia looked at the vampire like he was nuts. Which… he was. “If you do, I promise I’ll make you guys the best pancakes you’ve ever had.”

Cora snorted.

“What kind of vampire makes pancakes?”

Laura hissed Cora’s name, her eyes flashing to the vampire, ready for violence. The vampire just laughed, jostling Peter which made his leg flare up in pain.

“The cool kind.” He shifted his weight, keeping Peter close with a grip that Peter couldn’t hope to fight. “So,” the vampire drawled out, rocking on his heels to feign nonchalance as time ticked by. “May I please come in?”

::::

Cora Hale had to admit, Bobby Finstock’s pancakes were the best she’d ever tasted. He drew the curtains in the kitchen and living room before he he started mixing batter, slicing up strawberries, and making whipped cream. He whistled, not minding having to search for dishes as her mom patched uncle Peter up in the next room. Derek and Laura watched, sitting tense at the kitchen table.

Cora hopped up on the countertop on the other side of the stove. The vampire moved with confidence in the kitchen, dishes changing hands easily. Batter sizzled on the pan and Cora licked her lips, her legs swinging to the beat of Finstock’s whistling.

“If you eat food, will you throw it back up?”

“Only if I swallow.”

“If the sun touches your skin will it kill you?”

“Well, if I’m left out there with nowhere to go, sure I’d imagine I’d die.”

“Do you always cook for werewolves you come across?”

“Is that what you guys are?” Finstock flipped a pancake and grinned at her with his ridiculous teeth. “Werewolves?” He whistled and made up the first plate of pancakes, holding it out for Cora to take. “Well I’m be damned. I’ve never met a werewolf before.”

Whenever her mother or uncle Peter spoke of vampires, they were true creatures of the night, draining life to feed their endless hunger. They were never weird, offbeat, and they never waited with eager, near ravenous anticipation for feedback on their pancakes. Derek couldn’t help the noise that he made, and Laura nodded, eyes sparkling with a Wow, that’s… that’s really good.

Finstock looked over at Cora. She ducked her her head, but not fast enough to miss his crooked grin.

He pulled out a cell phone and unlocked the screen. He typed out a message, one that Cora tried to take a peek at, but not before the vampire pinched her nose.

“You always so nosy?”

Cora batted his hand away.

“We’ve never had a vampire in our house before.”

He sent a message and laid his phone on the table, the same way a cowboy put a gun on a poker table.

“Now you have.” He nudged her, the contact terrifying and strange. Thankfully, her mother and uncle Peter came into the room, Peter’s limp less scary than when he’d first walked in. He was dressed in comfortable pajamas, and before her mother could say a word, Finstock had two plates ready. “Hungry?”

Uncle Peter stared at the strawberries that decorated his plate.

“Did you cut these into roses?”

“Yee-up.” Finstock leaned back in his chair. “I find that when things look good, they taste better. And my pancakes already taste great.”

They all watched Peter stab his fork into his pancake, slipping it between his teeth out of spite. He swallowed, and let his head duck down.

“Fuck. Fuck, that’s good.”

Finstock preened as her mother hissed, Language, at her brother. Finstock gathered the plates just as a car horn honked in the driveway. The smell of burning rubber seemed to catch up to whoever had squealed to a halt in their driveway. Finstock grabbed an umbrella and sunglasses off the wall, ignoring Peter’s shout of “Hey, that’s mine!”

“Thanks for letting me hang out here, it’s been a while since I’ve gotten to cook for folks.” Bobby opened the front door and Cora caught how his shoulders jumped at the light hitting his skin. He opened the umbrella. He turned, his shadow bathed in the blushing pink sunrise. Cora stood in the doorway, her eyes wide, her uncle gripping her shoulders tightly. “I’ll be sure to return the umbrella and sunglasses as soon as I’m able. Thanks again.”

There was a younger man leaning against a blue Jeep with heavily tilted windows and tarps. His arms were crossed, and before Cora could get a good look at him, he turned away, opening the passenger’s door for Finstock and making his way back to the driver’s side.

Cora didn’t exhale until the Jeep had left the driveway. She sighed, her cheeks prickling as the taste of whipped cream lingered on her tongue. Peter crossed his arms and Talia reached to bring Laura and Derek closer to her. She stared at the dust still floating in the air above their driveway.

“Do you think he’ll come back like he said?”

Peter made a low sound in his throat, a hum that didn’t commit to an answer. Cora licked her lips, chasing the taste of strawberries, and she knew that it was the closest her uncle would come to saying I hope so.

::::

Only on his deathbed would Peter Hale admit that Finstock was… oddly charming.

The same way a three-legged dog was endearing, or how impressionist paintings were fascinating. There were so many components to him that didn’t add up. He was a vampire, but he loved making food, he valued how food tasted, and he rarely spoke about blood at all. He had a hard time watching his language around Cora, he poked at Peter’s teeth to test how sharp they were, and he was always singing under his breath while he cooked.

He came back to return the umbrella and sunglasses, but he also had a ton of groceries with him. He’d let his smile slip into something crooked, vulnerable as he shrugged with a, “Would you let me cook for you again? It’s been so long since I’ve been able to.”

It was funny how Finstock just found a way inside, starting off as an uncomfortable oddity and smoothing out into…

Well, Peter would never call him normal…

But it wasn’t unusual to be lured out of his study by the smells of something delicious in the kitchen. Walking in to see Finstock guiding Cora’s hand on a knife as she prepared ingredients was commonplace. Talia bringing him in for a half hug as she set the table, Derek and Laura shyly putting in food requests, and Finstock’s increasingly hungry stare as he waited for them to eat…

It was normal.

Peter ran his hand over his stomach. He’d eaten too much, which was a frequent problem on the nights Finstock would cook for them. Cora had been tucked in, and Derek and Laura had just kissed Peter goodnight, and hugged Finstock. Talia and Peter sat on either side of the chess board, drinking coffee, while Finstock sat next to Peter, trying to move his pieces around the board when he wasn’t looking.

Peter slapped his hand for the third time and the vampire snickered.

“If you want to play, just ask.”

“Nah,” Finstock brought his knees up to his chest, resting his elbows on them. He was barefoot, and he wiggled his toes against the living room carpet. It was a such an ordinary sight that Peter couldn’t help but stare. “Never learned how to play. I’m more of an arcade kind of guy.”

Peter rolled his eyes.

“Of course you are.”

He earned the sharp shove that nearly made him knock over the table. Talia cackled at Peter’s cheek mashed against the carpet. Peter rolled onto his back, kicking his legs onto Finstock’s lap. Yet another weird thing that didn’t connect. Vampires were rumored to be… non-tactile creatures. Above earthly pleasures.

Finstock never batted an eye at physical contact.

His fingers drummed out an erratic rhythm against Peter’s shin. The muscle connecting Finstock’s thumb to his forearm shuddered under his skin.

“You’re nervous about something?” Peter sat up. “You don’t need to have scent. I can tell.”

Peter caught Finstock’s finger before it could poke his cheek.

“Yeah well, I’ve been told I’ve started to acquire a smell. Of your house, to be exact.” He said it like it was normal, like the fact that he smelled like the Hales wasn’t anything to blush about, the way Peter and Talia did. Maybe he really was bitten yesterday. “Actually, I had a favor to ask.”

The favor happened a week later, and it made Peter break out his best business casual but the best business casual you’ve ever seen clothes. Laura painted Cora’s nails, Derek was in charge of groceries, and Talia had strung up a few bucks out back so they had over five gallons of blood stored in the refrigerator.

Having one vampire cook them dinner was weird enough. Having that vampire’s Sire come over because, “He wants to meet my new friends,” was something else entirely. When Peter used the word Sire Finstock had looked at him like he had thrown an extra head.

“No, weirdo, he’s the guy who bit me to make me, you know, a vampire or whatever.”

“Yes, that’s called your Sire.”

“Absolutely not, that sounds gross.”

Cora tugged at her cardigan’s buttons. Laura helped her weave her hair into two loose braids. Derek brought out extra chairs and the nice table cloth they kept in underneath the china cabinet. Deep scarlet with gold thread stitching covered their mahogany dinner table. Peter left the curtains open, watching the sun lower down the horizon, amber light twinkling through the glass.

Amber bled into red, which softened into violet. Talia glanced at the clock.

“He never gave us a time.”

Peter worried a stray thread on his shirt sleeve.

“I imagine he’s going to treat it like any other night. As soon as the sky’s dark, he’ll knock.”

Talia raised her eyebrow.

“But he’s bringing his Sire. It’s not like any other night. Tradition suggests—”

Peter scoffed.

“Tradition isn’t a word I’d ever attach to Finstock.”

The sky bruised over into darkness. The first star hadn’t come out before a familiar fist knocked on the door three times. Talia took a deep breath and Peter remained behind her. She reached for the door. Laura, Derek, and Cora were on the stairs, their hands pink from scrubbing them clean. Christ, Peter grimaced, we look like we’re posing for a Christmas card.

Talia opened the door and it creaked, long and loud. Finstock grinned like usual, his teeth luminous and they seemed to summon the stars, pinpricks of light blinking in the sky behind him. He had on a Hawaiian shirt, unbuttoned to reveal a striped tank-top, pink shorts, and periwinkle boating shoes. Loud. Obnoxious. Hard to look at.

He was the vampire Peter wouldn’t hesitate to call a friend.

Finstock’s presence was a much needed balm for the new vampire that stood just in front of Finstock.

When Peter imagined Finstock’s Sire he pictured maybe some chic vampire, dressed well and dripping with irony. A sense of humor would be needed if a vampire choose to become a Sire to a man like Finstock. Since Finstock didn’t even know about werewolves until he was making pancakes in the Hale Pack’s kitchen… Peter concluded that either his Sire was very protective or willfully removed and ignorant of the other supernatural beings in the world.

Peter thought, his entire body went numb at the sight of Finstock’s Sire, his Sire is most definitely protective.

Mieczyslaw the Throat Carver stood in their doorway.

He’d seen countless paintings of Mieczyslaw, in tomes, museums, and recreations. Depending on the artist, his eyes would be brown or red, his skin sometimes stained with blood, his lips sometimes parted in vicious bloodlust— but the moles always fell in the right spots.

Mieczyslaw came from no vampire bloodline.

He wasn’t raised in brood, he didn’t grow from the Elders. He appeared from nowhere, whispers of his work starting in the first few years of the fourteenth century. Rumors of a vampire who didn’t follow tradition, who answered to no one, and tore blood from bodies in a way that chilled his own kind. His name became tangible mid-century, his legend was solidified in the fifteenth, and the terror he would bring on his enemies continued on for ages.

Peter knew him from the paintings peppered in over the centuries. The last one, that Peter had in his latest art history book, was dated in the eighteenth century.

Talia went deathly still beside Peter. The children behind them were quiet, and Peter couldn’t tear his eyes away.

The supernatural world knew of Mieczyslaw the Throat Carver, but Peter was certain that everyone had collectively hoped that he had died.

“Good evening,” Mieczyslaw smiled, much more polished and elegant compared to his Sired. “I’m Stiles Stilinski. It’s nice to finally meet you. Finstock has told me so much.” His voice was warm, like hot chocolate. His eyes were dark, but his smile was bright. “May we come in?”

Do you even need permission nearly spilled from Peter’s mouth. Luckily, he bit his tongue as Talia stepped to the side, her smile politician levels of polite.

“Of course. Please, come in.”

Stiles stepped through the doorway.

Peter didn’t become one of the best Seconds on the West Coast by being struck dumb by surprises. Stiles shook Talia’s hand first, then Peter’s, all while wearing a wide smile. Finstock stumbled in after him, almost knocking over a coat rack in the process. His hand fell on Stiles’s shoulder and he shook him, the same way Peter would play rough with Derek when he wanted to make his nephew laugh.

“I’m gonna get to cookin’, good lookin’.”

Mieczyslaw the Throat Carver wrinkled his nose in mocking disgust.

“I swear you get worse with each passing day.”

He shoved Finstock, who shoved back harder. Peter thought his heart was going to stop when the two vampires scuffled like children in the foyer. Derek and Laura laughed, while Cora just watched in rapt fascination when Finstock grabbed Stiles’s cheeks and pushed them inward until his Sire’s lips bunched up to look like a fish.

“Derek can beat me at Mario Kart.”

Finstock drawled out the words as he released his Sire. Stiles rubbed his cheeks, a breathy Maniac staining his breath as he shook his head at Finstock. He turned toward Derek, Laura, and Cora.

“I’ve been waiting for a worthy challenge. Finstock always keeps a lookout for me.” He rubbed his hands together, his smile crooked, almost sinister. “Bring it on.”

Derek and Laura were eager to drag Stiles into the living room where the game systems were. Finstock went into the kitchen and immediately went to work, Cora taking up her usual spot on the countertop corner where she traded questions for biting, witty answers softened with samples of food. Raucous cheers came from the living room and Peter knew Talia couldn’t keep her smile up for much longer.

He slipped past Finstock to get into the refrigerator. It was easy to grab the first gallon of deer blood from the bottom shelf, twisting off the cap and pouring it into a tall, heavy glass. He finished it off with a crazy straw, one of the many obnoxious additions to their kitchen drawers that started appearing ever since Finstock became a regular guest.

“Thank you.”

He put down the controller, not minding when his character spun out on the sidelines. His fingers brushed against Peter’s. A shock of cold against fiery warmth. He looked so young, and with the colors from the television lighting his face, Peter wondered if perhaps he’d been mistaken, that Finstock’s Sire was indeed just some ironic vampire who just… looked historical by coincidence. His arm was thrown out on the back of the couch, half around Laura. It was easy to think that they’d just invited a friend over from school.

“You’re welcome.”

Peter was going to retreat back into the kitchen, to a weirdness he was familiar with, one that he actively craved when the days between Finstock’s visit stretched too long. Stiles took the glass as something burst on the television screen, casting streaks of pink and and yellow across his pale skin.

His brown eyes widened, just a little, and when his lips pulled back Peter saw that his fangs had extended.

“And I’d like to thank you personally, Peter.” Peter felt heavy, like his limbs had been filled with cement. Breathing felt like a chore, every move of his eyes sluggish and delayed. The pink and yellow remained on Stiles’s face, frozen, and the only thing that Peter could hear was Stiles’s voice. “For not harming Finstock when you were rolling around with him naked in the woods.”

“We weren’t,” Peter’s voice sounded muffled, like someone was pressing a pillow over his mouth. He’d read about the Thrall, and he’d thought it was mostly used for seduction, a way to lure in a human to drink them dry. It never occurred to him that it could be used for interrogation. “That’s not what—”

“I know.” Mieczyslaw the Throat Carver winked. “Like I said. Thank you. He’s an oddball, but he’s my oddball.” The pink and yellow on his skin jittered. Stiles hadn’t moved from his spot on the floor, but Peter felt fingers drag up his neck. “I’m aware that this kind of hospitality from wolves is not common. Thank you for the pleasant surprise.”

Pink and yellow burst free into greens and purples. The cement from his legs was removed and air flowed into Peter’s lungs. Stiles picked up his controller and went back to the game, his tongue darting out to chase the red that lingered on his lips. Peter managed to not stumble on his way to the kitchen, his fingers chasing the ghostly caresses on his neck.

::::

Being dead wasn’t that much different than being alive.

Finstock still got looked at when he laughed too loud in public, he still perfected recipes, and he still had eye-gouging taste in clothes. As long as he remembered to not swallow, he could taste the food he made. Sure, going out at night limited the kind of free time he had… but if there was one thing Finstock was good at, it was rolling with the punches.

“You’re ridiculous,” Finstock laughed as him and Stiles stumbled back into their house a few minutes before dawn. “I can’t believe you wore those pants.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Stiles waved his hands, sliding all the curtains shut at once. “Just because you have something against jeans—”

“Those are not jeans and you know it!” Finstock sucked in air he didn’t need to breathe, but he sure as hell needed it to laugh. Stiles flipped him off, tearing off his jacket and throwing it on one of the many obnoxious arm chairs that plagued his house. “You don’t need skinny jeans, Christ, Peter’s been wearing more and more V-necks than I can count.”

Stiles smirked.

“I know.”

Finstock slumped over him, using his height and weight to his advantage until Stiles relented, dropping to the floor. Stiles liked to pretend he was alive, like Finstock’s weight would be too much for him to bear, and the nights where he wanted to indulge were often. He squirmed, drawing in breath just so he could wheeze it out when Finstock laid over his stomach.

“So, why not just put Peter out of his misery and bang it out?”

Stiles giggled, kicking his legs until he flipped them both over, his elbows digging into Finstock’s ribs.

“Because the fun is in the lead up. It’s a give and take, testing boundaries, innuendo, you know,” Stiles waved his hand with over the top disinterest. “It’s all a part of the game.”

Stiles wore the same shit-eating grin he did whenever the vampire elders summoned him. It was the kind of grin that said Don’t fuck with me. His shoulders were always relaxed when he did it and his eyes would make them shiver. Well, as much as vampire politician weirdos could shiver. It was the kind of expression Stiles never wore around the Hales.

Finstock sat up, bringing his knees close to him. Stiles kept his balance perfectly, his limbs long and thin like an insect.

When Finstock had first been turned, Stiles gave him the breakdown on what being a vampire meant, and what Finstock could make it mean. The basics were there, blood was essential, sunlight was to be avoided. But there were politics, covens, and all of it just made Finstock yawn. No offense, that just sounds like a hassle. What’s the point of getting all the good stuff if you’re not going to have fun with it?

Stiles had smiled, a real smile that made him look younger.

I knew there was a reason I picked you.

“He likes you.” Finstock watched his words make Stiles’s shoulders flinch, his gaze sharpening on him. “If you want to seal the deal, bring him another old tome. He didn’t stop talking about that for weeks.”

“Y-Yeah?”

Stiles bit his lip and in the dark, with their shoes kicked off and soft light peeking out from the borders of the windows, Finstock easily believed that Stiles was still just a kid. He couldn’t have been older than nineteen when he’d been turned.

He asked Finstock once if he wanted to know Stiles’s story. He asked it like it was a test, his shadow impossibly dark and long. Finstock said if Stiles wanted to tell him, he could. He knew that Stiles loved arcades, was gathering materials to start his first saltwater fish tank, and laughed himself to tears when Finstock went on one of his pun runs.

Really, it’s all Finstock needed to know. Everything else was a bonus.

“What about you?” Stiles leaned back, relaxed with a soft smile on his face. “I can see if I can set you up with someone. I can get a place closer to the city, more of a nightlife there—”

“Nah.” Finstock shook his head. “I’m good.”

He was too much for people when he was alive, and it’s not like becoming a vampire erased his personality. The few vampires he had met, other than Stiles, were stuffy and pretentious. Finstock had all he needed as it was. A place to sleep, a fantastic best friend, and a family to cook for. What else could he possibly ask for?

Which was why, a few weeks later, he met someone.

::::

Kira’s favorite hobby was watching the random strangers that wove in and out of her routine.

The kid on the bus who, no matter what season, wore the same periwinkle hoodie, the all-women run gas station attendants at Kira’s favorite fill-up spot who always seemed to test out new eyeshadows each time she visited, the man with the happiest three-legged pitbull Kira had ever seen, and her favorite…

The Grocery Store Weirdo.

An EMT’s schedule was erratic and Kira slept during the day lived at night. All her errands had to be done at twenty-four hour stores, and so she was often at the Ralphs when her shift ended. She was sure she looked like hot garbage, her hair falling from her ponytail and her skin sticky with adrenalin-laced sweat.

The Ralphs at two in the morning was typically a ghost town, save for the few employees who worked the graveyard shift. Sometimes Kira would stop by the store until her hands stopped shaking, until she didn’t feel blood and viscera clinging to her clothes and skin. For whatever reasons, the unflattering fluorescent lights and the fogged glass in the frozen food aisles were an oasis. Washed in artificial light and cool temperatures… it was enough to ease Kira back into her own skin.

It was one of those nights, the kind where Kira would end up grabbing a smoothie after swaying down the frozen food aisles until her eyes could focus again, when she saw him.

A blur of neon yellow, purple pants, and orange shoes. She rubbed her eyes and sucked in air, walking quickly without thinking. I must have imagined it, Kira thought as she neared the end of the aisle, no one is ever here, and no one ever dresses like—

She turned the corner and there he was. The Grocery Store Weirdo.

The first night she only managed a glimpse at him, he was pushing a cart lazily down the main strip, his steps lazy and deliberate. He had wild black hair and when he picked up an apple to get a feel for it, his raspy laugh made Kira’s throat dry. She ducked back into the aisle, her heart pounding.

Lydia said she needed to get out more.

“Kira, instead of strangers you could meet real people, come out with us, for happy hour—”

Happy hour was never possible. Kira was on call, running from one crisis to another, helping, doing everything she could, sometimes victorious… sometimes not. She’d tried dating, putting others in her schedule… but they never lasted. Short hookups were reasonable, but if she asked for more suddenly it was a hassle.

An inconvenience.

The Grocery Store Weirdo was there on Wednesdays and Saturdays.

At first it was about the outfits. He favored loud colors and if he couldn’t get his hands on neon, he seemed to be satisfied with loud prints. His shoes varied between flip flops or slippers. Some nights he’d go full Lebowski in a ratty bathrobe. No matter what, he was never disappointing.

It was just the two of them, and he’d drift in the produce section, his fingers running over pineapples, tapping on cantaloupes, and humming as he popped grapes into his mouth before putting the bushel in his cart. Kira made instant meals most nights… but she started to think about trying out an actual recipe as he scrolled through an ipad, hopping up on his cart to ride it down the spice aisle.

If she timed it right, she could catch a glimpse of his face… and that alone was worth more than the weird outfits and songs that sometimes dipped into other languages.

His eyes had heavy bags under them, as though they were carved directly into his face. When he smiled, the lines in his face increased.

Somehow… even under the fluorescent lights, he looked exquisite.

It was a Wednesday and Kira was running late. Four cardiac arrests had kept her busy and she knew she should have scrubbed down more thoroughly after work but she had a narrow window to make it to the grocery store and so she rushed.

Bright fluorescent made her blink. The lone cashier barely glanced up. Kira didn’t have time to take off her hospital ID and her knees were spotted with dried blood. When she strained her ears she heard… nothing. No wheels squeaking from a lone cart, no humming, no singing.

Nothing.

Her phone buzzed.

When is your next day off? You’re coming out with me.

Lydia. Kira sighed, walking into the frozen food aisle. Her basket bumped against her legs and more and more hair fell from her loose bun. Disappointment faded away into adrenalin and she squeezed the basket handles hard in her hand to try and fight off the post-shift shakes.

Strangers were impersonal. Kira never got close enough for them to be anything more than a stranger. Lydia said it was her way of playing it safe.

She was right.

Kira shoved her hair away from her face, grimacing when she spotted dirt and God knows what else under her fingernails. She held her basket in one hand, her phone in the other, ready to concede, to respond with an all right and a day—

“S’cuse me,” two fingers gently tapped her on the shoulder. Kira jumped, turning around to see grey-green eyes. The Grocery Store Weirdo smiled, crooked and soft. “I’ve, uh, seen you around, and… sorry I just gotta ask, what do you cook?” Kira blinked and the man stammered, gesturing at her basket. “I didn’t mean to stare, it’s just… I’ve been tryin’ to figure it out, but all the ingredients are so random and I’ve cooked a lot, but if you have a recipe you’re working on, please let get a peek?”

“Um.” Kira swallowed, forcing her mouth to close despite her head feeling as though it had been removed from her shoulders. “I, uh, I can’t cook. Well, I can but barely.” She winced, her mouth twisted into a sad mixture of a grimace and self-deprecating grin. “I want to start but I don’t even know where to start. Hence the,” she kicked her basket, “chaos.”

She felt as though the walls were closing in, the distance she’d carefully maintained by the strangers she watched was gone. Real life offered no 2 AM meet-cutes in a Ralphs where Kira could have pulled some recipe out of thin air to impress the eccentric man who’d captured her attention.

Real life was Kira’s skin sticky with cold sweat from her job. Real life was his eyes flickering down to her basket, his smile wavering. Real life was Kira’s phone buzzing with a follow-up text. Real life was Kira constantly treading water, dodging calls from her mother about getting a stable career. Real life was not noticing the smell of blood because she had been so acclimated to it. Real life…

Real life was inescapable.

There was a Vons just under a half mile east. It was a little out of the way, but Kira was already adjusting her nightly routine to change, to give this stranger space, to duck disappointment she didn’t need from someone she didn’t know—

“Oh man. I’ve fuckin’ been there, let me tell you.” His smile widened into a skeletal grin. “I used to be dog shit. Like absolute trash at cooking, and then something just… clicked, you know? I was tired of just beans and rice.”

Kira peeked at his cart. It was loaded.

“Well, if it’s any comfort, you look like you’re an expert now.”

He puffed out his chest a little and Kira’s shoulders relaxed a little as he met her eyes.

“Exactly. But I have decades under my belt. Don’t get frustrated. You’ve got time.” He paused, worrying some stray threads on his robe. “I can give you some simple recipes if you want.”

Refrigerators hummed around them, chilled air breathing goosebumps onto their skin.

“Yeah.” Kira smiled wide and didn’t wince at how her lips cracked. “That would be awesome.”

She was used to keeping her distance, usually fifteen to twenty feet and never looking directly at him. Now… now he was touching her elbow, starting her off on breakfast. It’s the most important meal of the day, he winked, or so I’ve been told. Kira used to study him using her peripheral vision. Now he was right in front of her, carrying her groceries even though his car was on the other side of the parking lot.

“— and when you get the hang of it, those recipes are just a guideline, once you figure out what you like adjust the details until it’s perfect for you.” He slid her groceries into her back seat, not blinking an eye at the sweatshirts, rolled up blankets, and crumpled receipts on the floor. “I hope it goes well.”

He lingered, a half-second after he closed the door, and Kira figured if she had made it this far, she might as well try.

“I’m Kira Yukimura.” She held out her hand. “Do you want my number? So if my kitchen explodes I can text you a picture.”

She was a terrible liar, always had been. She would fidget, she’d break eye contact, and worst of all she’d blush. She felt it crawling up her neck, like hands wrapping around her throat as she tried to play it cool.

Ice cold fingers gripped her hand.

“Bobby Finstock.” HIs grip was firm and before Kira could remark on just how cold he was, he bowed, squeezing the tips of her fingers before letting them slip free. “Pleased to meet you.”

Kira still had grime under her fingernails, spots of it speckling her clothes, and her skin smelled of rubbing alcohol and latex. The last thing she got excited about was the new black-out curtains for her bedroom. The last date she went on she paid for dinner and didn’t remember their conversation because she only had a half-hour of sleep.

Tomorrow she’d get up and do it all again… except this time when she went home, she’d make a proper breakfast.

::::

Peter slowly went up the stairs, his nose deep in the latest tome Stiles had loaned him indefinitely. The pages were yellowed and curled, but the text was crisp, clear. Clearly, the relics that Stiles decided to keep were treasured. And now Peter held one in his hand, dead languages and forgotten runes making him sigh dreamily as he opened his bedroom door.

Stiles laid out on his bed, texting with a light huff before he lifted his eyes to meet Peter’s.

“Finally,” Stiles pushed himself off the bed, pocketing his phone like him being in Peter’s room was an everyday occurance. Peter’s heart was lodged in his throat, a confusing mixture of lust-terror-delight rocketing through his veins. “You were taking forever.”

Peter forced his lungs to not seize up as he closed his door behind him.

“You didn’t knock.”

Stiles smirked.

“Finstock knocks. I don’t.” Peter had the suspicion that Stiles didn’t adhere to the most rules that restrained vampires, but it was a whole other experience seeing him shrug it away with a curl of his lips. “I was hoping you could help me with something. It will be super easy.” He didn’t move, merely shifted his weight from one leg to the other, but it felt like they were chest-to-chest, sharing the same breath. “I promise to have you back before sunup. What do you say?”

Really, he didn’t need to ask.

He took Stiles’s hand and followed him out the window, jumping to the ground and walking to the road, to where Stiles had parked his Jeep.

“What exactly are we doing?”

Peter did his best not to sound nervous when they parked just across the road from a police station. Stiles had his laptop out, his tongue bitten between his teeth.

“Updating the menu.” Peter saw the command: Sync ready to proceed, initiate copy and transfer Y/N? Stiles handed Peter the laptop. “Don’t touch anything yet. Gotta liven up.” Stiles opened the glove compartment and pulled out makeup. He brushed blush onto his cheeks, squinting at his face in his phone’s camera as he carefully applied a light lip tint. Stiles smacked his lips together and smiled. “All right. You get the easy job, Peter.”

Hit Y when Stiles got the Sheriff’s attention and his eyes off the computer, and text him once the sync was complete. They drove around to different counties, Stiles oozing charm the moment he stepped through the doors. Peter watched him, his eager body language and endearing clumsiness that quickly had not just the Sheriff, but the rest of the officers at the station hovering, wanting to get a taste of him.

Peter could relate.

“This seems like you’d do it with Finstock.”

Peter sank into the passenger’s seat around five in the morning, Stiles taking them down a long stretch of highway back home. His laptop was in the back, folders filled with updated criminal records and investigations. He dragged a wet cloth over his face, some makeup streaked across his skin no matter how hard he scrubbed.

“It is, but he’s on a…” Stiles tossed the cloth in the back, his lips tugged in a pondering frown. “What do you call something that isn’t a date, but both people want it to be a date?”

Peter scoffed.

“Frustrating.” The earth was soft beneath their feet, the witching hour air leaving chills in its wake. “Who are they?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles took Peter’s hand and he didn’t leap but simply levitated until he was up on the second story of the Hale house, their feet touching the roof. Peter watched Stiles shrug. He still had artificial pink clinging to his lower lip. “He hasn’t introduced us yet.” Peter raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms as he leaned his hip against his window. Stiles rolled his eyes. “Ugh fine, she’s an EMT. They met at a grocery store.”

Peter felt the surprise raise his eyebrows, his mouth falling open for a few moments.

“A human?” Stiles nodded. Peter hummed, a simmer of worry settling in his stomach. “Could be messy. What is she like?”

Stiles tilted his neck to the side and God, the moonlight made him light up. Peter’s eyes dropped to the tendons in his neck, to how his fingers spread out along the skin as he moved his head side to side, thinking.

“Very cute. Sweet, a little strange. He really likes her.” Stiles took his hands away, a slow drag of fingertips that skimmed down his shirt, resting on his hip. Peter jerked his eyes up but it was too late. Stiles was already staring at him. “She’s unsure of whether or not he returns her interest.” Stiles rolled his eyes. “Which is stupid. It’s very obvious, don’t you think?”

All right, all right, Peter thought as his cheeks prickled. Stiles laughed, breathless, like he could hear Peter’s thoughts. Mieczyslaw the Throat Carver was capable of anything and everything.

Peter’s thumb rubbed over Stiles’s cheek, smearing the half-cleaned blush that clung to his skin. He was cool to the touch and Stiles leaned up as Peter ducked down.

His lips were soft, lush. Peter drew back, needing to be sure that this was what Stiles had been alluding to, but the firm grip on the back of his neck stilled him. Brown eyes met blue.

“Are you scared of me?”

Peter’s pulse jumped down the veins in his neck.

“I’d be an idiot if I wasn’t cautious.”

Lips pulled back to reveal a luminous grin.

“Fair enough.”

He was pulled in, and the next kiss was longer. Deeper. So deep that Peter didn’t care about needing air or that he was on a roof and should focus on his balance. All that mattered was the feel of Stiles’s tongue against his, those nimble fingers gripping his hips, and the small, light gasps that Stiles would let out when Peter kissed down his neck. He let his teeth skim over the deceptively delicate looking skin and Stiles tilted his head back, his whole body arching into Peter.

You’re beautiful and thank you were kissed into Stiles’s neck, every word making Stiles whimper, his tiny shudders driving Peter crazy. Stiles’s fingers scrambled at Peter’s shirt, snagging on his absurdly low V-neck and pulling. Peter heard fabric tear. He pulled back, too amused to be annoyed. Stiles’s teeth shimmered in the dark and he giggled, his fingers covering his mouth as his shoulders shook.

Stiles’s phone rang in his back pocket. His smile froze a thin line forming between his brow. He answered, and Peter heard Finstock’s frantic voice cracking around please of Help, I don’t know what to do that wiped the smile off Stiles’s face.

“Stay where you are. I’ll be right there.” Stiles pocketed his phone and he drew Peter in for a quick kiss. “We’ll continue this.”

Before Peter could breathe or blink, Stiles vanished.

::::

“Oh no, oh no, it’s terrible—”

“No such thing as terrible, just different. Here,” Finstock didn’t take over Kira’s cooking projects anymore. Instead he would come up behind her, fixing the way she gripped tools or making a simple adjustment to her posture. He guided her hand to finish the last touch on the eggs benedict. “See? We’re not looking for restaurant quality.”

Kira’s kitchen was pale yellow tiles and old pots and pans from her mother. The potholders were handmade and the dish towels had faded embroidery on it that Finstock loved to run his fingers over as he watched her move. Texting became phone calls. Phone calls became late-night breakfast cooking lessons… and those became…

Finstock feeling warm and gooey all over as Kira’s smile brightened at the first bite.

“Holy shit.”

Finstock’s smile widened at the curse words that she’d borrowed from him.

“See? Taste matters above all else.”

She was unbearably sweet. Nervous to start cooking but eager to trade stories. Where Finstock loved a punchline, Kira liked a slower build, melancholic observations that made Finstock feel as though he’d been cut open and exposed.

“Watching strangers, huh,” Finstock drawled after one of her stories, his shoulder brushing against hers. “When did that start?”

“Oh man,” Kira opened her windows to let cool air in, tugging her hair out from its ponytail. “I think… I think it was when my parents would go out to shows.” Kira sat on the counter, playing with the same dish towel that Finstock fiddled with, her fingers running along the same threads. He wondered if she was chasing the touch, if touching him second hand was enough. “They’d go to these music festivals, nothing crazy but… it was loud, you know? I didn’t like it, so I’d just go out of the tents and wander around to give my ears a break.” She kept worrying the same stitching of thread under her fingers, her cheeks flushed, but her smile was so sweet it made Finstock ache. “Watching people was something quiet I could do. To be involved but also… separate.” She dropped the towel onto her lap. Her eyes met his and her cheeks were so pink. “I watched you the same way, you know.”

Finstock leaned forward and their knees bumping against each other. He ran his fingers over her knee. If his heart still beat in his chest he knew it would be thundering against his ribcage.

“I know.” Pink turned to red. He listened to her lungs fill with air, to apologize, to shrink away, but he didn’t let her. “I liked it.”

Logically, he knows that him getting closer, that Kira’s blush combined with her smile, her hands gently pulling him closer— it was all a very bad idea. Just because Finstock didn’t take himself seriously, didn’t mean he wanted to endanger anyone. Just because he treated vampirism as a joke didn’t stop the fact that… humans wouldn’t laugh along.

Her smile was soft against his lips, a shy, trembling pressure that he leaned into, his hands settling on her shoulders as she pulled him closer. It had been so long since he’d kissed someone, since he felt hungry for another person. She opened her legs, pulling him closer, and the surprising strength that she used to pull him made him fling his hands out, accidentally knocking into the a pot.

“Sorry,” Finstock laughed against her lips, “Shit, I’m sorry—”

Her tongue ran over his lip, quick but enough to make him chase it.

“Bobby, I don’t care.” He swallowed her words, taking and taking until she had to pull back for air. Remember, the living have to breathe, idiot, Finstock chided himself, kissing her cheek, then down her neck. The sound she made when his lips touched her neck had him groaning in return. Breathless, bashful aahs hitched on every inhale. “Bobby,” and just the way she whined his name made his goes curl. “You can bite me. If you want.”

For an embarrassingly series of moments he thought how did she find out before he remembered that she meant love bites. Human bites. Finstock had liked that even before he turned. If you want, he wanted to laugh. Of course he wanted.

The moment his teeth grazed her skin and sucked, Kira whined, her legs hooking around him and pulling. Her head hit the cabinets and she giggled, her body trembling with mirth that tasted so good on his tongue. She sighed his name, and he was so hard— he’d have to ask Stiles about that later because he was dead, no blood flowing so how did that even work— but in that moment…

He was drunk, on how she held him tight, how her smiles were so shy, and the warmth in everything she did. All the things about him that made countless others uncomfortable or annoyed… they made her cheeks flush and her pupils dilate. He bit her again and she whimpered, shuddering beneath him and…

His fangs dropped, like a hot knife through butter. Her voice was high, desperate, and she tasted like—

The feeling of flower petals against his fingertips, the taste of whiskey on his tongue on a summer night, the sound of a flat stone skipping across a lake—

He’d only ever tasted criminals who were terrified and it was fulfilling in a sadistic sense, that left Finstock grinning, blood smeared across his mouth. Bringing justice when the proper law couldn’t manage, putting a monster to rest… it was satisfying…

But it was nothing like this, like hips jerking up to rub against him, like fingers tightening their grip on him, like Kira stuttering his name between breaths. But then his name got softer, and her body went slack.

Too slack.

Reality came back to Finstock like a brick to the face, delivered by the unconscious woman in his arms.

“Kira,” the wounds on her neck had already healed over, but she was pale. She was breathing, but slowly. Shallowly. “Kira!”

He called Stiles.

“Oh.” Stiles’s eyes widened, his eyes going from Finstock’s tear-streaked face to Kira’s unconscious body gently laid out on her couch. “Okay. You drank, and you did it too much and too fast.” He touched Kira’s cheek, his fingers gently moving to her neck, feeling for her pulse. “She’ll live. But she’ll need orange juice and protein.”

Relief took Finstock out at the knees.

“Thank you,” he sniffed, rubbing his eyes roughly as he had one hand on Stiles’s leg, the other resting on Kira’s arm that danged from the couch. “Thank you.”

Stiles squeezed Finstock’s hand, pulling him up to his feet. He wiped his tears away with his thumb.

“If I were you, I’d wait for her to wake up, use your Thrall, and make her forget.” The word Thrall made Finstock recoil. Stiles kept a tight grip on him. “Think long term.”

He didn’t say It’s better this way, but he didn’t need to. It was true, of course, but…

Finstock couldn’t help but think of the rarity of it, of someone who took an active interest in everything that made him unpalatable to most. He was a very acquired taste. Stiles had that taste… and so did Peter. And now… Kira. It wasn’t her fault that Finstock had lost track of himself, of how much he took from her.

“I can do it,” Stiles squeezed Finstock’s shaking hands. “It would be better if it came from you, but… I can do it.”

He liked her. Every touch from her lingered like a bruise. Stiles went to move his hands away from Finstock, but he didn’t let him, grabbing them tight because he wasn’t ready. Not yet. Not ever, he thought stubbornly— right as Kira’s breathing went from shallow to sharp.

He turned, his lips and teeth stained with blood. Kira sat up, eyes wide.

“Bobby,” her fingers brushed against her neck, where a bite mark remained, but no puncture wound, “Bobby, what the fuck?”