Chapter Text
Entertain Us (It’s Less Dangerous )
Chapter Three : Oh No, I Know A Dirty Word
“Are you ready brother?” He pauses, considering the question, shifting his sandal-clad feet in the dirt. The walls gleam tunic white. Out the corner of his eye, he can catch sight of their banners thread slowly being eaten by the wind. The sound of drums rolls over the land. Sunlight threatens to crest over the horizon. A hundred thousand souls shine in the distance.
“Is anyone ever?”
Lydia Martin is always a force to be reckoned with.
The red-head’s hair is a vibrant halo, or a queen’s cowl flowing out behind her in a fiery arc.
The very clack of her heels is “notice me pointed”.
As a prominent benefactor of the Jungle and occasional gracer of Stiles’s humble presence, she answers to none.
Lydia Martin doesn't act like she bought the place, she walks with the confidence of someone who owns ten percent shares in all supply markets.
She smiles at the adoring public (at this point a poor unsuspecting bouncer whom she is ensnaring with that very smile.) The smile that holds all the delicacy of a butterfly with the hidden intricacy of its wings shocking patterned beauty.
Something that flutters by in the middle of a hot summer's day.
That strikes while the heat bears down on you in relentless waves .
When your eyes have grown lidded against the haze.
The sun leaving you feeling oppressed and sweating, envying the dogs that lay in the porch shade. Just briefly, you catch that snatch of color and you watch a deceptively delicate insect’s flight through the cooling breeze, ‘till it slips away, gone, in the midst of hot June’s marriage to July.
Her eyes catch his. Stiles sees the smile. It's the kiss of spring to summer.
Uh oh.
He’s in trouble.
Jackson’s a lizard.
Though, he might as well be an iguana or chameleon for all the colors he can change.
Shifty, when you expect simplicity from what appears to be a brainless jock.
A very pouty, beady-eyed venomous pet iguana with a penchant for human flesh. Not the kind you'd find in most pet stores. Even the exotic kind? Maybe he’d have to look it up.
Anyway, there had to be a reason Lydia stuck it out with him, even if Stiles couldn't see it.
Say what you will, but Jackson is friends with the resident gay guy Danny Milton. Best friends in fact. Come to think of it, Lydia is, too.
Interesting that.
Jackson Whittemore isn't a bigot.
He has never been a dick to Stiles about anything sexuality-related.
Jackson is just an asshole.
Plain and simple.
Go figure.
Not the sort of person Stiles wanted to run into, so he casually made his way the other direction and to the dance floor.
Music has always spoken a language of its own; this new world's tunes are no different than that of old.
Something heavy with a base, something sure weighty.
A pounding you can feel in your very bones.
The heart latches onto every score, certain of each note, beating out into a final crescendo.
That’s when he runs into none other than Peter Hale.
“What are you doing here?”
“I wasn't aware I needed a reason.”
A banshee's scream cleaves the air the way guillotine does a head from a man's shoulders.
Arrows whistle hellos to him as they lay waiting shifting in their quivers.
Armor clamors and ill fitted bronze plates creak a greeting sounding between each soldier's step.
Swords wink from their scabbards, javelins promise swift retribution and ache to sink into flesh.
Spears whisper to shields which stand to proudly at the ready fast in each man's hold.
Across the plains horses, whinnies reach him even here miles from the enemy encampment.
The sea around him can scarcely be looked upon, waiting for ships that rest atop her blue depths.
From a distance, he can see men are shoulder to shoulder; the pace quickens.
Dawn has not yet risen.
The mast of the ship centers him and the ocean waves each time he stands at the helm.
The set of his older brother’s face is lined and grim.
Soon, promises the sun. The gods never lie.
Gunfire summons Stiles from the past like a demon to a circle.
His body thrums as if waking from ages spent dormant.
He is Hellfire incarnate.
He is Judgment sent to smite these beasts.
Stiles is Righteous, and he also needs a weapon.
Peter is beside him like a ghost haunting a grave.
Stiles spots broken table leg. It will have to do; besides half of them are rowen infused any way with silver concentrate.
He smashes the weak point as hard as he can and a piece snaps off revealing a point.
Perfect.
Peter wisely doesn’t remark on his improvised weapon and simply moves to cover his shoulder.
“Wolfsbane bullets,” Peter grits out, scarcely giving him time to process the news.
His teeth are in fine form and Peters fangs cutting him a harsh profile.
“Someone came prepared.” That's when he notices Peter's been shot. Multiple times and his skin’s sweating a strange sheen most likely effect of the Wolfs Bane concoction.
“What! How have you been dodging the hits then?” Or standing even?
“Sheer speed & Aerobics; you should try it some time.” Peter barks twisting so they are back to back.
“Didn’t it occur to you that this was a kind of important detail for me to know?!”
“That I’d taken up pilates; no, I didn’t think so.” The werewolf cleanly dispatched a chimera.
"Don't be a fucking smartass about it; people are bleeding!" The pain in his ankle throbs; he shouldn’t have twisted his leg quite like that, earlier.
“But Stiles, I could be mortally wounded?”
"So rockstar? What's a little carnage between pals?"
Stiles is sure now that his teeth are bared. Blood thrums through at a dull roar, the pounding of his pulse a waterfall echoing in his ears.
"Pals? So now we're friends. Wow, made it to second base so fast why I didn't know you were so easy."
The werewolf tuts, holding a lizard back, muscles hardly straining beneath his skin as the beast snarls.
"Fuck it; a charmed acquaintance whatever gets your rocks off; can you just kill the thing already?”
Peter rips apart the Lizard he’d been toying with jaws apart.
He doesn't wince as serrated teeth leave gashes in his flesh.
A bang like thunder’s gong when lightning hits strikes through the air.
Stiles throws himself at Peter bowling them both over, no time to think.
He is on the floor.
Stiles knows this by the digging of wood into his boney spine, and something warm is overtop of him.
He twitches lips parting to pull in a large gulp of air.
“Stiles,” growls a voice, forceful and set with iron.
“Wha-” His lashes flutter and he blinks into existence again.
Hands are lightly running all over him and gently through his hair; Peter’s expression is odd something he can’t place but his eyes are kind- wait.
He lifts a hand in vague protests for propriety's sake, managing to form a nice bird and flips it.
“Now, now, darling let’s not give me ideas you're in no state to be doing anything of the sort.”
Stiles wants to do nothing of the kind and struggles to lift his head, only to have it gently back shoved down.
“Shush”.
“I can-” Too late, though; Peter's already yanking him up further into his arms.
Well, arm.
Damn.
The werewolf grasps Stiles body and sits on the back of his heels, easily cradling him.
“Lydia...” He tries to ask, because this is important. Peter jerks his head to the left and Stiles eyes try to follow, but he can only manage to view the ceiling and Peter’s face.
“Mrs. Martin is currently behind the bar as are we. She appears to be making a cocktail with half the imported accompanied by Danny, though she’s mostly sticking to middle shelf.”
That’s where they kept the vodka.
“Molotovs?” He questions.
“Looks like.” Peter wrinkles his nose. “They are decimating the Popov.”
“Good, stuffs nasty like cologne, not that yours is nasty,” Stiles admits.
Peter's face does a weird thing again and Stiles frets.
“‘So nice 'n musky, woods, growth and fight and nice.”
Peter ruffles Stiles hair, probably because he can; it’s hard to tell, but his lips are stretching into a light smile and the tug of them into a smirk is almost wicked.
“Indeed? You will have to tell me more about it sometime.”
“Ok.” He can definitely do that.
“Right, the place seems to be infested.”
“With creeps like you? ” He bites his lip. Peter’s eyes flash a vivid blue and he can’t help but be transfixed by the sight. So much akin to the island’s bright water, or the pressing dark of deep salty sea. Stiles lifts a hand and presses it to the man's forehead. Peter’s face is mere inches from his as he leans in to hear Stiles speak. “Your eyebrows...” he finally says, huffing a laugh. “They're here.” It’s almost ridiculously funny because where else would they be? You're here. He means. You stayed.
Peters' head is cocked at an odd angle, and he seems to be arguing a matter silently.
The noise of shattering glass breaks the staring contest between them.
The smell of burning meat wafts by.
Peter’s chest heaves for a moment, and Stiles eyes water against the fumes.
He rests his gaze on the werewolf’s jawline, using the edge of it to focus his eyes.
Blinking away tear drops and staring up through his lashes, he clears his throat.
“Human offensive has been established.” Something heavy rests in his rib cage, like a porcelain plate caught painfully between his ribs. Peter’s begun rubbing small circles into his skin, and he breathes easier for it.
“Yes, well, upsy daisy.” A falseness lingers about the phrase. Stiles shakes.
“Have to get you into a chair. There are things for me to kill.”
He sniffles.
Peter still does not move.
Stiles feels too fuzzy, like floating among clouds, to question much at the moment. He files this away for a later date. He tugs on the v-neck, turning his cheek, into that neck and rubbing.
“Much as I might be enjoying this now, you will certainly regret it later, Stiles, I have to go,”
Peter says, words spoken pillow soft,even as their weight hits Stiles like credit card debt.
Suddenly, he’s being slipped from Peters hold, and he clutches desperately at the black shirt.
He groans a full body shudder as he is set down. He’s grasping for the werewolf unashamed.
”Please.” Stiles says, tears falling from his eyes freely.
Don’t leave .
Peter wipes away a stray teardrop from Stiles' eyes, his own orbs flashing bright iridescent blue. His fingers are calloused and his touch is somehow gentler than anything Stiles has ever felt before.No, gentle isn’t the word. Stiles finally places his expression; it’s reverent. Like Stiles is something precious. Peters' thumb lingers there below lashes, tracing the tear track down to his lips. Then he’s gone.
“Say, your boy’s mighty fine. He’s making short work of that their beastie.” Bert crossed his arms, a contemplative look on his face. Stiles looked up from where he sat, shuffling his beaten up sneakers.
They both watched Peter efficiently rip into the belly of the cat thing strong biceps flexing. Lydia pulls out a nail file from her purse and begins to look down her nose at all proceedings.
“Well, I’m certainly not with him for his charming personality and winning good looks; you know me better than that.”
“Hmm.” Bert starts licking his lips. “Sure was acting the right opposite earlier.”
“With the right motivation, he gets the job done.” Stiles waggled his eyebrows then winced.
That motivation being Peter wanted to be done as soon as possible so he could get back to what he was doing.
Which probably consisted of hanging around his sparse apartment filled with musty old books and empty of Stiles. Maybe creeping on some little kids.
Then, yes, that was the right motivation.
Bert, however, didn’t need to know that. If he thought they were boning (and he did if that grin was anything to go by), then it would save Stiles some questions. Possibly a few precious minutes could be wasted with denial. Sure enough, a warbler had tried to sneak behind Peter’s back and the man reached over, grabbed the beast and snapped its spine clean in two with a sickening crunch.
“Peter just tore that one right in two,” Lydia remarked in a conversational manner as she clipped a nail. Jackson and Danny had left earlier without her to pick some things up. Stiles wasn’t sure what exactly. Whatever; not his problem. He watches as Peter flashes his teeth in what's probably glee. It’s a happy sort of wolf grin and his chest is just a little fast, while his eyes have turned a bright showy blue, belaying his leftover adrenaline from the previous excitement.
“He’s efficient like that.” Stiles takes a moment to appreciate how thorough the werewolf is with beheading the corpse. (Never hurts since they can’t burn it.)
Peter’s hands are now lax, but claws have not yet receded into nails.
Flecks of blood still stain his hands and body in a swathy mix of bright crimson and dried rusty brown.
He is a wild in the way of a rugged mountain range.
The kind whose snow capped peaks touch the sky crevices, jagged and yawning with hunger.
The light does his hair favours, highlighting bits of russet in the brunette with a dusky hue.
Peter doesn’t slow his movement towards the group.
There is no hesitation when he swiftly pulls out a handkerchief and casually wipes the vibrant red off of his face. His tongue darts out, easily lapping up the bits around his teeth.
The grin gracing his lips is not kind.
Stiles' cheeks are pulling wide at the mouth and his companions blink; too late, Stiles realizes he’s wearing his own edged smile.
Every inch of Peter looks all at once alive and at ease, his gait that of a confident predator, muscles flexing with each move as he prowls closer.
He is beautiful.
Then he opens his mouth and it all goes downhill from there.
“Did the little human poo decide now was the time to play a mage and give out the least DPS?”
Stiles grits his teeth violently, yanking a loose thread from his jeans.
Oh did the little wolfie-poo play tug-of- war with the clawed kitty-monster-thing and get scratched?
He grips the chair with his left hand, knuckles turning white.
I’m not going to talk to him . Stile decides right then and there he doesn’t have time to waste.
He turns his head to glance at Lydia.
“I don’t have to talk to him.”
Lydia puts her items gracefully away in that seemingly bottomless purse pulling out… paperwork of all things and handing it to Stiles. Jesus, it’s like the stuff bred into more little forms when you aren’t looking.
“Unfortunately-”
She closed the clasp of her purse with a loud snap.
“-You do”.
“I happen to own twelve percent share,” Peter grinned.
“Someone needs to investigate this occurrence for insurance purposes.”
Lydia arched her eyebrow, unimpressed with Stiles’s pouting.
“I suppose that someone is you?”
“Stiles you are a shareholder as well, you happen to work for-” He coughed, “Own,” beating his chest.
“Own the aforementioned insurance company,” Lydia amended appearing serene.
He read the fine print once, then read it again. Sure enough, there were Peter’s shares, and a clause for property damage and such. It also informed him Lydia was queen, as usual.
“It’s liability for you to do it on your own.” She admitted with a shrug of her shoulders.
“If someone says Peter wanted to look into what happened, he could.”
Please don’t say with me . Stiles silently begged, already knowing by the look in her eyes that he wouldn’t be getting shown any mercy.
“As the board member, I can appoint a team to look into the matter. “ She exchanged a look with Peter, ignoring Stiles sputtering completely.
“I’d like you & Peter to be that team. ”
Yep, she had definitely noticed Stiles avoiding her earlier.
It sounded like a bad buddy cop movie.
Stiles hated buddy cop movies.
Lydia’s tone made it clear there was no like or try about this, only do.
No. No and no again he would not be working with mothering Peter Hale, of all the creatures, on God's Green Earth. (More like Satans Hell Hole.) He couldn’t even look at the guy. Who would be there to stop him from strangling the werewolf if they were alone together?
No witness.
This had promise.
However, that didn’t mean he had to like it, not one bit...
“He’s an absolute child,” Stiles bit out refusing to back down.
“Perfect, then you should get along.” Lydia flipped her hair and redid her lips a violent cherry to accent her point. Work together or else.