Chapter Text
Stiles jolted upright when his phone buzzed across the coffee table, startling him rather violently out of his Wikipedia-induced fugue state.
Isaac shot him an odd look over the top of his school-issued copy of Pride and Prejudice, bemused expression quickly evolving into outright amusement when he saw Stiles glaring at his phone. “You’re kind of a freak, Stilinski,” he said. “What had you nose-to-nose with your laptop anyway?” Without waiting for a response, he pulled the laptop toward himself, amusement only growing when he saw the page about an Old Irish language – and the 30-some other open tabs behind it. “Seriously?”
Stiles scowled. “Deaton called our Tree the Nemeton, and there’s a weirdly Celtic vibe with the Hales. You’ve seen Derek’s tattoo, right?”
Isaac rolled his eyes. “Of course I have; he’s allergic to keeping it on,” he said.
The lazy growl from the werewolf dozing in the sunroom – complete with his shirt off, currently balled up into a wrinkled lump and tossed over his face to block the sun from his eyes – had both Isaac and Stiles breaking out into snickers.
“Right, so the triskele itself is extra special to Celtic and Irish cultures, right. Plus there’s a whole extra symbolism with the number three in Celtic lore, like a whole ‘earth, water, sky’ type representation that connects us with the gods. And Derek’s got it plastered all over his back, and it’s a tattoo, so it’s literally embedded in his skin, which means he could be mostly unintentionally acting as a kind of conduit for old Celtic gods. Like, there’s this Irish goddess Nemetona, who’s considered a goddess of sacred worship spaces. Worship spaces like the Nemeton, aka the Tree of Life that we’ve got in the Preserve that is apparently an Old God in and of itself, but Deaton and his weirdo Druid ways meant at least one sacrifice to the Nemeton, because they couldn’t trap the Fox in there without one. Probably another couple scattered in there, because the Fox was locked up for more than fifty years, right, and then the last one was unsuccessful, because Deaton was going to need Derek’s blood and maybe use him as an active conduit for a Celtic god to renew the wards that had the Fox trapped there, and the Tree ate the Druid as its vengeance or whatever.” Stiles paused, pulling in a breath. “It’s bark was it’s bite,” he said with a grin.
That pulled an unimpressed growl from both werewolves.
“So with all that, plus some of Peter’s old ass grimoires have Celtic-based runes, it made sense to get at least a little familiar with the general lore and language,” he said. “Harder to pick up than ancient Latin, though.”
“And none of that relates to the use of irony in Pride and Prejudice. You know, the actual homework assignment we’ve got due next Thursday?”
“I did that last night. Peter threatened to revoke my Batmobile privileges if I tried to get him to do my homework for me again this year,” he said. “Apparently writing an essay for me is a line too far for the criminal mastermind. Probably didn’t appreciate it when I asked if he’d be more comfortable using the Pride and Prejudice and Zombies version either, cause he didn’t let me use his fancy coffee machine this morning.”
Isaac snorted. “So how does he fit into your rabbit hole? Is Uncle Peter hiding a tramp stamp?”
Stiles smirked. “Nope, he’s completely undecorated,” he said. “He was listening to Irish folk music yesterday. Like, acoustic harp and fiddle shit. I asked him about it and got curious.”
“Famous last words, freak,” Isaac said, tone mild. He went back to his book for a few seconds before looking back at Stiles. “You’re not going to summon another deity down to Beacon Hills, are you?”
“Fucking no,” Derek said, even deigning to sit up a bit, pulling the shirt off his face, and level a red-eyed stare at Stiles through the open door of the sunroom. “Don’t even think about it.”
Stiles smirked. “Too late.”
A very fangy snarl from Derek.
“I meant thinking about it, dude, don’t give yourself a hernia,” he said, which didn’t seem to mollify Derek too much. “The Fox showed up when I tried to do some basic witchy shit when Peter got nabbed, and it was kinda jealous over me trying to pull a magic trick with sparkly rocks and pseudo-scrying. Even I’m not dumb enough to risk deliberately pissing off a chaos god by attempting to summon some other rando entirely,” he said. “Your whole pointy-fanged objections have been noted, though.”
“You’re a pain in the ass.”
“Feeling’s mutual, Sourwolf.”
Isaac just watched the exchange with unconcealed glee at the sniping.
Derek eeled himself off the hammock and came back into the living room, Alpha-red fading into his usual moue of discontent. The man truly had ‘resting bitchface’ perfected. “No summoning deities, known or unknown,” he said, whapping Stiles up the back of the head and smirking at the scowl he got in response. “And no encouraging stupid bouts of magic from Mad Madam Mim,” he added, whapping Isaac as well.
Stiles grumbled under his breath, rubbing the back of his head. “Madam Mim my ass, I’m gonna figure out how to turn you into a purse puppy.”
Derek just rolled his eyes, snatching Stiles’ laptop and putting it out of reach on the kitchen island. “What are you doing here, anyway?”
“I live here, asshole,” Isaac said. “Have my own room and everything.”
“Not you,” he said. “You’re not the one wasting my Wi-Fi on Wikipedia binges. Stiles.”
“Hey, you said I was welcome here,” Stiles said, leaning over the back of the couch to watch Derek pull a few things out of the fridge. “Pack bonding and all that touchy feely crap.”
“And you’ve inflicted yourself on me instead of your usual traipsing after my uncle why?”
“Peter’s playing mother hen over his car because he’s prissy enough that he only lets the dealership service it. It needed an oil change and like, some basic mileage-based maintenance, but he had to drive out past Beacon Valley for that, and there’s no way I’m willingly spending time in a place like that.”
“Peter’s got a top of the line, six-figure Lexus coupe that he bought from them in cash. He’s getting white-glove treatment,” Derek said.
“Right, and I look like the kind of teenager they let into places like that? Peter’s probably drinking espressos out of fancy little cups and flirting with hot soccer moms in the waiting room. As much fun as it would be to fuck with the guys who work commission by wandering around the most expensive floor models or play sugar baby to Peter’s skeezy ass, I have no patience to wait around for like four hours plus whatever dealership upsells he’s getting done,” he said. “Besides, the last time I was at a car shop, Jackson had his whole Reptar cosplay dialed up to eleven. You really think it’s a good idea for me to risk a flashback next to their fancy new models? One trauma-induced flail, accented with unintentional emotion-based magic backlash, and there goes the showroom.”
That cut Derek’s response off, and he just grunted in response. “Are you sticking around for dinner?”
“What, like you’re going to skimp on portions if I say no?” he asked.
He rolled his eyes. “I’m doing a pot roast, moron. Need to know how much of the elk I’m taking out of the fridge and how much goes into the freezer.”
Stiles shifted to prop his chin on the back of the couch, not entirely accidentally kicking Isaac when he snorted at Stiles’ general lack of elegance. “What about Erica and Boyd? You’re not going to feed them?”
Isaac piped up at that. “They’re over at Moira’s tonight. She tapped Boyd for some help, something about a fiscal year closeout thing, and offered to pay both him and Erica for some work making sure her paperwork was straight. In money and food, because there’s a new Greek place over near the gallery that she wants to try.”
“You didn’t join them?” Stiles asked.
He snorted. “Yeah, I’m dying to play third wheel with them. Boyd told me in explicit detail what he was planning to let Erica do to him once it was just the two of them in the garage, and I have a vivid enough imagination that I can picture it without needing to actually see or hear or smell it,” he said. “Besides, I took down this elk with Derek, so I figure I should get to eat the good bits.”
“I’m filet mignons tomorrow when everyone’s at the loft; this is a shoulder cut,” Derek said. “But I got a new Dutch oven, so you idiots are going to benefit from the inaugural meal.” He glanced up at the two of them. “If you’re not doing homework, you can make yourselves useful. Isaac, peel the carrots and parsnips, Stiles, wash the potatoes.”
Isaac’s amusement didn’t so much as fade as he vaulted over the back of the couch, shoving Stiles’ face into a pillow as he straightened himself. “Man gets one new Le Creuset and suddenly he’s King of Assholes,” he said. “And it’s only like three-thirty, man. Are you going for the blue plate special?”
“It needs to cook for a few hours; it’ll be seven or eight before it’s done,” Derek said. He pulled open the cabinet and almost reverently pulled out an admittedly very nice, sage green cast iron pot. “And if you get hungry before then, there’s plenty of other food in the loft. Stiles, if you don’t help, you can watch us eat.”
Stiles snorted at that. Not that it was an entirely empty threat, no, but Derek wouldn’t leave him hungry. Werewolfy Pack instincts aside, Stiles knew Derek liked him enough now to at least toss him a bag of Doritos. He’d be smug as all hell about not sharing the roast, and he’d make Stiles do all the dishes – though probably not the new fancy pot – and also possibly clean the entire kitchen afterward, but he wouldn’t leave him completely without food.
He stood up, scooping up his phone as he went. It lit up with notifications: several texts from Erica, at first asking about Chemistry homework and then just several devil emojis and a message that Moira’s garage was off-limits that night, one from Boyd letting Stiles know that he’d check on Roscoe while at Moira’s, a few from YouTube about new videos.
The most recent one, though, was the one that caught his attention.
Alert Beacon Hills - Wildfire Watch
A wildfire alert has been issued for Beacon County until October 10. Outdoor burning is prohibited. Please use extreme caution with any outdoor ignition sources.
Please limit water use to ensure water pressure is available in case of wildfire. More information on wildfire preparation: https://www.fire.ca.gov/prepare
“Oh shit.”
“What now.” Derek was immediately on alert, Dutch oven safely on the kitchen island and held in clawed hands.
“County wildfire watch through next Tuesday,” he said. “Came from Cal Fire, so things are being monitored and it’s just a watch right now. But Cal Fire’s pretty on the money most of the time.” He looked up at Derek. “You’ve got some prevention shit up on the warehouse, right?”
He nodded. “A few basics, but nothing extensive, and all human-based measures. Alarms and sprinklers, mostly. I can’t work magic like a witch, so it’s all just rudimentary measures for now.” It looked like he was about to ask a question but stopped himself and paused for a few seconds to regroup before speaking up again. “Is Peter’s place safe?”
Stiles nodded. “I did some work on his place over the summer, after Jennifer taught me some fireproofing tricks, and after I read through some of Peter’s grimoires,” he said. “We did some practice tests to make sure it worked, so unless someone goes the extra mile to very deliberately commit arson, it should stay standing and mostly unscathed.”
“Mostly?”
“I didn’t do the whole shebang on the back fence because it butts up against the neighbor’s property lines and it’d be too conspicuous if there was a fire in the neighborhood and Peter’s place was the only one that stayed pristine,” Stiles said. “He knows what I did, and he mostly agreed with the idea. Plus he lives in one of the swanky parts of town; there’s a fire station right nearby his neighborhood.”
Derek nodded.
Stiles scowled down at his phone as another thought came to him. “I do need to check my dad’s place, though,” he said. “I got the house fireproofed, and dad’s usually pretty good about the gutters if he’s not working too much overtime, but the backyard gets overgrown since we don’t usually use it,” he said. “If I go check that all out and make sure it’s not a huge fire hazard, can I still get some of the roast?”
“I’ll save you the carrots,” Isaac said with a smirk. “Maybe one of the little baby potatoes, but no promises.”
Derek snorted. “I’m not above putting sprouts in this roast,” he warned.
“Like I won’t eat it anyway,” Isaac sniped back.
Derek rolled his eyes. “Peel the carrots and parsnips, and then wash the potatoes. Cut off any of the eyes.”
“The eyes?”
He nodded. “I’m going to try a rooftop garden and potatoes have shallow roots. We’re keeping the eyes.”
“Going full-on hippy, then?” Stiles asked.
“Homegrown vegetables taste better,” Derek said. “I can taste the preservative treatment grocery stores use on their vegetables to make them last longer, and I like food better when it doesn’t have that aftertaste of pesticide. Keep the eyes.”
Isaac rolled his eyes but nodded. “Fine. Making a weird little bowl of potato eyes. Any other orders?”
“Yeah, don’t touch my new pot. You,” he said, pointing a finger in Stiles’ direction. “Is your phone charged?”
A quick check, and then a nod. “It’s at like eighty percent.”
“I’ll drive you over to your dad’s.”
“You gonna help me clean the gutters, too? If you stay shirtless for it, we could really scandalize the neighbors. Mrs. Dominguez across the street is borderline senile but she’s not blind, so she’d probably enjoy the show a while before calling my dad about the hooligans vandalizing the Sheriff’s yard. Might even break out the binoculars just for you,” he said, waggling his eyebrows at Derek.
Only to have the man palm Stiles’ face and shove him back onto the couch.
“Not happening. I’ll drive you over, and you can play yard goblin all by yourself.”
“What about a ride back?” he asked, grinning up at Derek as he stood up again. “I don’t want to miss out on the virgin dish from your fancy new pot.”
“You still have clothes there?”
Stiles just gave a noncommittal shrug, not remembering exactly how much he’d moved out of his dad’s place.
“I’ll have Isaac bring you clean clothes, and once you’ve showered and changed, I’ll pick you both up. I don’t want grass stains in the Camaro,” Derek said.
Stiles snorted. “How charitable,” he said. He looked over at Isaac. “No complaints from you?”
Isaac rolled his eyes. “Nope, cause otherwise he’ll change his mind and make me do a full boundary run, and once I get done cutting eyes off potatoes and playing kitchen wench, I really do need to do that stupid essay.”
“Big bad Alpha enforces that whole ‘homework before Netflix’ rule, huh?”
It was Derek’s turn to snort. “No skin off my back if any of you fail a class and have to make it up over the summer; that’s entirely on you,” he said, pulling his shirt back on. “Let’s go, princess. My patience won’t last long. I got bundt cake pans and loaf pans, too.”
“The fuck, did you just clean out the kitchen aisle of TJ Maxx?” Stiles asked, even as he headed toward the door.
“There’s a Sur La Table out in Beacon Valley, you heathen,” Derek said.
“He’s scared of Moira,” Isaac shot in with a truly vicious little smirk. “He drove Erica out to the gallery after school let out, and instead of facing Moira, he went two blocks over to the fancy kitchen store. Spent, what, eight hundred bucks on kitchen toys because he’s afraid of Boyd’s aunt.”
Derek growled. “I’m not afraid of her. I could snap her in half with one hand.”
Stiles snorted. “She yelled at you for yelling at me and threatened to call the cops on your ass if you raised your voice at us, and you didn’t say one word against her when she pulled that,” he said. “You’ve threatened to get all kinky with fangs in throats when I looked at you funny,” he added, smirking at the way Derek’s ears went bright red at his phrasing. “But not one word to Moira.”
“You can walk your way to yardwork,” Derek threatened, even as he headed out the door.
Isaac shot Stiles a grin, carving the eye off a potato with a clawed hand. “Have fun with the gutters, loser.”
“At least I don’t have to deal with furrier Gordon Ramsey, asshole,” he said.
A mild growl followed him down the hallway – but Stiles clocked the slight smirk on Derek’s face as he slid the loft door shut.
“You’re happy, you big dumb puppy,” he said.
Derek quirked an eyebrow at him. “I have a Pack, admittedly one full of morons, who willingly want to spend time with each other,” he said. “And I don’t have to clean potato shavings out from under my claws.”
Stiles snorted but carried on down to the Camaro.
Derek was silent until the two of them had buckled in. Before he pulled out of the loading dock, he looked back over at Stiles. “Do you know if your dad’s going to be home?”
He shrugged. “I’ve been back a couple of times, but he hasn’t been keeping his schedule on the fridge like he used to when I was living there,” he said. “If it’s anything like it was last time, he’s been taking on as much overtime as he’s legally allowed, and if things are really bad, he might be sleeping in the back bunks over at the department.” He caught Derek watching him almost warily out of the corner of his eyes. “I’m not talking about it any more than that, dude.”
He still hesitated, Camaro idling. “Do you– I mean, if you need–” He cut himself off, ears flaming bright red again as he glared at the steering wheel.
Stiles only waited a few seconds before taking mercy on the older man. “I get it, man, but I don’t need a wolfy therapist. It’s not a threat to the Pack, and if that changes, I’ll let you know, but that’s it. I’m not talking about it. Just drive, will you?”
Derek nodded, grunting before peeling out of the loading dock – and smirking when he took the first turn sharply enough for Stiles to dive for the oh-shit handle before remembering that the Camaro didn’t have one. As soon as he the second turn out onto the main road, Stiles turned and latched his hands into the fabric of Derek’s shirt and the meat of his shoulder, human fingers doing a passable impression at claws.
“They do piss tests at F1, furball Verstappen, you’d never get past preliminaries,” Stiles snapped.
Derek just snorted, shifting gears and merging onto the main road, slowing to match the pace of traffic. “Been watching the races with Erica?”
“She likes MotoGP better.”
“She’s decided she wants to go the sportsbike route. She and Kitt have been talking about the Ninja H2R,” he said. “Retrofitting it to be street legal and taking some time riding the length of 101 and back to get her used to the bike.”
“And your mama wolf sensibilities are all atwitter about that, aren’t they?”
Derek just snarled and took another turn sharper than was strictly necessary, smirking as Stiles yelped and dug his fingers even deeper into Derek’s shoulder.
|||
The house was dark when Derek drove down the street. A quick listen had no heartbeats inside, confirming it was empty – though the stench of Jim Beam seemed to ooze out of the wood itself. He made a mental note to bring it up with Peter, see if there might be anything they could do without pulling Stiles into the mix or forcing the younger man’s hand one way or another. Of course, he had no interest in playing priest to anything Stiles might confess, so he just pulled into the driveway and turned an expectant glare at Stiles.
Only to have it returned. “Right, yeah, cause you wouldn’t peel out of the driveway and then back in just to fuck with my head,” he snapped. “Put it in park, put the keys in the cupholder, and take your hands off the steering wheel.”
“You do know I can move faster than you can see,” Derek said, even as he did as told.
“I don’t care,” Stiles said. Once the keys dropped into the cupholder, he let go of Derek’s arm, flexing his hands to stretch out the fingers he’d dug into Derek’s shoulder. “Let me live in my false sense of human security.” He snatched the keys out of the cupholder and darted out of the car, shooting a suspicious glare over his shoulder as he went.
Derek followed, hands tucked in his pockets as he watched Stiles fish his own keys out of his pocket and unlock the side door. “You’re not going to be able to hold my keys hostage, Stilinski,” he said, even as he followed Stiles into the garage. “I am not going to help you with your yardwork.”
“I know. Can’t have you regressing to digging holes or pissing in the bushes,” he said, shoving a pile of lawn bags into Derek’s chest. “Help me carry shit out to the back porch and I’ll give them back.”
He grumbled but still carried the bags out. He tossed them onto the steps on the back porch and retreated to his car. After an uncertain little pause, he pulled a Gatorade out of the small cooler Isaac had put into the trunk a week or so prior.
A few minutes later, Stiles traipsed out, Derek’s keys in hand. He tossed the keys to the werewolf, nearly fumbling the grape Gatorade Derek tossed his way in return.
“I’ll send Isaac on his run around six. You’ll be his last stop, so it’ll be after seven before he gets here,” Derek said. “You finish up early, or something comes up, call Isaac.”
Stiles frowned slightly. “Not you?”
“I’ll be cooking,” he said.
“Right, emergencies only when you’re Bobby Flaying it up in the kitchen,” Stiles said. “You got a fruit punch instead?”
Derek glanced down at his options. “You get grape or lemon lime,” he said.
“Dude, swap me for the yellow,” Stiles said. He didn’t wait for Derek to respond, pushing past the older man to get to the cooler, grabbing a lemon lime Gatorade and then very deliberately setting the bottle Derek had tossed him next to the open cooler.
The werewolf let out a frustrated growl, palming Stiles’ face and pushing him back. “You’re an ingrate,” he said, tossing the Gatorade back into the cooler. “Go play yard goblin and try not to get into any trouble.”
“Aye, aye, captain,” Stiles said with a lazy salute, trotting back into the garage without so much as a backward look.
|||
Close to three hours later, Stiles had finished everything up: gutters cleared, weeds removed from both the front and back porch, and front and back lawns mowed down. He’d even used the push mower, which he’d like to think had earned him the bottle of raspberry sweet tea from Mrs. Dominguez’s caretaker (if he ignored the fact that it was expiring in two days and clearly pulled from the back of her pantry, going by the layer of dust mostly cleared off of it).
He'd finished lugging the four bags of yard waste down to the end of the driveway for pick-up the next morning and was starting to put things back in the garage when a loud slam startled him.
“The nerve of you,” came a remark with a very distinctly not human undercurrent of bass that had Stiles feeling the accompanying growl rather than just hearing it. “Ignoring the fact that your father needs very real help, that he’s drowning without you, and choosing instead to skulk around his house when he’s not home.”
“Sure,” Stiles said, trying for nonchalance as he shoved the stack of unused lawn bags back onto their shelf. “Because several hours’ worth of amateur landscaping in broad daylight totally counts as skulking. And I’m not a strong swimmer.” He turned around, completely taken aback at the sight of Jordan Parrish with eyes glowing and literal smoke coming out of his ears. And out of his nose, puffing out like a bull in winter.
Or like someone about to spontaneously combust.
“Toying with matters far beyond your ken, and refusing to care for your own blood.”
Stiles narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know what the hell game you’re playing–”
“This is no game,” Parrish bellowed, stalking toward Stiles.
And there went any hope of playing it cool.
He needed to get outside. This was going to get ugly if there were no witnesses – and hopefully the threat of being seen would rein the deputy in a bit, supernaturally speaking.
He bolted toward the door behind Parrish.
Well.
Tried.
Parrish grabbed him by the throat – wow, those were claws – and shoved him toward the door. “You don’t get to hide the fact that you’re only playing at being a good son when people are watching.”
Stiles grappled for the handle, hands slipping off a few times before he got it open enough to scramble out into the yard.
It didn’t do him much good, as far as witnesses, though – the gate was shut.
Not even Mrs. Dominguez with her binoculars could see him back here.
Parrish stalked out after him, looking even more combustible. “You run around with wild animals, neglecting the wellbeing of your own father,” he snapped, shoving Stiles back. “And then you try to play at innocence when you’re confronted.”
“What kind of boner do you have for my dad that you’re trying to play the worst version of Dr. Phil?” Stiles asked, yelping and jumping back when Parrish took a swipe at him with a truly terrifying set of claws. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I was raised to respect my sire, to protect family first. You’ve abandoned yours.” Another swipe – this one connecting, leaving a sudden flash of heat along Stiles’ torso. “Left what’s left of your family in the dirt.”
Stiles managed to duck the next swipe but tripped over the handle of the wooden rake he’d clearly forgotten to put away, sending him flailing backward and landing hard on the steps up to the back porch. He scrambled backward toward the door, doing his best to pull in a breath.
No air; only pain.
Fuck, hopefully nothing was broken.
Parrish continued stalking toward him, the low reverb of his growl vibrating what felt like Stiles’ entire skeleton. “The insult you spit, playing at steward of a home that you rebuke and still refusing to caretake the inhabitant,” he snapped – and wow, that was a gaping maw straight out of his nightmares. Or Beacon Hills, back when Peter was on his madness rampage.
“Dude, you can’t–”
“I can,” Parrish snapped, and this near-bellow came with the distinct smell of cheap whiskey.
Stiles wheezed, trying to scrabble out of arm’s reach. “Fucking really?” he asked, still trying to escape. “One drunk cop trying to force me to save another drunk cop?”
Parrish outright growled at that, baring an impressive set of fangs at Stiles. “I’m no drunk.”
He snorted, just barely managing to get to his feet. “You think I don’t know what Evan Williams smells like? Oh wait, no, you’re not a drunk, you just wanted a nip at lunch, that’s why you’ve fucking marinated in it, right?”
And he’d sort of expected the knee to the gut at that comment, but not quickly enough to be able to escape it entirely, knocking him off his feet again. He saw Parrish stepping forward and curled up into the fetal position, wrapping his arms around his knees and hoping this wasn’t going to end up with him dead.
The crackle of Parrish’s radio coming alive seemed to answer that silent prayer.
“All units, 10-31, robbery in progress, Beacon County First Financial, all units please respond.”
Parrish paused, visibly conflicted.
Stiles peeked up at the other man, wondering if he’d found a reprieve – and doing his best to subtly crawl toward the back door. It was unlocked; he’d stashed Mrs. Dominguez’s tea in the freezer, so all he needed to do was get to the other side. He’d stashed some mountain ash in the cabinet under the sink, behind the cleaning supplies that’d had an unhealthy level of dust even before Stiles had mostly moved out to Peter’s place. He had no idea what particular flavor of supernatural Jordan Parrish was, but hopefully the ash would at least slow the Deputy down before he got down to literally disemboweling him.
Parrish saw him moving, though, stepping on his foot and pinning him in place before Stiles could make it more than a few inches. He snarled, eyes flashing – bright, burning orange embers that only briefly distracted Stiles from the gaping maw of holymotherfuck fangs longer than his fingers.
The radio crackled again, this time carrying a much more urgent message from the dispatcher. “All units, 10-18, immediate response, officer down at robbery in progress, Beacon County First Financial. All units, immediate response.”
That pulled Parrish’s full attention and he took half a step back, physically removing himself from Stiles and pulling his shift back as he grabbed his radio. Truly more terrifying to see the now almost unassuming guise of Jordan Parrish: dirty blonde hair in a not quite military-short cut, clean uniform and shined boots, plus a resting pleasant face a cherry on top of the boy-next-door appearance – a knockoff Captain America hiding a nightmare within. “Deputy 2319, Jordan Parrish, 10-4 dispatch, ETA 10 minutes,” he said.
“Roger Deputy 2319.”
Sparing Stiles a quick glance, Parrish followed up with a question: “Who’s our officer down?”
Kendall broke from her official-code professionalism. “Angie Wright, our new baby recruit,” she said. “She got winged in the arm, so non-lethal, but, puddin’, she thinks she saw explosives at the bank before the baddies shot her.”
“I’m on my way,” he said, shooting a glare at Stiles. With a quick flip of his radio switch, he bared fangs at Stiles. “I’m not done with you yet, boy.”
“I’m not your boy, asshole,” Stiles wheezed – only to earn himself a quick kick to the ribs before Parrish flipped his radio back on as he ran out to his car.
Which, Stiles realized belatedly, meant that Parrish had come in his patrol car.
He’d been in his uniform when he’d half-shifted and misdirected his anger fully onto Stiles.
He was still on duty.
Son of a bitch.
Stiles let out a low, pained groan as he sprawled out, doing his best to pull in an even breath.
The roar of a patrol car pulling out of his father’s driveway, followed immediately by the wailing shriek of the sirens, killed any glimmer of hope that the neighbors wouldn’t have noticed the squad car.
Stiles’ father drove the department’s SUV, so at least Mrs. Dominguez – if not her carer, too – would be at least partially aware that whoever was in the Stilinski driveway wasn’t the Sheriff. And Emilio, two doors down, had a Ring camera, so there was proof that it wasn’t his dad home in the early evening for just a few minutes.
Goddammit.
“Fuck,” he muttered, before fading into not-quite-unconsciousness.
|||
Stiles wasn’t sure how long he was lying on the back porch – he hadn’t lost conscious entirely, abstractly counting the beams on the roof of the porch to try and keep himself from fully passing out and staving off a panic attack.
It hurt to breathe – not dangerously so, but there was an uncomfortable rattle when he tried to pull in too deep a breath, and his back was killing him. Whatever damage Parrish had done hadn’t taken more than a few minutes to dish out, but he had a sinking feeling that the recovery would take Stiles significantly longer.
And that was without taking into account any of the inevitable complications.
Speaking of which.
He startled very violently back to full awareness at the sensation of someone dropping down next to him, and a clawed hand grabbing his shoulder and shaking him. “Wha–”
“What the hell happened to you, Stilinski?”
He let out a feeble groan, flapping his hand weakly at the intruder in the hope that it would ward them off.
No such luck.
Isaac was panicking, and though Stiles’ vision was blurrier than usual, he’d be willing to put money down that he was at least partially shifted – his fingers were pokier than usual as he patted Stiles down in an attempt to check for injury, and he didn’t usually rock muttonchops. “I know you’re a moron, but you’re not the type to pick a fight with a lawnmower and lose,” Isaac muttered, speaking just loudly enough for Stiles to hear him. “Which means someone came up after you.”
“Piss off.”
“Fuck you,” Isaac sniped back almost immediately, though there was an audible undercurrent of worry in his voice. “We leave you unsupervised for three hours and this shit happens, are you kidding me,” he muttered. He growled lowly at Stiles’ foot – the one that Parrish had stepped on – before moving his inspection up Stiles’ legs and toward his torso. “Derek’s gonna lose his shit, man. He made fruit punch sorbets for you, because he’s an absolute freak, and now you’re bleeding out on your dad’s back porch.”
“I’m not bleeding out,” Stiles grumbled, though he didn’t try to escape Isaac’s inspection.
Of course, one pat on his ribs had Stiles almost violently spasming away from his hand. “No touchy,” he wheezed, flailing weakly at Isaac. Only for Isaac to gently prod at that same spot again. He groaned, swatting his hand in Isaac’s general direction. “That hurts, asshole.”
“Dude, if your ribs are broken, we need to get you to the hospital.”
“No.”
“Don’t be stupid, Stilinski. I’m not a doctor. If you have a broken rib, it could puncture your lung, and then you’re dead on your back porch and I’m dead when Derek finds out I indulged your dumb ass to death, and that’s not even counting whatever the fuck creepy Uncle Peter’s gonna do to me,” Isaac said, even as he continued patting Stiles down.
“If you try and take me to the hospital, I will stab you with a barbed dildo,” Stiles slurred. “I’ll make Erica pick it out; she’ll find something nightmare-inducing.”
Isaac snorted in spite of himself. “You’re about as intimidating as a wet sock right now, you idiot,” he said.
Stiles ignored him. “If I go to the hospital in this shape, there will be a report, and then an investigation, and then I’ll end up in jail because I won’t cooperate with that shit, because I know certain things that I will not let go public,” he said. “Plus I don’t need my dad getting pulled into this; he freaked out bad enough last time he found out I’d been hospitalized.”
“Uh huh,” Isaac said, continuing his inspection. “Was that before or after your weird shit with the fox god?” he asked, either using the opportunity to get information out of Stiles when he wasn’t at his best or just indulging him to keep him talking while Isaac continued checking him over.
“During,” he said. “And after, technically. It got kind of fuzzy there at the end, you know?”
“I don’t know, actually. You haven’t really talked about it, dude. Lift your head, I need to make sure you’re not actually bleeding out.”
“I’m bleeding?” Stiles asked, lifting his head up, flinching when Isaac gently felt around the back of his head and whimpering when he found a sensitive spot. “How bad is it?”
“Head wounds bleed a lot; I won’t be able to tell for sure until we get it closed up but it doesn’t feel immediately deadly. Shit, I need to call Derek in on this. Where’s your phone?”
“In the garage.”
“Right, of course.” He took his hand off the back of Stiles’ head, wiping his hand on his shorts before Stiles could see how much blood was there, and fished his own phone out of his pocket, swiping it open and growling lowly at something on the screen. Before Stiles had the chance to ask what it was, Isaac continued. “Uncle P’s on his way back, so he’s gonna love seeing you pull your best corpse impression,” he muttered, more to himself than to Stiles, as he pulled Derek’s contact up and called the older man.
Derek picked up on the second ring. “What.”
“Stiles got the shit kicked out of him.”
“What.”
“Stiles is hurt and I don’t know if it’s safe to move him. He’s awake and talking, but it’s bad.”
“So call an ambulance.”
“No. No ambulance, no hospital,” Stiles said, shooting a glare at the phone. “I’ll line your kitchen with mountain ash and scrape up your new pot with a rusty metal spatula, you try any shady shit with hospitals.”
Isaac snorted. “Before or after you stab me with the barbed dildo?”
Derek, expectedly, ignored their repartee. “How bad is it? Can you move? And don’t be a shithead about the answer.”
“Not so much,” Stiles said, right as Isaac spoke over him.
“It’s bad. It’s his ribs,” Isaac added. “I can’t tell if they’re bruised or broken, and I don’t want to move him in case one’s broken enough to pop a lung. He wasn’t completely unconscious when I showed up, but don’t know if that’s true for the whole time between whatever happened and now. He’s got a cut on his head, too, and I can’t tell how bad it is right now. Will the pain drain work?”
“Usually only born wolves are able to do that, and I don’t want you trying to pull pain before we know what shape he’s in,” Derek said, though he sounded slightly far away from the phone. “I’m on my way. Is the garage door open?”
“Side door yes, big door no. Button’s not working and I’m not dying by garage door spring trying to figure out how to fix it,” Stiles said, relaxing a bit. No chance he was getting attacked again with the two bitchiest werewolves in Beacon Hills coming to his rescue.
“Make that three, asshole,” Isaac said, poking the side of his neck to force Stiles’ attention back to him. Which, great, he’d been talking aloud. “Peter’s gonna be back at the loft soon and he’s gonna be the meanest bitch of us all,” he said.
Stiles groaned.
Isaac poked him again. “You want me to add him to the call so you can explain things to him, give him a heads up that you look like a pile of boiled raw chicken?” he asked.
It took a second for the words to sink in. “You can’t have boiled raw chicken.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Once its boiled, it’s not raw anymore, moron.”
A third poke. “I think you’re full of shit.”
“You’re still on the phone with Chef Wolfardee, aren’t you? Put him on speaker, I want to hear him tell you you’re an idiot sandwich.”
Isaac snorted. “Wrong chef,” he said. “And he ended the call when you called him one of the bitchiest werewolves in town. I think you hurt his feelings not giving him undisputed first place.”
Stiles laughed. Well, tried. His ribs immediately screamed at him at the movement, and then again when he tried to flinch away from the pain. He froze for a second, not even breathing until Isaac put an uncharacteristically gentle, almost hesitant, hand on his chest, not putting any pressure behind the touch.
“Take a breath, man. I don’t want you stroking out before Derek gets here,” he said before pausing. “Or after. You’re not bad, for a naked mole rat of a person.”
“You’re an asshole,” Stiles said, taking a few shallow breaths.
“Takes ones to know one,” Isaac said with a deliberately smarmy smirk.
“Fuck you.”
He outright laughed. “Maybe when we’re drunk in college, I’ll throw you my bone, but I don’t like playing with boys who are already pre-tenderized.” And accompanied that with a fanged smirk that had Stiles calming further. “Derek’s coming in hot. I can hear him ignoring the speed limits from here, so he’s gonna Fast and Furious his way into your driveway in like five minutes,” he said. “I need to go open your garage door so we don’t have random neighbors calling the cops when he shows up and we carry you out to the Camaro instead of calling an ambulance. You’re not going to freak out if I disappear for like thirty seconds to open the door, are you?”
“I’ll hold it together,” he said, though he did lift his head up to watch Isaac as he headed toward the garage, forcing himself to take shallow, steady breaths to avoid jostling his ribs too much. “And make sure it’s empty before you go in there.”
“You expecting someone to be in here?”
Stiles lifted one hand, wiggling it in a so-so motion, dropping his head back down against the floor. “Talk to me, man,” he said after a few seconds of silence.
“I’m the only one in your garage apart from a spider the size of my face,” Isaac called back, making sure to speak loudly enough for Stiles to hear him clearly without outright shouting. “And I don’t see your phone. I’m gonna open the garage door and I need to grab your phone before I come back to babysit you. Where’d you put it?”
“Not sure. Check on top of the lawn bags.”
A few seconds of silence, and then, “Got it. Count down from twenty seconds. Out loud if you need.”
Stiles closed his eyes, quietly counting out the seconds to himself. Now that he knew he wasn’t alone, and that Parrish hadn’t decided to shirk his job and lurk in the Sheriff’s garage, it helped stave off the hard edge of a panic attack. He was still in serious pain, but it was always better to not hyperventilate himself from bruised ribs to outright broken ribs.
At twelve seconds came the truly heinous shriek of the garage door getting shoved open, and eighteen had Isaac coming back out the side door, shoving Stiles’ phone into his pocket and rubbing his ear.
“I think that gave me tinnitus, fuck. Are you allergic to WD-40?”
Stiles flipped him off, not even bothering to lift his head this time. “You’ll heal.”
“Faster than you, no doubt,” he said, dropping down next to Stiles and showing him his phone. “Peter treat you to fancy sushi often, or did you have to do some special kinky favor for him to be offering to pick up Ichika for you on a random Monday?”
“He likes sushi and he’s got weirdo wolfy instincts that have him inclined to share food with me,” he said. “Gimme my phone; I need to tell him that Derek’s been cooking or he’s gonna get all butthurt when I don’t eat any fish today.”
Isaac rolled his eyes but indulged, watching unashamedly as Stiles unlocked his phone and replied back. “Not gonna add a kissy face in there?” he asked.
“Only if I can tell him it’s from you,” Stiles offered with a smirk.
“Fuck off,” Isaac said, almost gently poking Stiles in a mostly uninjured spot on his shoulder. “You freaks flirt all the time; you’re almost as bad as Erica about it.”
Stiles just flipped him off again, closing out his phone and shoving it back against Isaac’s leg. “Erica’s all shameless about it because Boyd has the world’s best poker face and we both know he lets her get away with basically whatever. I try to pull shit like that with Peter and me and him both end up with indecent exposure charges,” he said. “At minimum.”
“And you’re being real easygoing with your answers right now.”
Stiles fell silent for a few seconds. “Adrenaline, probably. I’m feeling kinda woozy, but not in a passing-out kind of way yet. Soon, maybe.”
The roar of a hemi engine just a few streets away caught both of their attention.
“Also that.”
Isaac snorted. “Any chance you want to tell me who whooped your ass before the big bad wolf comes in to huff and puff at you?” he asked.
“Nope,” he said, closing his eyes. “Hundred percent not talking about it.”
Isaac slapped him lightly. “Dude, you are not passing out on me. Derek knows it’s bad, but he’s gonna insist on the hospital if you’re unconscious when he gets here, and I’m gonna agree with him.”
“You’re a dick,” Stiles said, though he obligingly opened his eyes to look at Isaac. “I hope Derek overcooks your dumb elk so its extra chewy for you and gives you TMJ.”
“I can bite through bones, asshole,” Isaac said with a fanged grin at him.
Stiles opened his mouth to respond when the hemi roared again, this time much closer – and slightly screamier than it should. “Shift gears, Sourwolf,” he said. “You’re going to kill your transmission.”
Isaac cocked his head to the side, listening to something before outright laughing. “He could give two fucks about his transmission when you’re incapable of yardwork without ending up on the losing side of a fight with a lawnmower. And if you insult his cooking again, he’ll deep fry his spare tire and you can chew on that while he feeds everyone else real food.”
“Verbatim?” Stiles asked.
“Pretty much. Any repartee from you?” he asked. “Want me to tell him it wasn’t the lawnmower?”
“I can tell him that myself,” Stiles said as the Camaro thundered up the driveway and into the garage – hopefully without hitting anything – but didn’t turn off. “You might want to close the door behind him. Just in case.”
“In case of what,” Isaac said flatly.
He tried to shrug, and then flinched when that just hurt – biting back a second flinch when that hurt as well. “Mrs. Dominguez might have her binoculars out, I don’t know.” There’d been a lot more activity than usual, so it was unfortunately more likely than he wanted to admit.
“Or you’re a spiteful bitch who wants me to catch permanent tinnitus.”
Stiles smirked up at him. “I never claimed to be nice.”
“No shit,” Isaac said. “Count to ten. Either me or Derek’ll be with you by the time you hit zero.”
Stiles nodded, starting the count as Isaac stood up and headed into the garage.
He’d barely hit seven when Derek was crouching next to him, looking him over with a frustrated red-eyed glower.
“Who attacked you?” he asked after a few seconds.
Stiles stayed silent at that – trying and failing to swallow a whimper when Derek set a hand on his sternum, the contact having his ribs twinging painfully.
Derek huffed. “Really? Holding your silence about being nearly killed?” Fortunately, he didn’t seem to expect an immediate answer, carefully shifting his hand over Stiles’ torso. He paused over the most painful spot on Stiles’ ribs. “Breathe in carefully, but as deeply as you can.”
He did as told, doing his best not to squirm in discomfort as he breathed.
The furrow in Derek’s brow only grew more severe. He probably heard – or felt – the rattle as well. “Again.”
Stiles scowled up at him but once again did as told. When Derek didn’t immediately deliver him an order, he jabbed the older man in the thigh. “What’s the verdict, Alcide?”
“Not broken enough to need immediate medical attention, but I can’t tell if your ribs are just badly bruised or outright cracked,” he said. “Can you lift your head without getting dizzy?”
Moving slowly, Stiles lifted his head, doing his best not to wince away when Derek probed gently at the back of his head – though he did take note of the too-sharp pricks of clawtips against his scalp.
“I think we can handle this back at the loft. Peter made me buy a professional EMT grade first aid kit last week,” Derek said. “Isaac, get me some fresh cloth for his head.”
“All I’ve got is the t-shirt I brought.”
Stiles made an unhappy noise in the back of his throat. “I don’t rate fresh pants?”
Isaac snorted out a laugh somewhere over near the garage door. “I grabbed jeans and a t-shirt, and denim’s not comfy against open wounds,” he said.
“You’re such a softie,” Stiles said.
Derek snorted and didn’t immediately retort. He moved his hand back down to Stiles’ ribs and, without warning, started draining his pain.
Stiles let out a little happy noise and relaxed into Derek’s touch.
“Want to tell me now who did this to you?”
He clamped his mouth shut, focusing on the almost euphoric sensation of his pain fading away. He pulled in as deep a breath as he could, relishing in the lack of pain that came with.
“Really?” Derek asked. “I get that you probably don’t trust me, but I want to keep you safe, and I can’t do that unless you tell me who I need to protect you from.”
Stiles shook his head, feeling slightly dizzy at the movement but not outright in pain. “You ever hear the saying ‘snitches get stitches,’ dude?”
“You may need stitches even without having snitched, you idiot,” Derek growled. He took the shirt from Isaac and, with his free hand, nudged Stiles’ head up and pressed the shirt against the back of his head. “If this bleeds for too long, we might have to break out a needle and thread.”
“And if I tell you who did this, I’m going to need even more stitches. But not just physical stitches. Emotional ones too,” he said. “And mental ones.”
Isaac snorted again, dropping down to a crouch on Stiles’ other side. “You’re gonna need mental stitches just to stop what’s left of your brain from oozing out of the back of your head if you keep talking this stupid shit.”
Stiles flipped him off.
“We need to know if there’s a threat to the rest of the Pack, Stiles,” Derek said.
“I count as part of your Pack now?”
“You’ve been part of the Pack for a while now, don’t play stupid.”
“But Isaac said my brain’s oozing out the back of my head. I don’t have any choice in stupid.”
Derek growled, eyes flaring red again.
“I’ve gasted your flabbers, haven’t I?” Stiles asked with a loopy grin. “Go on. Ask me another question.”
“This isn’t funny,” Isaac snapped. “You’re in enough pain that Derek’s veins are black up to his elbow, and you’re protecting whoever attacked you.”
Stiles clamped his mouth shut again.
Derek smirked at his sudden clam-up. “I’m taking his pain better than any painkiller could, Isaac,” he said, wiggling his fingers pointedly without taking his hand off of Stiles’ chest. “His brain’s getting told that he’s both in pain and not, so wires are getting crossed and he’s probably borderline high right now. And that’s not taking into account his regular level of moron.”
Stiles grinned up at him. “That sounds almost like you care, Sourwolf.”
Derek quirked an eyebrow at him – proving it a very Hale expression, because the resemblance to Peter was almost unnerving – and let his claws slide out to press warningly against Stiles’ torso. “No one maims my Pack but me. I’ll make an exception for Peter because he’s family, but since he’s not strutting around and making unnecessary comments about his sex life, and you’re not being a smug little shit about things, this isn’t something he’s done.”
“So what’s your plan, then?” Isaac asked.
“We’re taking him back to the warehouse and we’ll stitch him up as best we can. And I will debate the merits of drugging him with something to make him more likely to talk.”
Stiles’ grin went sharp. “I’ll go full Madam Mim on your ass and take your eyebrows away permanently.”
Derek just huffed out an amused before moving his hand from Stiles’ ribs to his lower back. Without taking his hand, or the t-shirt, away from the back of Stiles’ head, he lifted Stiles up in a makeshift bridal hold before shifting his grip on him.
The younger man couldn’t quite swallow the surprised grunt, wrapping himself around Derek like a koala. “How very gallant of you, sir wolf.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Derek groused as he carried Stiles to the Camaro and almost gently tucked him into the passenger’s seat, keeping a red-eyed stare on Stiles – no doubt using werewolfy senses to get all up in his business.
Isaac followed at a short distance. “You’ve got this?”
Derek nodded. He fastened Stiles’ seatbelt and lifted one teenager’s hand to the towel. “Hold this to the back of your head, and let me know if you start hurting again,” he said, waiting for Stiles to nod in response before straightening and looking over at Isaac. “I’ll take Stiles back to the loft. Hose down the blood and close things up behind me. If thing one isn’t going to say who did this, I don’t want to invite unnecessary scrutiny from nosy neighbors. Where are the jeans you brought?”
“In my bag, with my water bottle,” Isaac said, gesturing toward the garage door. “Inside the fence; neighbors won’t find it unless they do some active trespassing. I can be back at the loft in forty-five minutes.”
“Make it thirty. I don’t want anyone left open for another attack.”
“You’re not going full lockdown, are you?” Stiles asked.
Derek looked down at him, once again quirking an eyebrow. “Do I need to?”
Stiles went stubbornly silent again.
Derek snorted. He looked over at Isaac, making a vague gesture with his hand – apparently an invitation for suggestion, because Isaac piped up a few seconds later.
“Peter’s on his way back from Beacon Valley,” he said. “You, me, and him can pull the three wolves and a baby act with Stilinski,” he added, ignoring the offended squawk from Stiles. “Boyd and Erica are over at Moira’s, and if it looks like shit is gonna hit the fan, we tell them to lay low there. Maybe loop in Moira if it looks like that’s going to take a while.”
“Good. We’ll go with that,” Derek said. “Stay vigilant, and if you feel even remotely like someone’s watching you or you might be in danger, drop everything and come back to the loft.”
Stiles scowled. “I wasn’t aware Pack was all democratic like that,” he said.
Derek rolled his eyes. “Unless you’ve got something helpful to say, like the name of whoever attacked you, I want silence from the peanut gallery,” he said, punctuating his statement by stepping back and closing the passenger side door. “And if you hear the Sheriff coming, I want you to grab your shit and run. I don’t want you in his crosshairs if he finds blood on the back porch.”
Isaac nodded.
Derek walked around the front of his car, hauling Isaac in with a grip on the back of his neck and pressing his cheek to the younger man’s forehead, lightly scraping the scruff of his beard against Isaac’s temple. “Do not put yourself at risk.”
“I know, man,” Isaac said, though he didn’t try to escape the hold, even leaning into it for a second. “Take care of Princess Peach. I’m fine on my own,” he said, stepping back after a few seconds to haul the main garage door open.
Derek nodded and got into the driver’s seat. He looked over at Stiles. “I don’t think you’re concussed, but try to stay conscious as best you can,” he said.
Stiles nodded once. “I am gonna close my eyes so I don’t get dizzy with your driving.”
“I won’t worry unless your heartbeat slows too much,” he said. He shot a look over his shoulder to make sure Isaac was out of the way before peeling out of the driveway, quickly speeding out of the neighborhood.
|||
He hadn’t passed out again, not entirely, but he had drifted. He wasn’t in any pain – Derek had been checking on him as he cleaned him up, wiping the sticky, not-quite-dry blood from Stiles’ hair and working a pair of bandages over the gash there. It wasn’t deep, but long, and the Alpha had made unhappy grumbles about Stiles’ continued refusal to let Derek take him to the hospital. Stiles had allowed Derek to wrap his chest, draining any smidgen of pain any time Stiles had so much as twitched, leaving the younger man borderline high and almost pleasantly woozy, if he forgot about how exactly he came to be in this situation.
Once he was fairly certain Stiles wasn’t going to die on his couch, Derek had retreated to the kitchen to clean up, channeling concern and frustration into a half-hearted dishwashing session, though most of his attention was very clearly still focused on Stiles.
The teenager had been allowed to drift again, stretched out on the couch with strict instructions to not try to move too much without assistance.
He was startled back to awareness, though, by the sound of a downright furious werewolf.
Derek was still in the kitchen, partly cleaning things up and mostly doing his best to not loom over Stiles and glower him into either naming his attacker or falling fully unconscious. Isaac hadn’t made it back yet, and anyway, neither his nor Derek’s growling had sounded quite so competently lethal.
No, this growl was close, angry, and dangerous.
Stiles tasted blood in the back of his throat as the growling got louder and a clawed hand rested gently on the top of his head. He peeled one eye open, looking up at Peter’s argon-eyed Beta shift. “Kill the bass, Kujo. You’re rattling my skull bones,” he said, even as Peter’s touch sapped out the last few bits of pain out of his body.
Peter was silent for a moment, wrestling with himself, before gritting out his question, words slurred around his fangs. “Why do you smell like grass clippings, whiskey, and tainted gunpowder?” he asked. “Eau de rowan isn’t your usually scent.”
“You can smell all that from me?”
“You live with me, sweetheart, and I’ve held you when nightmares chased you out of your own bed. I am very well accustomed to your scent, and this is not your usual scent,” Peter said, pulling his shift back inside as he spoke. He crouched down so that his face was about level with Stiles’. “What happened.”
“It wasn’t Argent,” Stiles was quick to say. “Or my dad. No need to hunt them down and disembowel either of them for this.”
Peter hummed. “Then in whose innards do my claws belong, pet?” he asked.
Stiles remained stubbornly silent.
Peter leaned forward, nose to Stiles’ throat, and traced his carotid, pulling in a breath as he went. He stilled suddenly, letting out another low growl, one that Stiles felt vibrate through his bones.
The younger man hiccoughed out a sigh, breath catching over injured ribs that didn’t hurt.
“Oh,” Peter said quietly, eyes flaring that brilliant, noxious blue as his Beta shift settled back over him. “Now it’s my turn with the deputy.”