5. Chapter 5

Stiles is definitely the clever one. It’s a blessing and curse for the pack, but mostly a curse for Peter who has felt the burn of that boy’s fury more than once. Peter would never admit it, but he finds it unsettling to be in Stiles’s crosshairs. He suspects that Stiles feels the same about him.

But despite the ways they are very, very different, they are too much alike in the ways that count to ever really get along. Peter respects that.

Sometimes.

“So hey, about that mate mark!” Stiles smiles brightly, bouncing on his feet while standing on Peter’s front porch.

Peter slams the door in his face.

Stiles resumes pounding on the door with his fist. Peter lets him keep going for two full minutes (he times it) until he re-opens the door with the most charming smile he has in his arsenal. “Why Stiles, what an honor to have you visit! To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Rubbing his hand, which is bright red from the beating it took against Peter’s door, Stiles glares at him. “You are such an asshole.”

Peter manages to refrain from saying “it takes one to know one” and instead waves Stiles inside. “I’d still like to know why you are here.”

Stiles sighs heavily, walking straight to the kitchen and poking at Peter’s Van Der Westen Speedster espresso machine with what can only be described as “heart eyes.”

“You just came here to molest my coffee maker.” Peter pulls him away from the very expensive equipment and goes about making them both lattes.

“Were you a barista? Because you look like you know what you’re doing.”

“I was never a barista, Stiles.” He taps the coffee grounds while the machine builds up steam. “But I have owned some version of this model since my early twenties. Are you going to tell me why you are here? Something about the mate mark?”

“Riiiiiight. Right.” Stiles nods a few times. “So. It’s not like I’ve had a lot of experience creating fake mate marks, you know?”

Peter glances sharply at him, then points out the window.

“Nah, I put a ‘mute’ spell on your place for a little while. Won’t hold more than an hour or so, but no one can hear us.” He wiggles his fingers in the air, his universal go-to sign for “I did some magic!” Peter sighs and continues with making their drinks.

“Anyway, not my area of expertise, ya’ dig?”

“I ‘dig’.”

“Are you making fun of me? Nevermind! Okay, here is the thing: there is no spell for creating a fake mate mark.”

Peter pauses. “What.”

“That not-question thing is a family trait, amirite? Oh hey, no growling! Ow! Ow!” Stiles tries to squirm away from where Peter’s hand is splayed on his chest, claws out and pricking through his shirt.

“Did you actually bond us with real mate marks?” Peter can feel his fangs dropping, and Stiles can see them because he’s looking at Peter’s mouth in concern, fear wafting off of him.

“Hey hey, no! No. No? I don’t think so? Maybe?”

“Stiles.” Peter growls again and slams him against the refrigerator.

“Fuck, you Hales are all the same! Get off me and let me explain!”

Peter lifts his hand from Stiles’s chest and takes a step backwards. “Explain.”

“Mate marks are very peculiar. They rely a lot on emotions, as well as history and connection. That’s why you can’t force a mate mark on anyone who doesn’t want one.”

Peter thinks this over. “But we wanted them, right? Not for traditional reasons, but we did want them.”

“Right! I was kinda betting on that? And it worked!”

“You did not come here just to brag about your long shot.”

“No. No, I did not.” He runs a hand through his hair, making it even more spiky. “Look, I don’t know how to put this without pissing you off but: the reason the bond didn’t break was because one of you didn’t want it to break.”

Peter feels the blood drain from his face, but he locks down his immediate instinct to deny, deny, deny . This is his personal problem and he does not want a mouthy teenager lecturing him about it.

Stiles grimaces. “So, yeah, I figured you wouldn’t be happy to find out about how Chris feels.”

Peter opens his mouth but then closes it again after replaying that sentence. “How Chris feels.”

“Was that a question? Ahhhh okay okay! Claws off!” Stiles shimmies out of his grasp and goes to stand on the opposite side of the island counter. “Look, I felt you have a right to know. Maybe you can talk to him about it or something? Or not!” He adds quickly when Peter starts growling involuntarily.

“Who else knows?” Peter snarls through fangy teeth.

Stiles turns solemn and serious, which is unusual enough to make Peter pause. “No one, I swear. Scott wouldn’t believe it anyway, but my magic...my magic doesn’t lie. I hit a wall trying to break the bond because Chris didn’t want it broken.”

Peter takes a deep slow breath, collecting his thoughts. “You’re sure about that?”

Stiles frowns. “Uh, yeah?”

“I mean, are you sure it’s Chris?” He purposefully leers at Stiles, who scrunches his nose in distaste. “Maybe it was me. Maybe I want a hunter bound to me.” He rolls the words, feeling like a B-movie villain. But he has to find out exactly what Stiles picked up on, and telling the kid he’s wrong about something is the best way he’s found to get him to confess everything he knows.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Okay, sure, Jafar.” He sighs again and crosses his arms over his chest. “No, I didn’t read his mind or anything. I hit a wall of resistance, okay? That’s all I got. But are you going to stand here and tell me that you want to be bound to Chris for the rest of your life?”

“No, I am not.” Which is true for certain values of ‘truth’, Peter thinks. He’s not going to stand there and admit anything to Stiles, much less his feelings for Chris fucking Argent.

“Right! So. There it is. I can’t break the bond until Chris lets me. And that?” He points aggressively at Peter. “That is between the two of you. I’ve done the good samaritan thing here. Now, I’m out.”

Peter nods as Stiles stands there, not going anywhere. After a moment, Peter raises an eyebrow. “You’re not out yet.” He points towards the front of the apartment.

“I’m waiting for my coffee, dude. You promised me a fancy latte!”

Peter finishes making the brat’s too-good-for-him latte, pours it into a travel mug and kicks him out.

---

Chris gets home that evening looking tired. The jacket of his suit is off and slung over his arm, and while the waistcoat is still in place his tie has been loosened and the very top button of his shirt undone. Peter has, perhaps, an ever-so-slight passion for porn featuring men in suits and he’s seen enough vids that start in exactly this way not to be affected.

He’s really glad Chris is merely human, so can’t smell the arousal pouring off of Peter’s skin.

Chris puts his jacket over one of the bar stools in the kitchen and gets to unbuttoning his waistcoat and taking off his tie. Peter casually turns back to the tikka masala he’s working on.

“Is that basmati rice?” Chris asks, peering at the stove.

“What is the point of tikka masala without basmati rice?”

“Huh. Thanks. I love that.” He sighs and sits down on a bar stool, folding his tie on top of his jacket. “Work sucked, which I’m sure you’re glad to hear.”

“Not really. I hate office jobs, don’t understand why you bother. You could cash out your shares and retire for life.”

“It’s complicated.” Chris puts his elbows on the island countertop and rubs his eyes.

“Or, you’re just punishing yourself for what your father and sister did.”

There is a loud intake of breath behind him, but Chris doesn’t deny it.

Peter turns around and folds his arms. “Far be it for me to offer you life coaching, but AAI is an insanely profitable corporation that your family owns, yet here you are, in Beacon Hills which is the international business equivalent of bumfuck nowhere, working out of a rented office suite and living in a tiny apartment.”

“Formerly living in said tiny apartment,” Chris says, his eyes glancing at the window.

“Of course that’s what I meant. My point stands. You are living like a monk, self-flagellating yourself for your sins.”

“Is that also why we’re mates?” Chris snarks back, his eyes glittering with anger.

Peter returns to his cooking. Why he gives a damn about Chris’s life choices, he doesn’t know. In a week or so it won’t matter, and they can go back to being reluctant allies. Perhaps a conversation like this will help him get over his hopeless, disastrous crush. Just because Chris is smoking hot in a suit — or anything, really, if Peter is being honest — doesn’t mean Peter is relegated to being his bitch.

“I’m sorry.” Chris’s words are soft and edged with frustration.

Peter turns back around. “It’s your life, of course.”

“Don’t be a sanctimonious ass about it; I apologized.”

Peter waves a hand at him dismissively. “I mean it. It’s your life. If you love your job, which I’m sure you don’t, then keep doing it. But this martyr schtick is ridiculous, and there are other Argents who could take over as CEO.”

“True,” Chris grunts, fingers drumming on the countertop. He glances up at Peter from under his lashes, looking far younger and almost timid. “What would you have me do?”

The question sounds sincere, and Chris’s heartbeat is steady. Peter looks at him directly and is taken off guard by the intensity of Chris’s gaze on him, his crystalline eyes boring into Peter’s resolve. The moment hangs between them until Chris blinks and looks away.

“Gonna go change. Dinner… ?”

Peter clears his throat. “In 20 minutes it will be ready.”

Dinner is a quiet affair, and Peter is grateful to let the conversation drop. He wakes up wrapped around Chris, and lays there, listening to his heartbeat until Chris awakens and steals away to get ready for work.

Peter stays in bed for at least another hour, staring at the ceiling. What would he have Chris do? Fall in love with him? Rewrite history? Leave Beacon Hills (and therefore Peter) behind forever? Are either one of them even able to move on to new relationships, after all they have been through, all they have lost?

He thinks about his wife, Amanda, and her wicked smile and sharp eyes. They had only been mated for two months when she got pregnant, and their son Jacob had been three when the house burned. Peter had killed them both with his own hands when it become clear it was that or listen to them burn to death.

Chris, of course, had helped Victoria kill herself, and had been unable to save his daughter from the darkness of the nogitsune’s evil.

Are either of them really any less of a victim of the world they live in? Peter is under no illusions about Gerard Argent: his children turned out the way they did because he raised them to be monsters in the most monstrous way he could. His wife, the former matriarch of the whole north American clan, had died under mysterious circumstances...at least, that had been the rumor in the supernatural circles that Peter ran with, before the fire.

It always came back down to that, though: Before the Fire.

Before the fire, Peter didn’t hate Chris, and Chris did not hate Peter. They were wary of each other, and possibly “frenemies” by the current lingo, who enjoyed flirting with and teasing their respective forbidden fruit. They were also tied to the roles they had in their families, and happy to do it. Both obedient and unwilling to rock the boat, unwilling to risk the ostracism that would have followed rebellion no matter how strong the temptation.

The question as Peter sees it now: is either of them willing to rock the boat? Specifically, is he, Peter McInroy Hale, former alpha whose anchor used to be righteous, bloody revenge against the Argent clan, willing to risk what little he has left on the faint promise of having more?

He’s pretty sure he’s not.