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The store doesn’t look like much when Peter pulls up outside. If pressed, he would describe it was a normal storefront: faded brick exterior, clear windows so that people can window shop or admire the merchandise on display, brown door with a white sign that’s currently flipped to it’s Open side. Utterly, perfectly, completely ordinary.
And, well, Peter can always admire a good camouflage. It’s just good business, really, for anyone in the magic industry.
Or at least, he would admire it, if he wasn’t having an absolutely terrible day.
As it is, Peter barely notices the picturesque, perfectly put together façade, meant to fool most humans; nor the wards, gleaming subtly in the corners and floorboards, meant to keep out those with ill intent; nor even the artful displays of beautiful and probably handcrafted merchandise, meant to draw the eye and loosen the wallet. He sweeps through the door past the racks and heads straight for the desk, which contains a computer, a cash register, and not a single person who can ring him up.
Peter may or may not ring the bell a few times.
A few dozen.
A thud and a yelp are the only warnings Peter gets before the backroom door opens and a flustered young man hurries up. He looks normal, too – short brown hair, plaid shirt, name tag that is upside down – but his entrance is heralded by the scent of ozone and tart berries, and Peter’s worked with enough magic users to be able to pick them out of a crowd.
“Geeze, dude, that was not necessary,” the man says.
It’s the dude that does it. The last of Peter’s patience evaporates as quickly as water under a hot sun.
He flicks out his claws, leans forward, and drags the young man forward. “I am not,” he says around a mouthful of fangs, “in the mood to argue about business etiquette with you. What I am in the mood for is a solution, one my contacts say you are uniquely posed to answer.”
“Uh – ”
Peter slams a package on the countertop. It might be a bit bloody, but given how many hunters Peter had to kill to secure it, he thinks it’s remarkably clean.
“This needs to be in Alaska as of two hours ago. I heard you can make that happen.”
The young man gives the package a look, and then a double take. “Is that blood?” he exclaims.
“Alaska. Two hours ago. Now,” Peter growls.
“Wow, okay, somebody’s cranky,” the young man grumbles, but to Peter’s satisfaction, his fingers are already flying across the keys of the computer. He doesn’t seem at all fazed by Peter’s fangs or claws, which is a shame, but right now Peter cares way more about getting his package to Alaska than perfecting his intimidating image.
If this works, he can come back later and make the boy cower then.
“So, Alaska, direct and express. Weight?”
Peter expresses, by way of an eye roll, exactly how much he knows or cares.
The young man narrows his eyes. “I need at least an approximation. You’re already going to need at least a Tier II to cross that much distance. If it’s super freaking heavy, you’ll need to go up a tier to accommodate or your stuff will be dropped all over the ocean.”
“Let’s just say it’s in your best interests for that not to happen,” Peter says sweetly.
“Okayyy, so a tier upgrade it is. Any wards this thing has to cross?”
“I don’t – ”
“But I do. Like, I can cross mountain ash or wards with brute force, but then the integrity of the package would suffer. If you’re going to be crossing wards or anything else – ”
“Just do it.”
That earns him a narrow-eyed look. The ozone scent takes on a tinge of bitter lemon, irritation and annoyance making themselves known. But he keeps up his customer service face, dutifully punching in whatever it is he needs to and ringing up the total on the cash register. Peter pays, of course; money is of little object when the need is so great, and if Talia wants to audit his spending, Peter can remind her that it’s technically her fault that he’s now in such a rush that he can’t do this through normal channels and has to use a new method that he hasn’t vetted or tested.
Then the young man says, “Okay, just one last thing: your name.”
Peter raises an eyebrow. If the man doesn’t know who he is already, there’s no need to enlighten him. In fact, if Peter wasn’t doing this in a rush, he would have a reasonable cover story and ID set already, but, alas, this is not so, and Peter prefers being untraceable.
He says, “No.”
“Yeah, no, I’m going to need it,” the young man says, a stubborn set to his jaw. “If this package gets kicked back, I need a way to make sure I can find you, because I certainly do not want a bloodstained . . . whatever that is.”
“It won’t be kicked back,” Peter tells him impatiently. “Now just – ”
“Everyone says that, and everyone’s a liar. You would not believe the amount of crap that ends up back in my shop. So: name.”
Peter considers it. For about two seconds. Then he says, “What’s yours?”
“Stiles. Why?”
“So I’ll know who to tear apart for holding up my delivery,” Peter replies, advancing on Stiles with claws out and blue eyes gleaming.
Stiles heaves a sigh. “You know what, fine, have it your way. Have a nice trip!” he says, and shoves the package into Peter’s arms with a jaunty wave.
Peter only has time to blink once before he’s yanked off his feet in a dizzying swirl of magic, hurtling lightning fast up into the air and across the ground at a speed he dimly registers is very very fast. He actually almost vomits – werewolves are creatures of the land, not the air – but dignity and the need to clutch his package close fortunately keep his lunch inside his stomach where it belongs.
He lands with a soft thump in the ice cold freezing snow of what is probably Alaska, right where his package needed to be.
Looking down, he sees the fading outline of a gleaming golden stamp crumbling away from his hand, where Stiles apparently got fed up and slapped said stamp as he shoved the package at Peter. It’s a good move. Peter almost wishes he had thought of it.
“Touché,” Peter says to the swirling currents and cold snow. “Well played, Stiles.”
“Hello, welcome to – oh hell no,” Stiles says the second he catches sight of Peter.
Peter raises an eyebrow. He can’t imagine what Stiles could possibly object to right now. He’s no longer wearing blood splattered clothes, he’s put away his claws and fangs, and he doesn’t have a package with him. “Is it in your business model to turn away potential customers?”
“It is when they threaten me,” Stiles shoots back.
Peter arranges his face into a suitably abashed expression. It’s not hard; he didn’t sign up for theater class in university just to fulfill a general education requirement in the arts. “My apologies,” he says smoothly. “I was not having a good day, and I took out my temper on you. That was unfair. I came back to apologize.”
That earns him an incredibly suspicious look. A very long look, actually.
“Your glue is dripping,” Peter points out delicately.
Peter is then treated to a rather interesting sight of Stiles hopping around and cursing under his breath, trying to save the batch of stamps he was in the middle of crafting when Peter arrived. Peter can’t quite make out the design, but he can catch the whiff of magic in them. The sign of a true mage, that – making a product and then bespelling it does work, of course, and it’s a great deal easier and cheaper. But imbuing an object with magic during the creation process undeniably always results in a better, hardier, more powerful end product, and Peter has always favored buying from those who use the harder but ultimately stronger method.
Also, he can respect a craftsman who hand inks their own designs on their products.
After Stiles has muttered a few more choice words and stored his half made stamps in a sealed container, he turns his attention back to Peter. “You don’t have a package for me, unless it’s very small,” he observes.
“You’re correct.”
“ . . . So why exactly are you standing in my stamp store if you don’t have anything you need to put a stamp on? I would think Peter Hale of the Hale pack would have better things to do with his time.”
Peter blinks once. Apparently he hasn’t been the only person doing research.
But he hasn’t been Talia’s Left Hand for nothing. It’s the Left Hand’s entire job to adapt to curveballs, and so Peter only says, “An apology is never a waste of time when it’s owed, and I do owe you one. I noticed the store closes for lunch. Allow me to treat you to a meal as recompense.”
The look on Stiles’s face is priceless. Peter kind of wishes he could take a picture of it, but it would totally ruin this process.
“You want to buy me food?”
“Well, you didn’t seem the green thumb type, so that rules out flowers. And I imagine you’d take a donation to be an insult.”
“You imagined right,” Stiles mutters. “But, listen, I wanna be real clear here, because I have no interest in, like, courting or anything, dude.”
And, well, isn’t that interesting? Werewolves aren’t exactly unknown to the magical community – how could they, when they’re among one of the most populous – but that is not to say that all details about them are public knowledge. It is known that werewolves court, to be sure, but the specific of how they do so are generally only known to those who are werewolves, have werewolves in their family, or have been courted by werewolves. And Stiles, for all that he has magic running in his veins, does not smell like he has werewolf ancestry.
“Someone really has done their research,” Peter says, inclining his head. “But food can just be a gift between friends. Unless . . .”
Stiles blushes tomato red when Peter gives him a slow once over. And honestly, it’s not even hard to imagine it. Stiles has lovely hands, and beautiful eyes, and the spine that allowed him to stand against a pissed off werewolf and sass said werewolf make him intoxicating beyond compare. Peter wouldn’t even have to fake his interest, really.
“I draw the line at someone who threatened me on our first meeting,” Stiles says.
“Your scent says otherwise,” Peter notes, because his scent has deepened, ozone giving way to the sweet caramel of arousal.
“I have eyes and a functioning, healthy sex drive. Still got my mind, though.”
And his magic, he leaves unspoken, but the way his eyes flash bright gold make that perfectly clear.
Ah, well. Peter doesn’t need to seduce Stiles. He just needs to build and maintain a stable relationship a good, reliable contact, and Stiles seems perfect for that. And he does need to apologize.
“Very well. A meal between friends, then.”
“Who said we were friends?”
“That’s not a no.”
“Oh my god, do you ever shut up?”
“No.”
Stiles heaves an enormous sigh, but he’s already pulling off his still upside down name tag and keying in a command to the cash register that makes it lock. Peter waits patiently as he checks to make sure his more expensive merchandise is secured and grabs his coat, and then he falls into step with Stiles as they leave.
“So,” Stiles says as they emerge into the sunlight, “where am I being treated to? Or do I get a choice?”
“Wouldn’t be much of a treat if you didn’t.”
They end up at a diner, because Stiles apparently wants a burger and fries. It’s not surprising – he is a recent college graduate – and Peter can find food he likes off of any menu, so Peter obligingly drives them there, lets Stiles order whatever he wants, and slips the waitress a nice tip so they won’t be bothered a hundred times as they eat and chat.
Their discussions are light and friendly, nothing serious. Stiles’s major in college (criminal investigation), Peter’s day job (law, when he feels like it). They bond over making jokes about Coach Finstock, as constantly weird during Peter’s day as he was during Stiles’s, and complaining about the chemistry teacher, Mr. Harris. Stiles tells a few funny stories about customers he’s had and Peter returns the favor with some stories about idiotic clients he’s had.
It’s nice, there is no threatening, and Peter drops Stiles back off at the store just in time for him to reopen it.
“We good now?” Stiles says, one hand on the door.
“That’s up to you.”
Stiles rolls his eyes. “Fine, you creeper. I formally accept your apology.”
“Thank you.”
“I do reserve the right to be mad if you ever bring in another package that drips blood on my floor, though.”
“I’ll keep that in mind for when I return.”
Stiles narrows his eyes. “Peter – ”
“I’ll see you around, Stiles.”
Peter keeps his next interactions with Stiles brief and pleasant and perfectly unobjectionable.
He buys a roll of stamps for Cora, who’s decided to use her gap year to go backpacking through the Amazon, to remind her to keep in contact and give her a way to ask for help should she need it.
He mails a package to Maine – a wedding gift to one of his friends at his law firm, beautiful Murano glasses that Peter wants to ensure will arrive in perfect condition.
He sends a formal notification to the Tribunal when the pack hunts down and kills a rogue omega werewolf, as is tradition.
Slowly but surely, Stiles starts regarding him with suspicion and wariness. He smiles now, when Peter enters his shop, and they exchange cordial nods when they pass in the supermarket or the town hall. He still doesn’t really like Peter buying him food, but that, Peter knows, is more about his refusal to accept charity and less about an objection to Peter himself.
And he starts talking about his stamp making process, which Peter finds, to his surprise, that he actually is interested in.
“Why stamps?” Peter asks, one day as they dig into steaks (for Peter) and lasagna (for Stiles). “I assume your spell would not be limited by the physical object.”
“Well, no, I could use anything. Like,” Stiles twirls his fork and gets cheese all over his arm, “this for example.”
“But?” Peter prompts.
“But magic is only somewhat the incantations and the spells. A large part of it is belief. How we see the world, how we interact with it, how we expect it to work – that plays a huge role. I don’t look at fork and think automatically this can be used to transport packages, and so the spell would be weaker, right from the start. Whereas I associate stamps with mail and travel and transport. So: stamps.”
Peter gives him a critical look. Stiles is basically permanently attached to his phone, and he navigates technology with the ease of someone who was born just as it was becoming popular and therefore grew up utilizing it. Peter’s good too, but he wagers he’s sent more letters than Stiles.
“What?” Stiles asks.
“You have sauce on your chin,” Peter says. “Also, you don’t strike me as the type to have written a lot of letters.”
“If that’s a subtle way of asking for my number, the answer is no.”
“I already have your number. And you still didn’t answer my questions,” Peter adds over Stiles’s splutters.
Stiles sends him a narrow eyed look and then spends the next few minutes dabbing at his chin with his napkin. When he’s finally wiped all the sauce off, he dives back into his lasagna and ruins all of his hard work. Peter finds it strangely adorable.
Finally, Stiles says, “Yeah, I haven’t written a lot of letters. Mostly I text. But there was one period in my life where I didn’t have access to my phone. For like months actually. Letters were all I had.”
Peter can only think of a few situations wherein someone as bright and as clever as Stiles would not have access to their phone. None of them are good situations.
“And I do not want to know how far you dug into my records, creeper, so I’ll just pretend we both don’t know you did an invasive background check, and I’ll tell you the way a normal person would find out.” Stiles takes a deep breath. “I was institutionalized in high school. My father had to commit me to the psych ward. Eichen House.”
“ . . . I’m going to have to rescind part of my payment to my investigator,” Peter says lightly, because it’s that or wolf out at the table.
Stiles’s expression turns half rueful, half bitter. “Yeah. I didn’t learn until afterwards about Eichen House’s reputation.”
“Even humans suffer the ill effects of being treated there.”
“Well, my father and I thought I was human. And it was the closest center to our house, and honestly we couldn’t afford much else.”
The clues begin to fall into place. A late manifestation of latent magic, an unfortunately uninformed and desperate parent, an all too eager institution that promises well rounded and thorough care but instead preys on supernatural beings.
And, well. Mages have a history of being thought insane – and being imprisoned for it.
“I’m sorry,” Peter says quietly.
Stiles shrugs. The bitterness is still in his scent, but gently, like too much salt that’s been folded into batter until it doesn’t overpower it but is still present. He’s come to terms with it, apparently. “It’s over and done. I got out. And I spent a lot of time writing letters, because I wasn’t allowed to call or text my dad.”
“I’m surprised they let you send them.”
“They didn’t. I found myself holding onto them, wishing for something, anything, that would make them get to their destination and, well . . .”
“Your magic found a way to answer you.”
Stiles dips his head in a nod. “I can do other magic. I’m not limited. But stamps were my first, and they’re among my strongest. And why do other kinds of magic when this pays well enough?”
“Oh, no, we are not going out today,” Stiles declares the second he sees Peter enter the shop.
Peter pauses. Stiles has never shown more resistance to their weekly meals, so long as the shop is empty of other customers and it’s lunch hour. Instinct has him sniffing the air, but he only smells Stiles and the faded smell of someone who has left already.
“You haven’t eaten yet.”
“It’s creepy when you do that.”
“Creepy is you declining food,” Peter says, because Stiles has never ever turned his nose up at food. And he can pack away a lot, which is saying something, because Peter grew up with werewolves, and werewolves with growth spurts can eat enough to sustain an entire family for a month.
Stiles flaps a hand at him. “I have food today, and I don’t want it to go to waste. Also I have too much. How do you feel about meatloaf?”
Which is how Peter finds himself stepping into Stiles’s back room. It’s nowhere as clean as the store front outside, but it’s also not the terrible tornado wreck he would have thought, given Stiles’s habit of putting things down in random places and also getting very easily sidetracked. There’s a neat rack of stamps that are drying or whatever magical stamps do near the end of their process, a table with a comfortable chair and scattered items Stiles can use to sketch out designs, and a tiny but functional kitchen, complete with a stove, microwave, and refrigerator.
It’s also a bit bigger than what the building should contain.
“Don’t give me that look, I got permission to use the spell,” Stiles says, correctly interpreting Peter’s face.
“That was admiration, Stiles, not censure.”
“Sit down and help me finish off Melissa’s meatloaf.”
“Who’s Melissa?” Peter asks, as if he didn’t do a second background check with a more competent investigator.
Stiles rolls his eyes. “She’s a family friend, so relax. Her son – Scott – and I are childhood best friends. She thinks my dad can’t cook for himself now that I’ve moved out, so once in while she brings food to him, and sometimes she brings too much which is when my dad begs me to take some.”
“Well, give my compliments to her. This is good meatloaf.”
“Yeah, it was Scott’s welcome home meatloaf. He’s been in France this week. Trying to impress his girlfriend.”
Peter doesn’t miss the subtle inflection in Stiles’s voice. He does, however, ignore it. If Stiles really wanted him to stop flirting with him by doing impressive things, he would just come right out and say it and Peter would respect that. Stiles is clever and sarcastic and full of random facts; Peter would be happy to just remain a friend.
“So, what’s your excuse for coming here today?”
“I’ll be leaving tomorrow on a flight. To France, as it happens. I found myself wondering if your stamps could get me there faster.”
Stiles is saying no before Peter even finishes talking.
“Absolutely not, completely unsafe, not sanctioned use of my merchandise!” Stiles says, pointing his fork at Peter like it’s a sword.
“There are protections for overseas packages,” Peter points out, because, well, he’s mailed Cora a care box or three.
“Yeah, but you’re not a box. A package doesn’t need to breathe!”
“A werewolf can hold their breath for longer than a human.”
“You also have important things you need to keep stable, like, I don’t know, your blood pressure! Not to mention – oh my god, you’re messing with me, aren’t you?”
Peter serenely forks another bite of meatloaf into his mouth. “It was a legitimate query.”
Stiles narrows his eyes at him.
“I’ll be deprived of your company and you of mine for three weeks; forgive me for wanting to make sure I’d left a good and lasting impression.”
“Just for that I’m adding a surcharge onto your purchase,” Stiles threatens.
He does actually add a 10% surcharge when Peter finally buys some overseas stamps – to ensure timely and discreet communication with Talia while he’s abroad, if necessary – but Peter’s been leaving him good tips anyways, and he also knows that Stiles, the soft-hearted man that he is, often donates part of his proceeds to charity, even though the shop is his sole line of income.
It’s as Peter is walking out that Stiles, for once, stops him. And of course they play the game of who gets the last line all the time, but that’s not what comes out of Stiles’s mouth.
“Hey, Peter. Be careful, okay?”
“Whatever gave you the impression I wouldn’t be?”
“Even mages hear things about the Argents,” Stiles says, and Peter shouldn’t be surprised that he’s figured out why Peter is flying to France, but he is.
Pleasantly so, in fact.
“Why, Stiles,” he purrs, turning around, “are you trying to look out for me?”
Stiles twitches, fingers scraping at the countertop. He shuffles his feet and clears his throat. “I mean. You know. I’d hate to see my – one of my favorite customers poisoned with wolfsbane and cut in half.”
“Gerard Argent isn’t going to be there.”
“Like that’s stopped him before.”
And, well, Peter can’t argue with that. He walks back over to Stiles, letting his posture soften, because he can smell genuine concern wafting off Stiles and the wolf inside him just wants to curl around Stiles and rub their cheeks together until he smells happy and magical again, like he did only a short while ago when they were eating meatloaf.
“Stiles, I’ve been Talia’s Left Hand for a long time, and I’m very good at it,” he says quietly. “Trust me, I won’t let my guard down for a second when I’m there. And possibly not even when I return.”
Whatever Stiles hears in Peter’s voice or sees in his eyes, it seems to reassure him. His scent evens out again and he gives Peter a nod.
“In three weeks, then,” Peter says.
He’s just reached the door when he picks up the sound of Stiles moving and then the sound of something being lobbed straight at its head. The force with which Stiles launches it is truly impressive, but Peter is a werewolf; he turns and catches it with ease. Opening his hand, he looks down and frowns to see a roll of stamps.
At his questioning look, Stiles says, “The design didn’t set right, so I can’t sell them, but I think you’d like them.” He pauses. “Also I was experimenting with weight. They were intended for packages up to six hundred pounds.”
Peter can read between the lines. He closes his hand around Stiles’s gift and nods at him before leaving.
As far as he can tell, after all, the design – a large and proud wolf with blue eyes and black fur – isn’t flawed at all.
France is ultimately boring. Well, there is one poisoning attempt and two trigger boxes filled with mistletoe, but considering Peter is dealing with the oldest and most powerful hunting dynasty in the world, that’s practically nothing.
Besides, it’s worth it to discretely filter out the wolfsbane powder and drink down his formerly poisoned wine while smiling blandly at the steadily more furious Argents.
He’s welcomed home with one hug each from Cora and Laura, a scowl from Derek, and weary sigh from Talia.
“He’s a little old for teenage angst,” Peter observes, after Talia has explained that Derek has been increasingly withdrawn and moody, snapping at everyone in sight, coming home at odd hours, and showering a lot. “Did you have him followed?”
Talia looks offended. “I’m his mother, not his jail keeper.”
Peter shrugs. He’s followed almost every single member of the Hale family at one time or another, and he knows he was followed by the previous Left Hand when he was a kid. It’s kind of tradition. It doesn’t mean that someone suspects you; sometimes it just is the best way to gauge if interference is necessary.
Then again, that’s why Peter is the Left Hand and Talia is the alpha.
“I assume talking hasn’t worked then?”
“I even tried ordering his favorite dinner. He walked out on me. And he yelled at Cora when she tried to bribe him with cookies.”
Peter sighs. He’d rather not have to interrogate his nephew after a very long overseas flight and even longer treaty negotiation with the Argents, but some things can’t be put off. “I’ll talk to him after dinner.”
“That’s a good idea. Everyone’s home to welcome you back, anyways. It’ll help him not feel . . . cornered.”
Except that Derek, the little rascal, climbs down the side of his window and leaves as they’re putting out the food.
Laura takes off after him, when they find out. Peter just shrugs and keeps digging in. He’s starving and he can always find Derek later for a nice, long chat. Even if Derek ditches his phone, it’s unlikely he’ll leave the Camaro, and Peter can track that too. Besides, his nephew isn’t the subtle or forward-thinking type.
“He’ll be back,” Peter reassures Talia. “He can have his little bout of overdue teen angst, Laura can drag him home, and we can sit on him in the den and make him talk, okay?”
He’s not concerned. Whatever Derek’s gotten mixed up into, they can most certainly sort out.
But later. After food and cuddling with his pack and sleep.
Talia smiles. “Yes, of course, Peter.”
Later, when Peter wakes up to the entire house on fire he regrets not sitting on Derek the second he saw him in the foyer and smelt perfume and guilt and sex.
The house is surrounded by mountain ash.
None of the sinks or showers will turn on, much less yield a drop of water.
And the escape tunnel – the most closely guarded secret of the Hale family, the thing their house was so carefully built around, the most precious and most valuable of all the things their ancestors passed down – is blocked. Not even Talia’s formidable alpha strength can make the door budge.
At least Talia is still together enough to offer the kids a comforting smile. “Go over there and keep your heads down so the smoke doesn’t get you,” she says, firm but soothing.
The kids go without complaint. They’re frightened, of course, but all of the adults are controlling their scent, so they aren’t terrified yet.
That may change soon.
“I can’t move the door,” Talia says, rather unnecessarily, as she approaches. “And the fire’s too hot for someone to go outside and break the line.”
“I imagine the Argents would shoot anyone who stuck their head out anyways,” Peter sighs.
Talia sends him a sharp look. “Are you sure?”
“You know anyone else with the resources for this?” Peter says dryly.
It rather devolves into arguing, after that. For Peter, the question of blame is rather settled; others who don’t see the dark side of what Peter has to do are more . . . optimistic, and argue that he is wrong. Not to mention that no one wants to start the awful but rapidly becoming necessary discussion, which is:
When will it be time to find merciful swift deaths at the ends of claws, instead of slow agonizing deaths at the hands of fire?
Peter doesn’t contribute much. He can smell the smoke thickening, he can feel the heat building, he can taste the ash. They have no way out, none at all, and perhaps he failed to protect his pack from this attack, but he knows he’ll do what’s necessary to protect them from the heat of the fire. For him, the decision is already made.
From the set jaw on Talia’s face, she’s come to the same conclusion.
She pulls aside to lean against him. “Peter,” she whispers, grief heavy in her tone. “The children.”
“If we don’t . . .”
“I know. Oh god, I know.” Talia swallows hard. “I just. I wish I had something, anything, that would get them out of here, to some – some safe house or – or just any destination that isn’t here.”
Peter goes still.
I found myself holding onto them, wishing for something, anything, that would make them get to their destination.
They were intended for packages up to six hundred pounds.
I can cross mountain ash or wards with brute force.
“Don’t do anything until I get back,” Peter orders, and takes off up the stairs as fast as he can, ignoring the burn from the smoke and the pain from the flames. His coat is in the foyer, right at the front of the closet, and Peter digs frantically through the pockets until he finds the small protective case he stuffed the roll of Stiles’s wolf stamps in.
There’s a heart-stopping moment when he fumbles them and they drop – but thankfully the case doesn’t roll, so Peter seizes them and runs back down the stairs.
“Peter, what – ” Talia starts.
“Shut up and get everyone together,” Peter snaps, clawing open the case and peeling off one wolf stamp. “Everyone, pair up, now! Kids, find an adult; adults, you better hold on like your life depends on it.”
“Peter – ”
“The stamps,” Peter tells her, brandishing one at her. “Stiles’s stamps, Talia, they can cross mountain ash.”
A tinge of hope enters her eyes. “But we’re not – ”
“I’ve done it before. Once. It wasn’t pleasant but I lived and these stamps can carry up to six hundred pounds, so it’s this or nothing, and we don’t have time to argue!”
There’s no discussion after that.
Peter applies the first stamp to Cora, who is holding on tight to her brand new baby cousin. His niece’s jaw is set and firm, her eyes glimmering with unshed tears, but she doesn’t flinch at all.
“Think of a safe place,” Peter tells her, smoothing the stamp down over her arm. “The safest place you can imagine. And, Cora – ”
“Yes?”
Magic is only somewhat the incantations and the spells. A large part of it is belief.
“Believe in it, Cora,” he tells her. “And it will work.”
Peter holds her gaze, hoping with every fiber of his being that it will work.
No.
Believing.
The entire wolf lights up in bright gold, like the sun, brighter even than the encroaching flames. The gold spills across the stamp, and then ripples across Cora, and then the baby, until she’s covered in a web of sunlight that throws sparks all across the room.
“I believe,” Cora whispers.
And then she’s gone, only a gust of wind betraying that she was ever there.
After that, it’s a race. Peter and Talia slap stamps on every family member they can, making sure everyone is paired up to conserve, because Peter has no idea how many Stiles gave him and they want to make sure everyone gets out.
Finally, though, they’re on their last stamp, and it’s just Talia and Peter and the roaring fire.
Talia musters up a smile. “Like old times, huh, brother?”
Peter grips her hand tight with one hand and applies the very last wolf stamp with the other. “Like old times,” he echoes, and he closes his eyes, and he thinks of Stiles – his scent, his magic, his smile – and he believes.
And then he’s abruptly dumped on his back against the hard wooden floor of the shop.
Alarms go off, loud and insistent and ringing, and shadows rise up from the corners of the shop and prowl around them, formless but with sharp teeth and blazing eyes. Talia growls at them, eyes gone bright alpha red, but Peter merely coughs and dusts himself off before turning to look at the counter.
Sure enough, Stiles clatters in a few seconds later, eyes white-hot with magic, only to skid to a stop.
“Peter?” he exclaims. “And – wait, is that your alpha? Why are you here? And why do you smell like – like fire?”
Peter laughs, and thumps his head against the floor in relief, and says, “Well, the good news is that your stamps can definitely carry up to six hundred pounds.”
Stiles, upon hearing the full story, invites them all to stay in the loft above his store, because his magic means that the space expands to accommodate whoever is inside. Also, his store is warded to hell and back, which means no hunter can so much as look twice at it, never mind set fire to it. And his best friend Scott is apparently a bitten wolf, which means that Stiles has some idea of just how much werewolves can each, and Peter watches in slight amazement as Stiles whips up a veritable feast of food to go alongside the enormous orders of pizza, wings, and burgers that they get delivered.
“My goodness, Stiles,” Talia says faintly, as Stiles slides a huge platter of ribs on the table. “You don’t need to – ”
“No, you’re doing me a favor, because if I didn’t make these for you, my dad would eat them and trust me, that would be a horrible thing for his cholesterol,” Stiles says. His scent is warm and contented, filling the air with the sweetness of fresh baked pie, and Peter resists the urge to lean over and nuzzle his neck.
Cora, ever incorrigible, elbows Peter in the gut as Stiles dashes back to the kitchen to put his cake in the oven, which he swears will make them all instant fans.
“He’s a keeper,” she says, too loud for a whisper but too soft for humans to hear.
“No kidnapping of humans,” Talia interjects automatically, but her stern tone is rather at odds with the way she is absolutely decimating the ribs she scooped up.
On one hand, Peter respects Talia’s rule. They are werewolves and therefore, they have to control themselves, and control means more than just the shift. They have to not let slip what they smell or hear, they have to dial back their strength and speed, and they absolutely can’t march up to a random human and proclaim that their scents mean they’re compatible mates. Werewolves would never remain secret that way, as they need to.
On the other hand, well. Peter never has been the most obedient of the pack.
So Peter replies, “Stiles isn’t human.” Then he rises and heads to the kitchen, ignoring the catcalls that follow him.
At least they have the decency to do it at a volume only a wolf could hear.
In the kitchen, Stiles is scribbling on a piece of paper, head bent low and face wrinkled in concentration. The cake – which smells amazing even to Peter’s incredibly stuffed full stomach – is sitting on a cake stand at his elbow, bags of frosting laid neatly beside it as if Stiles went to decorate and then got distracted by a thought and immediately had to write it down.
The sight sends a rush of fondness through Peter. He’s seen Stiles distracted so many times, and it should irritate him – Stiles has a habit of not paying attention to his surroundings and leaving his back wide open for attack – but right now, all it does is make him want to lean against Stiles and cuddle him.
Still, he has to keep up appearances. “Got distracted again?” Peter asks.
“Cake has to cool,” Stiles says, in a very distracted tone. He scratches at his cheek, where there’s a smear of frosting, and then crosses one of his lines out and writes something else. Then he surveys his list, nods firmly, and turns to hand it to Peter. “Here. Suggestions for new wards. If your Emissary isn’t strong enough, I can help.”
Peter raises an eyebrow, but he takes the list. He has no idea what half of the list says, which means a research binge is in his future.
Also: “You didn’t need to – ”
“Sucks for you, I did it anyways.” Stiles crosses his arms, belligerence in his blazing eyes. “You should be able to sleep safely in your den without fear.”
“Isn’t that our Emissary’s problem?”
“If you think I’d let a friend almost get roasted alive and not try and help, you’re a moron,” Stiles says flatly.
His heartbeat skips. If Peter wasn’t so closely attuned to Stiles, he might not have noticed.
But he does.
Peter lays the list aside and prowls up to Stiles. He even lets his claws drop and his eyes flash wolf blue, as he did when they first met, and Stiles meets his gaze with a set jaw, unafraid and stubborn, as he did when they first met. He’s as gorgeous now, covered in flour and grease, as he was then.
“You know what I just heard?” Peter asks softly, trailing a claw over Stiles’s neck. “Your heartbeat skip over the words a friend.”
“You’re my friend.”
“Just a friend?”
“You absolute – ”
Peter kisses the swear words off his lips, tasting barbecue sauce and buttercream frosting and love, and Stiles – wonderful Stiles – kisses back.
Between Stiles’s magic and Peter’s connections, tracking down Kate Argent is laughably easy. Getting her alone is even easier, since Peter just sneaks up and slaps stamps on them, sending them off to a nice and very secure jail cell to await the Tribunal’s judgment. It’s a short hop for them, so they just use some of Stiles’s run of the mill stamps.
For Kate, though . . .
Stiles intercepts a food delivery and knocks on her door, affecting a harmless delivery person aura. When Kate she opens the door, gun hidden behind her back and eyes narrowed in suspicion, Stiles smiles wide and chirps, “Hi!”
Then he slaps a stamp on her forehead.
Kate says, “What the hell?”
Peter sidles up to Stiles and then, as Stiles queues up the spell that will allow for a one time conversation, drapes himself over Stiles’s back, earning himself a long suffering look but also a quick rub of cheeks.
Stiles, as it turns out, is taking to werewolf courting like a duck to water.
“Hello, Kate,” Peter purrs.
The spell – which renders a perfect image of Kate’s face – isn’t quite as good as a camera, but it’s good enough. Peter can see the confusion written on her face, how her eyes dart this way and that like a trapped animal, the way she’s trying and failing to find a quick and easy escape as she scrabbles around.
There won’t be one.
The box she is currently is trapped in is one Peter personally built and Stiles personally warded. It’s made of heavy and unbreakable material, and it’s also weighed down by lots of anchors. One for each member of the Hale family, in fact. Let it not be said that Peter doesn’t know how to make a statement.
“Peter Hale,” Kate hisses back. “How dare you – ”
“The spell won’t last long, so let’s make this quick, my dear Katherine. You seduced my nephew to get the secrets of the Hale pack out of him, and then you trapped us all inside and set fire to the house, with the intention of watching us all burn alive. Yes or no?”
“Wow, such a wild imagination you have,” she says. “How could you think that of me? Derek’s just so cute, I would never – ”
“You then,” Peter continues relentless, “waited for a time when the whole family would be home for a reunion, and then after we fell asleep, you circled the house in mountain ash to trap us, cut the water lines so we couldn’t put out the fire, and settled in to watch us all burn alive. Yes or no?”
“The Argents only hunt those who hunt us. Don’t you know that, Hale?”
“And finally, you broke the very nice and very expansive treaty I spent weeks hammering out with your matriarch. Yes or no?”
“Why would I do that?”
Peter smiles grimly. “Because you’re a monster, Kate. And now you’ll die the same way to meant us to die: trapped with no way out, cut off from all supplies, and the clock ticking on your air supply. I confess, it’s not quite the way I would have preferred to do it – I’m more of a hands on man – but this . . . is certainly not without its own satisfaction.”
He lets that sit for a few moments. The best part of a trap is letting the prey realize how thoroughly they are trapped.
“But I’m not without reason. Confess, Kate, and I’ll have my lovely Stiles set you free.”
“You – ”
“Of course, by ‘free’ I mean ‘turned over to the Tribunal for judgement and probably execution, but that’s more of a reasonable chance than you gave us, so I think I’m being quite fair.”
Kate hisses like an angry cat. “You’ll die for this, Hale.”
“No, I don’t think I will. Last chance. Apologize.”
Stiles holds his hand up and begins folding his fingers down. The spell is nearing its end then. That’s fine. Peter already has everything he needs to present to the Tribunal.
Finally, Kate lets out a long, slow breath. He can almost hear her settling into the hunting mode that the Argents have trained their daughters and sons in for a thousand generations. She still must think she can wriggle free, then.
Fool.
“Fine,” Kate says. “Fine, fine, fine! So I may have put some mountain ash down, and I may have learned from a very agreeable chemist about some very nice odorless accelerant, and I may have struck a few matches here or there. Although it really isn’t my fault. Derek was just so eager to please. He really was so sweet . . . for a monster. But, you know: I’m sorry.”
Peter pretends to consider the apology. For all of two seconds.
He shakes his head, even though she can’t see. “Well, you see, that wasn’t quite good enough, Kate,” he tells her. “Good-bye. Enjoy the remainder of your . . . very short life.”
“Hale, you – !”
The spell flickers and fades, sparks dying out like a fire that has burned through all of its fuel. Kate’s face crumbles away, leaving only the echoes of her enraged voice and the sickening smell of her perfume.
Peter lets out a long breath.
Stiles folds his arms around him, hugging him tightly, and Peter buries his face in his mate’s neck, soothing himself on Stiles’s warm, familiar, lovely scent. His mate is alive. His family is alive. His enemy is dead – or will be, very soon. All is well.
“Do you regret it?” Stiles asks.
“Regret what?”
“Not killing her yourself.”
“Stiles, darling,” Peter says fondly, “you are my mate and I am yours. What you do, I do; what I do, you do. She’s dead by your hand and therefore my hand, and even if I do wonder what her throat would have felt like under my claws, your suggestion was exemplary. I have no regrets.”
Then, because he has to, Peter asks, “Do you?”
“Not a second,” Stiles says, beaming, the truth shining through in his eyes and his scent.
And, well, Peter just has to kiss him for that.
FINIS