Chapter Text
The overwhelming smell of sugar was tinted with sweat and frustration as a woman at the front of the line narrowed her eyes at a small brownie clutched between her index finger and thumb.
“I don’t understand—everything here is vegan and gluten-free, how is it not healthy?”
The harsh oven fans hid Isaac’s whispered “fuck off”, but Peter’s hearing left nothing to the imagination. Boyd’s shoulders were tight as he finished a ring of roses around a cake, Erica gnashed her teeth and glared holes into Peter’s back, which he habitually ignored, and… a new face struggled to maintain cheery politeness.
“Well, yes we do use limited ingredients and no animal by-products but we still use sugar and coconut oil—like a lot of sugar. It’s still a dessert.”
This woman, she looked like a Helen, was just going through her routine. She took the time to curl her hair and pick out the shade of lipstick that matched her Gucci handbag. She went to Yoga Works and today was her cheat day so she came to the vegan and gluten-free bakery hoping it could be a guilt-free alternative. The twitch developing at the corner of her mouth would only worsen by the end of the day when she’d inevitably strike the fear of God into her underpaid assistant—but for that moment the building block of her rage machine started with the new boy and his perfect skin and smattering of moles.
Peter would not fault Helen for adhering to her routine. Routines maintained order and sanity.
Peter snapped a quick picture of the cheery display case full of donuts and cupcakes and posted it on Instagram, filling his social media quota for the day. He’d finished his four-mile morning run and he needed to pick up cookies for his coworkers. He checked his watch.
If Helen continued her fierce internal struggle much longer Peter wouldn’t be able to shower and he’d have to apply a spray of sharp cologne that never failed to make his nose buzz until he washed it off.
He ran his tongue over his teeth, still dull and not fangs. His routine did not include ripping out Helen’s throat and letting her hot blood splatter across his face until her hand went limp.
A low growl made Peter turn. Erica’s eyes flashed gold and if she continued down that route even Helen’s human ears would pick up the sounds over the ovens. Boyd and Isaac stiffened when Peter caught Erica’s eyes and he placed his index finger over his lips. Hush, princess, or you’ll scare the humans.
“You know what, I’ll pass.” Helen spat out the words with unnecessary venom. “Just a tip, maybe don’t falsely advertise that this is vegan if it’s not healthy.”
Helen’s reign of terror at the bakery ended with her slamming out the door.
The new boy swallowed a sigh, Peter tracked his Adam’s apple, and he smiled at Peter.
“Good morning. Have you been to the bakery before?”
“I have.” Peter leaned his hip against the counter, basking in Boyd’s sharp glare. “I just need a dozen chocolate-chip cookies.”
“Great.” He moved in fast stuttered bursts, still learning where the boxes and bags were. He easily slipped the cookies into the bag, ringing Peter up on an iPad. “You’re all set—”
“You’re new.”
The boy’s shoulders went slack and his smile vanished. He tilted his neck back with a dramatic groan.
“Come on.” And oh his voice dropped at least one octave. “I was doing well, I thought I got that for you pretty fast.”
“You did.” Peter’s smile widened. “I’m just here every day. It had nothing to do with your performance.”
“Ah. Good to know.” His smile returned but it was crooked and flashed a hint of teeth. “Well, if I’m going to be seeing you, I’m Stiles.”
He held out his hand and Peter took it firmly in his grasp.
“Peter Hale.”
The three Betas bristled at the Demented’s name, but Stiles didn’t bat an eye. He was human and decidedly out of the werewolf loop. Erica seethed to the point of Boyd gently touching the small of her back. Isaac’s eyes darted from Peter, Erica, and Stiles rapidly, his fists clenched tight.
Stiles was none-the-wiser as they shook hands briskly.
“I’ll be seeing you. Enjoy the cookies, Peter.”
Another customer came in and Stiles’s brown eyes focused on them, a cheery and higher-pitched “Good morning” floating past Peter in a singsong cadence.
Before he turned to leave, Peter caught the eyes of the three bakery Betas, at their equally enraged and fearful gazes. He winked, if only to hear their heartbeats skyrocket, before walking through the door.
::::
Streaks of honey-gold sunlight splashed across Peter’s desk. Lydia was already in his office, as that had become a part of their routine. Her heels were kicked to the corner and she wiggled her toes on the carpet.
Peter tossed her the bag of cookies.
“You either need to drive more aggressively or find a better route. Ever since your Instagram post I’ve been salivating.” Peter smirked and sat on the edge of his desk, unsurprised when Lydia’s eyebrows quirked up. “These… are all in tact.”
Lydia didn’t insult him by actually voicing the question. The bakery had been a part of Peter’s routine for two years ever since Lydia dragged him in while they’d still been figuring each other out as possible allies. The sweets were pleasant and the Betas only changed their polite demeanor when, a few months after Peter’s first visit, he forgot to carry cash and had to use his credit card.
Peter Hale. Alpha. Lawyer. Murderer. Also the user of American Express.
Erica took pride in breaking apart any baked goods Peter bought.
All Peter would be left with were crumbs. He let the Betas have their moment of small justice. They were young pups. Peter had been young once.
“There was a new employee. He put my order together.”
Peter swiped a cookie for himself before surrendering the rest to Lydia. She was better at being naturally social, going around the office offering cookies with a wink and, “from Peter with love.”
“Oh. I figured if they were going to hire someone else they’d be a werewolf.”
So did Peter. It just made Stiles all the more odd, but maybe they’d finally conceded that they needed an extra pair of hands.
Lydia had a habit of saying, “Life is too short to not live in decadence.” Living in Los Angeles, Peter knew a thing or two about decadence, consumerism, and shameless hedonism. It was not a city for everyone. Most were tricked by the sunlight and palm trees and had a hard time figuring out the reality. Los Angeles was vicious and apathetic.
Hell, that vain indifference was one of the main reasons Peter moved in.
There was a brief knock on the door that preceded Lydia’s assistant Chris poking his head through the door.
“Lydia, I just wanted you to know that you have a ten o’clock with Dwayne.”
“Thank you. Want a cookie?”
Peter sat in his chair and opened his emails to check on any fires he had to point out. He watched Lydia slip on her heels before she dictated to her assistant.
She was the youngest partner at their prestigious firm, bypassing the years of labored work as an associate and using her clients as leverage to be brought in right away as a partner. Peter vaguely acknowledged her ingenuity, a brief nod in the hall had been their only correspondence until four months into her employment. Peter opened the door to his office to see Lydia sitting on his desk, shoes off and hair down.
Peter had slowly closed the door, not speaking as she held his gaze.
He knew she wasn’t a woman who fell into clichés so he waited patiently.
“May I be frank with you, Peter?”
Peter had been more of a husk back then, Lydia went as far as to describe him as gaunt. He swallowed. The only other person in the office was the receptionist.
“By all means, Miss Martin.”
“I thought wolves lived in Packs, but you’re not married and you live in an apartment off Larchmont. Is that healthy? Or am I mistaken, is the firm your Pack?”
For a brief, white-hot moment of absolute terror, Peter thought an ambitious redhead had cornered him.
Sure, it would be no problem to claw his way out, two bodies weren’t exactly hard to cut through. He’d have to move, and with a shudder Peter hoped wherever he ended up it wouldn’t be the Midwest. The moment ended. Peter took a breath and he examined his nails, at first human, and then he let his claws extend.
“Miss Martin, I find you remarkably intelligent. I’m sure if you were to test your IQ you would fall into the genius ranks.” Her heartbeat fluttered, her eyes on his claws. “But you use labels to your advantage. Pretty girl has never done you justice, but if people want to underestimate you it just works to your favor as they’re squashed beneath your heel. I might be a werewolf, but following expectations is something I will never care for.”
The elevator dinged as more assistants arrived. The potential body count increased from two to six.
Lydia angled her head down in a slight bow before she slipped her shoes back on.
“I understand.” She still didn’t leave, and more people kept coming with cheery greetings. She pushed her hair back, smiling slightly. “Let’s grab lunch. I’ll get Chris to figure out a time.” She had her hand on the door when she turned one last time, her eyes electric ice. “I have a good sense of potential. And I like to align myself with the best.”
When Peter shook her hand he retracted his claws until all that was left were pristine manicured nails.
“I look forward to it, Miss Martin.”
Years passed and Peter still shared many lunches with Lydia. He bit into the cookie. Sugar and chocolate soothed over his tongue, his head clearing in an instant.
Peter made an amendment to his routine.
::::
Rainy days, truly rainy days and not just bursts of mist, were rare in Los Angeles. The humidity, winds, and season had to be perfect, but it was worth the wait.
People shrieked, running for cover as the sky opened up and unleashed sheets of water. Peter tilted his head back, closing his eyes as he became soaked in a matter of minutes. Water helped Peter feel less blurred, every droplet pushed down the memories of deep burns and pus.
On bad days when the moon’s pull was too much, Peter swore he could still feel sores lingering under his skin, sticky burns waiting to push through the surface. Water washed it away until Peter was left feeling fresh and as whole as he ever would be.
His sneakers squeaked along the sidewalk.
Like most people in Los Angeles, Peter moved in from elsewhere. He watched a select few smile despite their wet clothes and running makeup. They remembered rain and how frequent it would be in the rest of the world.
He pushed his way into the bakery, not surprised to find it crowded.
“The trick is to maintain your speed. Your instincts will tell you to go slow to get the motions down, but it will always come out wrong if you take your time.” Boyd’s voice was low, barely audible as he hunched over a cake, Stiles paying strict attention. “Keep the movement going. You try.”
Anxiety and low-grade panic made Peter cover his nose as Stiles took the piping bag. To Peter and Boyd’s surprise, Stiles’s hands didn’t shake despite his rapid-fire heartbeat. Stiles made a cluster or roses atop the cake. He withdrew his hands with a heavy exhale.
“Fuck yes check that shit out—”
“Stiles,” Erica hissed, “language.”
Stiles flushed pink up to his ears.
“Oh shit—fuck—I mean—” Erica pinched her nose as Boyd laughed, loud and deep. Peter’s skin tightened as Erica shoved Stiles and Boyd rubbed his palm over Stiles’s short hair. It had only been a month and the Bakery Betas loved him… wanted to claim him as theirs. Stiles wiped his cheek with a crooked grin, then caught Peter’s eye. “Oh, hey Peter!” Stiles walked forward, his back to Erica and Boyd. He missed their vanishing smiles and how they tensed. “Geez, you’re soaked. Did you forget your umbrella at home?”
He smelled like sugar, salt, and mint. His heartbeat slowed and he was flashing too much teeth with his unbridled grin. A tiny shiver of anticipation went up Peter’s spine as he grinned back, which prompted Stiles to lean closer while Erica and Boyd recoiled.
“No. I simply enjoy the rain.”
“Good.” Stiles nudged Peter, a playful shove to his right shoulder. It was brief, but also the first time Stiles initiated physical contact. The press of his palm lasted a millisecond but it still felt significant, like he was testing the waters. “So what do you feel like getting today?”
Peter only started engaging with Stiles to get under the Betas’ skin. Stiles began as a pawn in his petty game with them… but he kept coming back and he paid less attention to the werewolves grinding their fangs and more to the human who seemed to save his genuine smiles for him.
Erica rested her chin on Stiles’s shoulder.
“Sorry to interrupt, but you’re done for the day. Clock out, dude.”
Stiles’s smile faded.
“Oh, sorry, Peter—”
“Actually, that’s perfect.” The rain was already lessening, such joys in California were fleeting, and the customers began to leave. “If you’re free, would you like to grab lunch with me?”
This time all three heartbeats before him quickened. Stiles, to his credit, didn’t let his show. His smile didn’t waver for a moment even as his heart pounded hard against his ribcage. If Peter were human he’d be convinced of Stiles’s casual posture.
“Sure. I just need to scrub some frosting off because right now I’m gross and sticky.”
He laughed, loud with his neck bared, before jogging to the back with a wave. He moved fast, but not fast enough for Peter to miss the roar of his blood rushing to his face and the smell of adrenalin humming in his veins.
His mouth watered and he flashed a sly grin at the Betas.
“Always lovely to see you.”
“Peter.” Erica spoke, her eyes golden. “He’s not some toy you can play with just to spite us. He’s a fucking human being. Leave him alone. Any impotent dick-swinging you want to do just do it with us.”
Despite what the Bakery Betas believed, Peter admired them. Three Betas with no Alpha, and that was a choice they made. They made their decisions together as a Pack with no tyrant leader. It must be nice being a part of a Pack like that. Forged and made together by choice, not blood and family ties.
“Please.” Peter rolled his eyes, letting them bleed red for a moment. Erica placed herself in front of Boyd. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
Stiles returned and his skin was scrubbed clean.
“All right. Let’s go, I’m starving.”
Peter’s knowledge on Stiles was limited to his five-day-a-week exposure, and most of those interactions lasted for ten minutes at most.
Stiles wasn’t a vegan and had a soft spot for lamb-based dishes. He love dogs and was “aggressively indifferent” to mayonnaise as a condiment. He didn’t go to culinary school and had no interested in the entertainment field, making his move to Los Angeles puzzling.
Peter didn’t take him far, just a few blocks down the street. Stiles picked out a café and soon they were tucked away in a corner.
“You took my preferred seat.” Peter’s lips quirked up when Stiles raised his eyebrows, his cheeks stuffed with a delicious sandwich. Peter continued with a smirk. “Back to the wall with your eyes on all the exits.”
To Peter’s surprise, Stiles blushed as he swallowed and scratched the tip of his nose.
“Oh. Uh… you can have it if you want. Old habits, ever since the Borne Identity I always find a good seat.” It startled at laugh out of Peter and Stiles relaxed. “So you’re a lawyer with a sweet teeth. I’m a novice cake decorator. Let’s hope we can find some common ground in movies or music or else I’ll start babbling to fill the silence.”
The longer Peter spent studying Stiles the more questions he gathered. He was easy to talk to; he made several jokes and laughed through their punchlines. It was pleasant, but Peter wasn’t naïve enough to call it benign.
Yes, Peter talked about Parks and Recreation while Stiles insisted he try You’re the Worst, but he had his back to the wall for a reason and not just because Matt Damon had a moderately interesting line in a spy film.
Stiles ran out of steam after an hour and a half. It was the window Peter had been patiently waiting for. Stiles took a long sip of water as Peter nudged his foot.
“Did you go to college?”
“I did. American University for two years, but it wasn’t for me.”
“College isn’t for everyone.” He watched Stiles bristle at the words he must have heard parroted at him countless times. Always repeated but never truly meant. The muscle in Stiles’s jaw clenched and Peter saw his eyes harden for an instant. He continued to speak in smooth, smoky tones. “People generally fear breaks in expectation. I think that’s a mistake. If everyone operated with in expectation no progress would ever be made. Extraordinary things never happen when they’re expected.”
Stiles’s lips curled.
“Oh yeah? Got a lot of experience in being extraordinary, Mr. Lawyer?”
“A little.” Peter smiled to himself, thinking about the Hale family crest. The Hale name used to hold prestige and honor. All that had been burned away until all that was left was Peter and his useless nephew. “I was in a coma for ten years. I’m sure people expected me to die or simply waste away with my inheritance. Money is fine, but purpose is better. I pursued law and here I am.”
Earlier, Stiles had tested Peter’s physical boundaries. Now Peter was testing Stiles’s intimacy boundaries.
Brown eyes widened.
“Holy shit. That happened to you?” Peter nodded with a thin smile. “Holy shit. Wow.” Stiles squeezed Peter’s wrist quickly. “Is it weird to say I’m glad you’re here?”
“Not at all. Unless you don’t mean it.”
“Oh, I mean it.”
Stiles yawned incessantly at the third hour. Peter made sure the stop in front of the window to the bakery as he hugged Stiles, covering any scent Erica or Boyd left behind. Stiles squeezed him back, his eyes twinkling.
“We should do this again.”
“Absolutely.”
They exchanged numbers. Peter strolled home feeling smug, imagining Erica and Boyd trying to make up excuses to hug him, to cover up the Alpha’s scent. Peter chuckled as he unlocked his door, kicking off his shoes. He stilled, because his house was not empty.
Lydia stood in his living room. She was stiff, her bag clutched tightly in her hands. She opened it and held out a folder to him.
“I know you wouldn’t want to wait so I came over as soon as I could.”
Peter opened the file. Glossy photos of Kate Argent stepping out of an airport terminal made Peter’s pleasant buzz solidify into cold rage. She smiled like she was on a catwalk. “Jackson just sent these to me this morning. I came by but you were gone.”
“I was… out.” The Bakery Betas witnessing him embrace a squishy human seemed like another lifetime. “When did this happen? Which airport?”
“About two hours ago in Newark. She rented a car and Jackson is still tailing her. So far it seems benign.
Lydia’s fists were clenched, her knuckles white. Peter was lucky to have her as an ally. He knew it wouldn’t be the last time he felt that same gratitude. He dropped the photos, his claws and fangs extending. He wanted to howl. He wanted to run. He wanted to track Kate down and break her apart piece by piece until she was nothing but viscera and clumps of hair.
He growled, low in his throat.
“We have work to do.”
::::
According to the files Chris Argent no doubt had compiled on Stiles, the sequence of events that would eventually lead Stiles to Peter Hale would have started four years prior on a Monday morning in American University. Stiles knew that it was a fair assessment, but also inaccurate.
He didn’t start lying in college.
Stiles lied when his parents lied. He lied when his mother insisted that “Everything is fine, sweetheart. Trust me, honey, you believe Mommy don’t you?” He nodded and that was the start. Because he was young but not stupid. He knew his parents stayed up late because he’d remain awake and hear them whispering in hushed, desperate tones that left them both in tears.
No one wanted to be told their mother was dying… but to deny it day after day was even worse.
Stiles gave honesty one try when he was eight.
“Dad?” Stiles lingered in his father’s office doorway. It was late; Stiles would be in trouble for not being in bed. But he couldn’t sleep because his mother was dying and everyone at school kept whispering with pity and fear. “Dad what are we gonna do?” Stiles couldn’t sleep because who would make him lunches? Who would meet him at the bus stop? Who would go over his spelling homework? “What are we going to do when Mom dies—?”
The sound of glass shattering made Stiles leap back. There was a smell with it, the kind that stung his noise. Bourbon, his brain supplied, Mom said it’s called bourbon.
“Don’t you ever say that again, Stiles. Do you understand me?”
When people are scared they sometimes say mean things. Stiles knew this. His mother told him, soothed him more than once with those words. His dad was scared, and so was Stiles.
“I understand. I’m s-sorry.”
A week later Stiles had no mother and no answers. At the graveyard his father promised to be there for him. Stiles believed him, not because of the words, but of guilt and duty. Stiles’s story started when his dad preferred lies to the truth.
“Stiles…”
His chest tightened at Scott’s disappointed tone, no longer confused, now just defeated. He was turning twenty-one and instead of having a party he was writing three papers while Skyping with his best friend. Being too damn smart for your own good meant being in an accelerated college program, which meant more papers, classes, and no socializing. The full scholarship made up for it.
Stiles let the neon blue highlighter fall from his mouth.
“What’s up, Scott?”
He’d been expecting a “Happy birthday, bro!” with a ton of emojis followed by Scott’s latest vet stories involving puppies and kittens. Disapproving and hesitant was his father’s routine, not Scott’s.
“I got your text about what you want to do as a thesis. Is that really what you think? That people want to be lied to?”
Stiles blinked.
“Well… yeah. I thought my statement made it clear. It didn’t come off as vague did it? It will never pass review if—”
“No that’s not the problem, it’s just…”
Even through Skype’s shitty video connection Stiles saw his worst nightmare unfolding. His only true confidante was pulling away. Shadows fell against Scott’s face and his best friend changed. It only took a minute for them to start yelling, then screaming. Stiles lost his voice, then closed out of Skype with a “don’t fucking talk to me,” still ringing off the walls. It was 2012 and Stiles was livid. His study group got him a few bottles of bourbon as a joke. They knew he wasn’t into alcohol. He saw what it did to his father, how long it took him to claw out from under its influence.
Fuck him. Stiles grabbed the first bottle and opened it, his stomach roiling at the smell.
In retrospect getting black out drunk to the point of near alcohol poisoning was not Stiles’s smartest moment.
Electronic chirps from his phone made Stiles come to at one in the afternoon the next day. He had four missed calls from a restricted number and a text message from his father, a brief but unsurprising Happy birthday, kiddo. Was on the late shift. Call today? He missed eight alarms and three classes.
“Fuck.” Stiles groaned from the floor. He sat up and after he was done squinting at his phone he saw the email notifications refresh. His phone numbed his hands with the vibrations of one hundred new emails. “Fuck.”
Stiles scrambled to his desk, ignoring how the bright sun cut against his eyes like hot glass. He opened his laptop and checked his school email, this throat sticky and dry. All of his emails had the subject line “Re: Fukcing Bulshit.” Stiles scrolled down, hoping that it was some meme sent to several departments. He didn’t find the original email in his inbox.
Stiles rubbed his temples. God, why did people drink if it made them feel like this?
He checked his sent folder and his stomach felt like lead. One sent item yesterday at 3:45 in the morning. From S. Stilinski. To: NeuroAll, PsychAll, PolySciAll. Subject: Fukcing Bulshit.
As he opened it he had the fleeting thought of, at least I didn’t send it to Dad.
There was no text in the body of the email, only a single attachment titled Thesis.doc.
His world was swimming in tears and nausea as he opened it. Sixty pages of text stared back at him, full of typos, obscenities, and no citations but—but even in his enraged, drunken state—it was one hell of a thesis. About addiction to lying, about the neuroscience behind more subtle lies used in advertising and how it bled into everyday life.
We’re fed ads over our whole fucking lives, not just from commercials, but movies, stories, your fucking parents telling you sugarcoated stories of how they met—it’s all an ad for the branding that we assign ourselves. Clothes are made to fit the brands—nuclear family, heterosexual, upper-class—it’s all branding—
Stiles squeezed his eyes shut, his breaths coming in stuttered bursts. He scrolled down.
You ever notice how when someone asks how you’re doing the answer his always good? Always. Even if it’s shit, because God forbid the pattern of benign happiness is fucking broken. We want to be lied to. By our parents, our government. Those we say are the closest especially. Haven’t you ever wondered why you’ll admit things to strangers that you’d never tell a significant other? A parent? These strangers act as our confessional booths for the brief and fleeting moments we will ever want to tell and hear the truth—
Stiles had to stop reading because he was throwing up into his wastebasket.
He felt rubbed raw, his stomach so knotted and tight he wondered if he was dying. His lower lip trembled and he sobbed so hard he was thrown back to those long, lonely nights as a child awake in the dark. He heaved until there was nothing left.
A few feet away, his phone rang.
Stiles sniffed, taking a deep, shuddering breath. He reached for it. It was from a restricted number. Stiles swiped his fingers across the screen and pressed his phone to his ear.
“Hello?”
He barely sounded human; his voice was so roughened from vomit and tears.
“Good afternoon. Is this Stiles Stilinski?”
Whoever was calling him was an older man. He had the kind of voice that made Stiles sit up straight despite how it made the room spin.
“Yes. Uh, this is Stiles speaking.”
Stiles hiccupped through the words. He felt numb as the man said that he was the Dean and that Stiles was under Academic and Disciplinary review—that the Dean and Academic Board wanted to speak with Stiles. He was expected at the Dean’s office in a half hour.
It wasn’t a request.
Two hours later Stiles had taken a shower. “Masturbatory whining,” “Unprofessional at best, blindingly embarrassing at worst,” and “We’ll take a month on this review, Stiles. We will be thorough in evaluating whether or not you are deserving of your prestigious scholarship as well as enrollment at this university,” echoed in his ears.
He took a walk. He ignored his exploding inbox. Last time he checked it had reached up to four hundred new emails. Another missed call from Dad—
“Oh God.” Someone bumped into him, and then fell to the ground. Stiles blinked, then immediately dropped to his knees. A young woman in a mauve skirt and white blouse scrambled to scoop up everything that had spilled out of her bag. “I’m so sorry, I wasn’t watching where I was going—”
“It’s my fault. I… I should have been paying more attention. Here.” He helped her up and got her bag back together. “Can I… I feel like shit. I was going to get coffee. I’ll treat you.” Stiles saw her frown, just for a moment, but he caught the micro-expression. “Honestly, I feel bad for knocking you over. It’s just coffee, I promise.”
Her name was Allison and she was visiting DC with her dad. She was lactose-intolerant and got Stiles to try a soy-milk latte. On a normal day Stiles would have been flustered by her beauty and smile, but he was so numb she could have kissed him and he wouldn’t have noticed.
“Here.” She passed him a cup of ginger tea. What started as an apology coffee turned into hours of conversation. “Your voice is shot. Are you getting sick?”
“No, just really hung over.” Stiles rubbed his eyes. “It’s been a really weird day. You ever have those? Where it feels like all the ingredients for a massive fuck up have been getting lined up for this one really shitty day?”
Allison laughed but it stung the edges of her lips.
“Oh yeah. Trust me, I’ve been there.”
Another hour passed. She talked about her mother the powerhouse. She’d been a fierce warrior who was stabbed by some piece of shit mugger. Her father took self-defense very seriously. The year her mother died had been rough.
“It’s just… I had that feeling of what do we do now, you know?”
Stiles knew. So he told her about his mother. His father. Scott. How Beacon Hills felt more and more like a prison every time he went back. Her phone chimed as the sun began to set.
“Oh shit—I got to meet my dad—”
“No worries. Thanks for,” Stiles waved his hand, “taking the time.”
They hugged. Stiles thought she was nice and hoped she had a lovely time with her father.
Stiles got pizza in order to cut through the lingering alcohol with grease. It was dark by the time he made it back to his apartment. A man in a nice suit was waiting in the lobby of his building.
He had salt and pepper hair and stern blue eyes. He glanced up as soon as Stiles walked in like he recognized him… or had been waiting for him.
“Stiles? Stiles Stilinski?” Stiles stayed by the door, reaching for his pepper spray and wondering how fast he could run while hung over. “Your paper was passed along to me.”
“Which paper?”
Stiles watched the man stay right where he was, not taking a step forward or backwards. His posture was so rigid Stiles wondered if he’d served in the military.
“Your thesis.”
Stiles felt his ears get hot. He clenched his fists.
“What, you want an apology or a front row seat to a personification of a fucking disaster?”
“Neither.” The guy still hadn’t moved. “Your statement about being truthful with strangers is why it was given to me.” There was movement from the stairwell. Allison turned the corner and Stiles felt his teeth creak he was clenching his jaw so tightly. He could see the resemblance of father and daughter. Allison’s dad tossed Stiles a government ID. “I have an offer for you.”
Chris Argent was printed neatly above his face. The stamp of Department of Defense made Stiles shudder. Below it, in smaller letters was The Kindness of Strangers.
“All right.” Stiles clutched the ID tight in his hand. His phone buzzed. He ignored it. “Let’s hear it.”