Chapter Text
"I don't think I can go." Stiles winces as soon as the words are out, bracing for impact.
"What do you mean? You promised, Stilinski. You're not getting out of it that easy." Stiles took a moment to marvel at how far technology has come, how clearly he's able to hear the irritation in Lydia's voice all the way from Boston.
He sighs, lowering his voice while he waits in line for coffee. "I just don't think I can do it, Lyds. I know I promised, but you'll have Jackson for company—hold on, one second."
Setting the phone against his shoulder, he orders, smiling apologetically at the barista and leaving a fiver in the tip jar.
"Sorry, I'm here." There's a long beat of silence on the other end and he pulls the phone away from his ear to double check Lydia hasn't hung up on him. The call timer is still ticking.
Lydia sighs, just barely audible over the din of the cafe. "Stiles, you can't keep hiding."
He feels the skin at the back of his neck prickle with embarrassment. "I'm not hiding."
She scoffs, audibly.
"What? I'm not. I just … after everything, I don't know if I can go in with my head high if I'm third-wheeling with you and Jax." He runs a hand through his messy brown hair, ignoring the pitying look he's getting from the woman next to him.
Lydia fills the silence with a soft click of the tongue, patience clearly wearing thin. "If you don't go, you're letting him win."
He swallows hard, trying not to think of Scott's face. How he looked when he suggested that Stiles "take a step back," for his own good. For everyone's good. Take some time, let the wounds scab over. The more he'd argued, the more Scott dug in his heels. Finally, he'd said, "Look, Stiles. I didn't want to do it like this, but you're out. No one wants to be around you. No one is going to want to be around you. You need to accept that and move on."
And he has moved on. Really. All the way to New York, as far from California as he could get. But there was a little part of him, deep down, that thought Scott was right. No one would ever want him around. He knew that for most people he was too loud, too annoying, too much. And that even before factoring in his willingness to protect the people he loves by any means necessary—or to avenge them when that's not enough.
The fact that he has to tag along with Lydia and Jackson, that he's so undesirable he can't get a single person willing to date him, it feels like he'd just be proving Scott right.
He hears his name and shuffles to the pickup counter, phone pressed flat to his cheek. He mumbles a thanks and goes to add a healthy amount of sugar to the drink. Ha. Healthy. As he shakes in his sixth sugar packet, he muses on the word healthy being simultaneously perfect and terrible for massive quantities of sugar.
Lydia's voice cuts through, sharper, like she can tell his mind is wandering. "It's not third-wheeling, Stiles. It's flying solo. Like James Bond. No one thinks James Bond is tragic showing up to a social event solo."
He can feel a headache forming. "Lydia, I'm not—"
"And anyway, you still have time. You might be able to find someone if you ever put yourself out there."
"I date." Technically. If the occasional hookup counts as dating.
She gives that all the credence it deserves, barreling on. "Or, if you have to, come with a fake date. Pay them if you have to."
He barks a laugh. "I can't just conjure someone out of thin air. That's not how it works."
"You're resourceful," she says. He can hear her typing in the background as he walks outside, not paying attention to where he's going. "Figure it out. You're not leaving me to face them alone." She hangs up without a goodbye.
He walks out, still looking at his phone, running through imaginary permutations of how that conversation could have gone in his favor. Which is why he didn't see the guy until after the collision. He collides with a hard wall of muscle, nearly dropping his coffee.
"Shit, sorry—" he starts, but anything else he was going to say gets lost. The man isn't a stranger. Impeccably groomed, not a single thread out of place, in the kind of suit it's common to see in this part of the city. But it's the eyes that catch Stiles where he stands. Impossibly blue, widened ever-so-slightly in shock. Familiar, in a way that aches.
It's Peter-freaking-Hale.
Even in a suit on the crowded sidewalk of Manhattan, Peter radiates a physical presence that activates the flight response in anyone with a healthy sense of self-preservation. But after all these years, after the Nogitsune, losing his dad, moving to an anonymous city of millions … Stiles hasn't quite learned how to back down in the face of danger.
Peter reflexively reaches out, one broad hand steadying Stiles's elbow with more gentleness than Stiles deserves, or knows how to respond to. "Still haven't learned to walk, I see."
Peter's hand is warm, solid, and—mortifyingly—comforting. Stiles feels the pressure and body heat through his sleeve, and it's enough to short-circuit his brain for several long seconds before he comes back to himself enough to jerk away. He still just stands there, staring, unable to look away.
Peter glances to either side, as if looking for Stiles's invisible companions. "You're awfully far from home."
"I live here," Stiles says. "Are you—wait, what are you doing in New York?"
"You. Live here. In the city?" Peter's voice is flat with disbelief.
Stiles bristles at the perceived implication that he isn't good enough to make it in the city. "Brooklyn. For almost eight years now."
Peter shakes his head, gaze lingering, almost hungry. It isn't as predatory or calculating as Stiles remembers. He almost looks … curious. "I live in Tribeca. My office is nearby." Stiles feels his mouth drop open slightly, a movement that has Peter's eyes drop before looking back up. "I run a consulting firm."
"Wait, you—" He feels his face do something undignified. "You live here. In New York. I'd have thought you would settle somewhere more … remote. I don't know. A forest. An abandoned amusement park. That sort of thing."
That smile. Wide, with perfect white teeth showing sincere amusement. "The city suits me. You'd be surprised how many people here want something done quietly, efficiently, and sometimes with plausible deniability."
Stiles sips his coffee which is somehow already too sweet and too bitter simultaneously.
He blames the bad coffee, or the early hour, or just his ever-present exhaustion. But he can't help it. The idea sprouts, flourishes like the concerning spot of mold in his shower. Lydia said to be resourceful. To figure it out. She probably meant online, or picking someone up at a bar, but now that it's in his head he can't get it out.
There is nothing, but nothing, that would spit in the smug face of Scott-holier-than-thou-McCall like showing up at the reunion with Peter Hale on his arm.
He can see it now. Scott's face, frozen somewhere between disbelief and horror. He can't help but smile into his cup.
"You look like a man plotting something inadvisable," Peter says. He sounds … approving? Great. Nothing says 'I'm doing something sane' like having the approval of a spree killer. Peter starts walking again, like he assumes Stiles will follow along. He hates being predictable, but he does.
"I'm not plotting," he lies. "I have no schemes. I'm tragically boring now. I pay taxes and everything."
Peter glances sideye at him. "You? Boring? I find that hard to believe." Stiles can smell his cologne, something expensive but subtle.
Stiles licks the spilled coffee out of his coffee lid, and says, "I actually have to get to work, but… uh… you want to meet up later? Catch up over dinner or something?"
Peter looks him over, and Stiles feels uncomfortably like he's at the airport, standing in one of those full-body scanners. "I can make time." He holds out his hand, and Stiles fumbles for a second before unlocking his phone and handing it over. He hears the confirming buzz from Peter's pocket and slides it back in his front pocket.
"Well, um. I guess I'll see you later, then?" He gives an awkward wave, cursing himself for being such a dork, and heads back toward the coffee shop. He was heading the other direction when Peter waylaid him.
The last thing he hears as he turns around is Peter, sounding more genuine than smug, saying, "I look forward to it."