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Lately, Peter has found himself with a problem. A problem of temptation, to be specific. Being tempted isn't unusual for Peter, no, what makes this a problem is the fact that he's being tempted to do something he isn't actually inclined to do. Normally, temptation is nothing to him because he gives in to his desires and moves on. Peter doesn't suffer from temptation, simply because he doesn't deny himself. He leaves that sort of behavior up to Derek.
Lately, though. Lately, Peter has been tempted by something so lowly as the common deer that fill the preserve. It's really quite lowering.
OK, so maybe common deer isn't the best way to put it. It's really this one specific buck with a rack that is magnificent. For some godforsaken reason, every time Peter catches wind of the thing, all he can think about is hunting it down and presenting it to Stiles.
It's a terrible idea, of course. Stiles might not be quite human, but it's how he was raised and how he thinks of himself. Peter is a born wolf and was raised with werewolf courting rituals and even he would likely at least initially look askance at such a gift. The part of him that's all wolf still insists Peter do it. It's incredibly annoying. Peter doesn't know what to do about it.
He considers taking the problem to his nephew, but dismisses the thought immediately. Derek has certainly come a long way, but Peter isn't ready to take him on as a confidant, only other born wolf he spends time with or not. He's willing to keep working on everything that was between them, but he's not at all willing to go to him for advice.
Peter will just have to think his way out of this quandary on his own. That's fine. He's certainly been in worse situations. Everything is fine.
"Stiles, what the hell is that?" Stiles' dad asks as he staggers into the kitchen.
"No idea," Stiles says. "It was on the porch. Is it law enforcement appreciation week or something?"
His dad shakes his head and just stands there while Stiles hefts the giant gift basket onto the counter.
"What's in it?" He asks
"No idea," Stiles says again.
He finds a little envelope with his name written on the outside. His real name, spelled correctly and everything. Not that he's surprised by that part. No, Stiles recognizes that handwriting from the Hale bestiary and various research sessions. He stands there with his hand stretched toward the card, gaping like a fool. He's strangely afraid to touch it, terrified of what it might say.
"Stiles, what is it?" his dad asks, and from his tone Stiles thinks it wasn't the first time.
"It's from Peter," he answers softly.
"Peter—wait, Peter as in Peter Hale? Is it safe?" his dad responds.
Stiles nods. "He wouldn't do anything to endanger me."
"Then why do you look so scared to open that card?"
Stiles thinks about that, considers it carefully. "I don't know if I'm scared or just nervous about what's in it. He wouldn't consider embarrassing me as putting me in danger."
"Well, I'm dying to know what's in the basket," the sheriff says impatiently. "Maybe open the card later, once you know what's inside."
Stiles agrees, but only because he's even more hesitant to open the card in front of his dad than he is to open the basket. He grabs the scissors out of the gadget drawer and cuts the ribbon. He peels back the cellophane on the basket and looks at the contents. Then he looks some more.
Peter sent him a gift basket of grilling stuff. Far more than Stiles has ever needed, or in some cases even knew existed. There are rubs and sauces and utensils. Smack in the middle of it all, there's a substantial gift card for an online place that will apparently deliver them steaks. Like—Stiles didn't even know gift cards came in amounts that large.
"Huh," he says, staring at it.
"Huh," his dad says in a very different tone, and when Stiles looks up, he's staring at him.
"What?" Stiles asks.
"Oh, nothing," his dad says. "I don't suppose you've expressed an interest in grilling and Peter overheard."
Stiles mutely shakes his head. He pockets the card from the outside of the basket. His dad gives him a sardonic look to make sure Stiles knows he was seen, but doesn't otherwise do or say anything. Stiles backs away from the basket, feeling like he's mesmerized.
"I'm just...gonna go thank Peter," he says.
"Do I want to know how?" his dad asks him.
"Oh my god! With a text message! With words! What—what are you even?"
His dad looks up at him and Stiles realizes he might have been telling the truth, but he was also protesting too hard.
"I'm just gonna go," he says and flees the scene.
Peter has a few days of respite from his temptation. Four days after he sent the basket to Stiles he's jogging past the preserve when he scents that buck. He doesn't even notice he's turned off the main path until he nearly runs into Derek. He growls at the proximity of another wolf to what he's thinking of as his prey. Derek looks at him like he's lost his mind, which Peter can't really fault him for.
"What's wrong with you," Derek snaps with his customary lack of charm and inflection.
"It was just instinct," Peter says. "Nothing I can't handle."
He hopes Derek is willing to let him leave things there. Unfortunately, he doesn't seem to be. He has the audacity to look concerned.
"You didn't notice I was coming and you growled at me before you recognized me," Derek says thoughtfully. "You were in your beta shift. What were you tracking?"
He shifts his own face forward and takes a deep breath. "All I can smell is that big stag that's—"
Derek cuts off as Peter involuntarily growls before cutting himself off.
"Really? You're hunting deer now?" Derek asks, dripping with skepticism.
"I'm perfectly capable of hunting deer," Peter says, thoroughly offended.
"Yeah, but you prefer having other people hunt for you," Derek says with the accurate knowledge of a lifetime.
Peter sighs. He can't really refute that. Derek has known him too well and for too long. Maybe if this was after he had been feral the first time, but now Derek knows better.
"What's going on?" Derek asks.
He doesn't gloat over getting his way, so Peter decides to answer the question.
"I'm having...urges," he starts with. "To...hunt."
Derek looks at him, clearly expecting more. Peter grits his teeth, but continues.
"For Stiles," he says.
"For Stiles," Derek repeats. "For Sti—oh."
"Yes, you see the problem," Peter says, glad he won't have to spell things out any further.
Derek looks like he's trying not to laugh. "So, you're having urges to provide for Stiles," he says, "and you're suppressing them somehow, but it's not working. You're still having them. What have you been doing?"
"I sent him a grilling basket and gift certificate for steaks," Peter says, resigned to being mocked.
The pitying look he gets instead doesn't make him feel better than mockery would have.
"That didn't help for long," Derek says, and it isn't a question.
"No," Peter agrees. "Just a few days."
"So, what are you going to do about it?" Derek asks, a challenge in his voice.
"I don't know," Peter reluctantly admits. "I think I need to do something more hands on, but Stiles is human."
"He isn't going to react to an entire deer the way a born wolf would," Derek agrees. "You could have it butchered, though."
Peter considers that. "Perhaps," he concedes. "It would still be my kill, but not presented to him in a way he would find unappealing. I will consider it."
"You should probably consider it fast," Derek says. "Good luck," he adds, then jogs off, leaving Peter to his thoughts.
Stiles opens his front door and lets out a manful shriek before he can fully suppress it. He distantly registers relief that his dad wasn't around to hear it, but mostly he focuses on the scene in front of him. Peter Hale is standing on his front porch; he's naked, bloody, and holding the dead body of a gigantic stag. As Stiles watches, he lifts it off his shoulders and lowers it to the porch.
Stiles stares down at the dead animal, then looks back to Peter. As well as blood, he's covered in dirt and leaves and the rest of the flotsam of the forest, looking more like he's been rolling around on the ground than chasing down a deer. His eyes are wild in a way Stiles isn't accustomed to seeing from him. Perhaps worst of all is the gigantic, feral smile on his face.
"Is—this for me?" Stiles asks, wanting to be sure he has a handle on the situation.
"Only the best for my mate," Peter says, his voice deeper than normal.
He sways, and Stiles reaches out to help support him.
"What is wrong with you?" Stiles asks, resolutely ignoring Peter's words. "You're about to collapse."
"Blood loss, I suspect," Peter says. "I just need to sleep it off," he adds, then drops his head to Stiles' shoulder.
Stiles stands there for a moment, but Peter doesn't say anything else. Stiles adjusts his grip on Peter.
"Come on, then," he says, "You can sleep it off on the couch."
Peter whines, proving Stiles' suspicion that he's still conscious correct.
"You're not getting in my bed covered in all that," Stiles says. Then he clarifies, "You're not getting in my bed at all until we have a conversation about this. One where you're fully cognizant.
Peter grumbles, but he doesn't say anything so Stiles knows he's won. He half-drags a stumbling Peter into the house. He props him up against the wall while he grabs a sheet to throw over the couch, then helps Peter get settled. He throws an old blanket over him, then leaves the room to call Derek. He can't think of anyone else who might be able to shed insight on the morning's events, or at the least tell him what to do with the carcass on his front porch.
Peter wakes up and knows two things before he opens his eyes—he's not somewhere he's ever slept and he's safe. It's a strange feeling, not least because he can also tell he's being watched. He's safe, though, because he can smell Stiles and Stiles smells content.
Unfortunately, Stiles isn't the only person he smells.
"Good evening, Sheriff," he says without opening his eyes.
There are two snorts, but only Stiles' is truly amused.
"Son, would you like to tell me why Mr. Hale is sleeping on our couch? I can't help but note he seems to be missing some of his clothing."
Peter stays quiet, content to let Stiles bear the brunt of the interrogation. This is only partly because he doesn't know the answer himself, something that would alarm him more in the normal course of things. He keeps going back to the fact that Stiles smells content, though. He's clinging to that fact rather more than he's proud of, honestly.
"The short answer is, 'I don't know'," Stiles says. "The longer answer is he showed up here with a bigass deer and passed out promptly afterwards. I have some ideas of what that might mean, but I think I need to talk to him before getting into them."
"Stiles, he's my age!" John says, showing he's been around werewolves to have some clues about their behavior.
"Remember our agreement, Dad?" Stiles asks, voice calm, but with an undercurrent of steel that Peter can't help but admire.
"I know, but really?" John answers Stiles somewhat nonsensically.
"Maybe," Stiles says. "I'll let you know. Now, go away so I can talk to Peter"
"Fine," the sheriff says, relenting. "I'll be in the kitchen."
"Stay out of the whiskey!" Stiles calls after him as he leaves the room.
There's a snort and a muffled call of, "Yeah, right!" before silence falls and Peter is left alone with Stiles.
Peter decides to sit up. He allows the blanket that was covering him to pool at his waist, leaving his chest bare. To his delight, Stiles steals a few glances, seeming to have trouble looking away. Peter can't help but preen at the way he looks admiring.
"So, once Derek stopped laughing, he made me promise to remind you that he warned you," Stiles says.
Peter sighs. His nephew is never going to let him live this down, rightfully so. Oh well, Derek is sure to do something stupid that will give Peter back that leverage. Eventually.
"This is the part where you let me in on the joke," Stiles says, interrupting his thoughts.
Peter looks up at him in surprise.
"There's no joke," he says. "That was werewolf courting. I've been trying to suppress and subvert the urge, but it seems to have gotten the better of me. I apologize. I will pay for disposal of the deer," he ends with, trying not to wince.
"Don't worry," Stiles says. "I still have one of your credit cards from when I was in high school. You've already paid for it to be processed."
"Processed?" Peter asks, ignoring the revelation of Stiles' sticky fingers.
"Yes," Stiles says. "I called Derek and he sent me the number for a place that handles everything from the butchering to the tanning. I suspect they’re used to working with werewolves. They didn't seem surprised to get a phone call about a giant stag in a suburban neighborhood with its throat ripped out."
Peter nods, relieved by that fact at the very least. He doesn't know what to say next.
"Hey, Peter?" Stiles says after a minute.
"Yes, Stiles?"
"Would you like to take me to dinner?"
Peter smiles at the way Stiles worded it. It's a reminder that their wolf and human sides can mix.
"Yes, Stiles, I would like that very much. Are you free tomorrow evening?"
Stiles smiles and nods, and Peter thinks maybe things are going to be OK.