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Peter is enjoying a very nice drink by himself when someone slides into the other seat at his table. They smell of irritation and anxiety and, weirdly, duct tape, but judging from their heartbeat, they are human, so Peter doesn’t bother to look at them. He simply takes another sip of his drink and says, “I wasn’t looking for company.”

After all, it’s not the first time someone has tried to make conversation with him or, even worse, tried to hit on him, so Peter long ago mastered the correct tone and pitch to make unwanted tablemates scurry away. And most times, they listen, obeying some human instinct to get away from the wolf lurking underneath Peter’s skin.

What they don’t normally do is ignore him and instead lean forward and say, “I need you to get me out of this bad date.”

That’s intriguing enough for Peter to actually look at the speaker. He’s certainly wearing first date clothing: a red dress shirt, pressed khaki pants, sneakers that are only mildly scuffed. He’s made some effort to tame his hair, and his bitten-to-the-quick fingernails are mostly hidden in his folded hands, and he has pretty enough eyes. Peter can see how someone disreputable might decide to try and trample all over him.

He isn’t quite pretty enough for Peter’s tastes, though. And Peter never does anything for free.

Still, it’s the most amusing thing that’s happened to him all week, so he lowers his drink. “And what do I get in exchange?”

The boy gives him the most insulted look Peter’s ever seen. Or, well, it would be, if Peter didn’t live with the most insufferable niece and nephew known to man or wolf.

“You want payment?” he says.

Peter shrugs. “Well, you are asking me to interfere in a date that you presumably agreed to, with someone that you presumably spent time getting to know enough to agree to a date – someone who might not be best pleased at the idea of another person coming in during their date. It could get ugly. Is it so unreasonable to want to know that I’ll be compensated for getting involved?”

“Compensated – Fine,” the boy hisses, and as he leans forward, the light hits his eyes just right, making them glow that he’s on fire. “You want compensation? How about this? If you don’t help me get out of this bad date, do you know what I’m going to do? I’m going to break off an extra large branch of mountain ash, wrap it in wolfsbane, roll it in mistletoe, and shove it up your freaking – ”

“Well, now,” Peter murmurs, as the boy concludes his threatening speech with the most violent gesture Peter’s seen since his last meeting with the Argents, “aren’t you a vicious little thing?”

“Pot, kettle,” the boy fires back. “Or should I say, furball, human?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I’m only vicious on days when the moon is revolving around the Earth.”

That earns him a narrow eyed look, as if the boy is seconds away from shouting that he’s a werewolf to every single person in hearing distance. And the worst part is that Peter can sense that he’ll do it. Every single line of his body screams commitment.

Peter can admire conviction like that. He can also admire someone who can manage to trick a wolf like him into thinking that he’s just an innocent human boy.

He sets down his drink. “So you want me to play the big bad wolf to your innocent human, Little Red?”

“What – No!” the boy flails. “I am not asking you to bite his head off and swallow him whole, geeze. I just want you to intimidate him so that he goes away, because if I have to listen to one more lecture about NFTs and cryptocurrency and conspiracies, I might throw him off a cliff.”

Peter raises an eyebrow. The boy has some muscle to him, but he’s not quite at the stage where Peter would assess his fighting ability as anything above “run away as fast as possible”. Then again, appearances can be deceiving. Five minutes ago, Peter thought this boy was an innocent human, and right now, he’s learned that he knows about the supernatural world and isn’t afraid to leverage that knowledge while quite literally staring into the jaws of the wolf.

Still: “And you’re unable to frighten him away yourself . . . why? You’ve already demonstrated that you can, at the very least, verbalize effective threats.”

The boy sighs in clear aggravation. “Listen, furball, if I could get rid of him myself, do you think I’d be asking you?”

It’s a salient point, but also one that raises more questions than it answers. After all, Peter is hardly the only other person in this restaurant, and most of the others are sitting in much more easily accessible tables with much more open body language. The boy is pretty enough that he could have had any one of them eating out of his hand, eager to play shining white knight and ride to his rescue.

And yet he had chosen to ask the big bad wolf for help instead.

“Well,” Peter says lightly, “I suppose that since I wish to remain unimpaled by – how did you put it? – a branch of mountain ash wrapped in wolfsbane and rolled in mistletoe, I have no choice but to agree.”

His concession earns him a poisonously sweet smile. “Glad you and I could come to an understanding about . . . compensation,” the boy says.

It’s shockingly easy to run off the boy’s date. The man comes swaggering up to their table with a condescending expression, drinks in hand and flexing his biceps, the epitome of a boring human male under the deeply incorrect opinion that he’s an alpha male. Peter makes him flee with his tail between his legs, and he doesn’t even need to raise his voice, much less flash fang or claw. He can’t deny that it feels nice to watch the man stutter and cower and flee, but it’s also rather disappointingly easy. He’s hunted deer more fierce than that.

Still, it sates the beast to have even small victories, so he lets himself enjoy it for a few seconds before he turns back to the rather more intriguing puzzle at hand.

“There, your little admirer has fled for the car, or perhaps the bathroom. I’m not quite sure why you were incapable of performing such a feat yourself, but maybe we can discuss it over a proper meal?” he offers –

To no one at all, because the seat across from him is as empty as though the boy had vanished into thin air.

Peter frowns. If anything else, all intrigue aside, it’s his job as the Left Hand to protect the Hale pack from discovery as well as threats. A human boy with no connection to any pack who isn’t on his radar yet knows that he is a werewolf is – well. It’s not good, to say the least.

The boy’s scent trail leads him out the door and down the sidewalk and into an alley, where it promptly disappears. It’s a good spot, too – not visible from the street, situated in a blind spot for the restaurant security cameras, shadowed by the walls from other buildings. Peter couldn’t have picked a better getaway spot himself.

Unfortunately, the boy found it first, and clearly he’s slipped away into whatever car he had waiting here.

Still, Peter consoles himself with the fact that it isn’t a total loss. He may not know the boy’s name, but he knows his face and his scent, and he’s tracked down targets with far less than that. Plus it’s the most excitement he’s had in a week, and that in and of itself is worth this new hunt.

“All right, Little Red,” Peter says, pulling out his phone, “let’s find out who you really are.”

A week later, Peter is nursing another drink to try and ease the headache of yet another dead end when that distinctive scent of duct tape and engine grease wafts across his nose.

“Well, well, look what the wolf dragged in.”

“How novel,” Peter says dryly, because it’s that or jump, and Peter’s never liked showing when someone else has surprised him. “I’ve never heard that before in my life, of course.”

“Would you have preferred I mention the cat?”

“Not particularly, no. Nice to see you again, Little Red.”

Little Red scowls at him. “I’m not wearing red,” he says, waving at his light blue dress shirt.

“Well, Little Boy Blue has rather different implications,” Peter tells him. “But I could call you that instead, if you prefer.”

“Or you could just use my name.”

“I could,” Peter says lightly. And then he takes a sip from his drink, mostly to cover the fact that despite all of his searching and research, he still has no idea who Little Red actually is. Facial recognition has come up blank, his private investigators haven’t found anything, and Peter poured over the security footage but still hasn’t located the car Little Red used. It would be impressive, if not knowing didn’t make Peter so twitchy.

Little Red tilts his head to the left. “Or, perhaps,” he says, the smallest of smirks on his face, “the vaunted Left Hand of the Hale pack wasn’t able to discover my name.”

Peter doesn’t bother trying to pretend he isn’t a Hale. It’s rather difficult, after all, in a town like Beacon Hills, where his family is entrenched in basically everything.

However: “Given that you seem rather educated on the nature of wolves, it’s rather strange that you seem to think the myth of the Left Hand real. Do you also believe in the outdated theories of alphas and betas and omegas?”

“That was a crappy study and we all know it,” Little Red says dismissively. “And fine, fine, pretend that the Left Hand doesn’t exist. I’ll let you have your little secret.”

“How gracious of you. Seeing as it isn’t, in fact, a secret.”

After all, the ones who need to know exactly what pack position Peter holds already do. And the ones who don’t – well, they can find out after Peter’s buried them ten feet below ground.

Little Red rolls his eyes. His scent is the warm caramel of amusement, like he’s been enjoying this verbal dance, and Peter finds himself almost hoping that they might be able to continue their sparring match. So few actually want to engage in conversation with him, and the ones who do sadly often have ulterior motives. It’s the one thing that doesn’t end to change when Peter is moving in both the human and supernatural worlds. The price of being part of the Hale pack and a rather successful lawyer.

But, alas, it is not to be, because Little Red jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “Mind scaring off this latest jerk for me?”

“I don’t suppose you’ll mind telling me why you can’t do it yourself?”

“Unfortunately,” Little Red says brightly, “I do mind. So I can’t. But! I’ve got better compensation for you this time.”

Peter raises an eyebrow. He can’t smell anything new on Little Red – beyond that his dress shirt only recently was purchased, given the stench of starch and plastic – so he doubts that Little Red is carrying an item, and if Little Red knows that he is indeed a Hale, then he must know that money isn’t exactly a motivating factor for Peter. Still, he does enjoy being surprised, so he plays along.

“Oh? And what is it?”

“Scare off the jerk first, get paid later, Big Bad Wolf,” Little Red says with that sly smile.

And, well, Peter hasn’t fulfilled his scare the living daylights out of someone quota yet this week, so when Little Red’s latest date comes swaggering up in a stained shirt and pants that are closer to his knees than his waist, he takes great pleasure in making him flee. Without even needing to flash his eyes or tap his claws, even.

As the man takes off with his tail between his legs, Little Red starts snickering. “I wish I had filmed that,” he crows. “He almost peed his pants, that was great.”

“No, he actually did pee his pants.”

“Seriously?!”

“Well. A few drops, anyways,” Peter amends. “So, then, Little Red. What now?”

In answer, Little Red silently plops something in front of him. As he lifts his hand away, Peter sees that the item is a small drawstring bag, velvet and fur and sinew – the real deal, not some fake or synthetic.

It also smells rather suspiciously like nothing at all.

“It’s not going to explode or anything,” Little Red says, after watching Peter stare at the bag for a few minutes. “I wouldn’t explode my Get Out of Bad Dates card.”

“I’m not sure that the fact that your mind went straight to exploding is very reassuring,” Peter tells him warily, because a werewolf can survive a lot of things, but an explosion would be rather dicey. Not to mention that trying to explain away the miraculously healed wounds is always a right pain.

It’s not impossible for someone like Peter, of course, but when one has teenage nephews and nieces, one ends up doing a lot of sweeping impossible feats under the rug.

Little Red rolls his eyes again. “I swear that the bag contains only your compensation, and nothing that will harm you, jump out at you, bite you, or otherwise draw blood,” he recites, and the thump-thump of his heart is the steady beat of someone telling the truth.

Peter still opens the bag at arms’ length, because he wasn’t bitten yesterday, and he finds –

Powder. Black powder. Charcoal, if his nose is to be believed.

“I’m not sure why you think I needed charcoal, Little Red.”

“Well, you know,” Little Red says, and there’s a strange spark in his eyes, that golden fire like the sun is shining through his face, “there are some poisons even wolves can’t heal. That charcoal ought to help. It’s got . . . a little something extra.”

Peter freezes. He’s heard of wolfsbane charcoal before – heard of it, and thought it a myth. No wolf in the Hale pack has ever gotten wolfsbane out through any other method than fire or swift dispatching of the poisoned limb, and no witch or druid has ever confirmed that wolfsbane charcoal exists. Not even Deaton, and Peter had pressed him very hard the last time a hunter had landed a lucky shot. Instead, Peter had had to suffer through a rigorous blowtorching session.

And yet Little Red has just . . . handed him some. A substance most witches won’t even admit exists, so rare that it would be worth its weight several times over, capable of inactivating almost any kind of wolfsbane through consumption alone – and Little Red gave it to him for scaring off a date.

“Little Red – ” he begins.

But the seat across from him is empty, and Little Red is gone.

Six weeks later, Peter still has zero idea who Little Red really is – despite a handful of bribes and a larger handful of threats – and his once in a while treat at the restaurant has turned into a daily affair, because it’s the only reliable place where he has crossed paths with Little Red. Fortunately, since he tips well, they seem not to care that he only orders one drink and nurses it all afternoon before he departs, but he’s pretty sure that they are judging him. And if they aren’t, his pack most certainly is.

Derek had even accused him of being smitten. Derek. Peter had almost clawed his face on principle alone.

Peter should leave it alone. He’s well aware of this. But he can’t quite bring himself to stop. The human part of him is intrigued at the idea of someone able to be effectively a ghost, in this modern age of smart phones and credit cards and security cameras. And the wolf part of him is very intrigued at the idea of this clever boy who saunters up to them with on fear, and even dares to threaten them.

And so, once again, Peter ends his day at the office and slinks into the restaurant and places his normal order. It is, most distressingly, an entirely nonverbal exchange, because the staff already know him, and when it comes, Peter leans against the wall and prepares himself for yet another day with no sighting.

Or that is what he would have done, had a particular scent not drifted across his nose on the breeze carried to him by the server bringing his drink.

Duct tape. Engine grease. Ozone and petrichor.

Peter’s eyes fly open. The drink in his hand is forgotten immediately, as is the day’s annoyances at work and everyone else in the restaurant. All of his focus is on the source of that unique scent.

Little Red. Wearing, appropriately this time, a red shirt and black dress pants and a tie. Sitting at a table near the entrance with a tight, forced smile on his face, shoulders stiff and uncomfortable, foot tapping away on the floor.

The source of his discomfort, quite unshockingly, a man in a leather jacket and ripped pants and wearing the most unpleasant smirk Peter has seen in some time.

And, well. It won’t be the first time Peter has rescued Little Red. Perhaps he might even be able to surprise Little Red for once.

So Peter rises quietly out of his seat and prowls towards Little Red’s table, making sure that he appears suave and disdainful, and Little Red’s date is so focused on leaning forward and making off color jokes that he doesn’t even notice Peter’s approach until Peter is curling a proprietary arm around Little Red’s neck.

“Well, hello there,” Peter says. “I didn’t realize you were here already, dear, or I would have gotten you your drink.”

Little Red’s date jumps, which is satisfying. Little Red also jumps, which is equally satisfying.

“Oh, um, I, uh, hi,” Little Red stammers, caught off guard in a way that Peter enjoys immensely and unashamedly.

Peter rubs his thumb over Little Red’s shoulder. He’s gotten a surprisingly muscular shoulder; Peter revises his opinion of Little Red’s workout routine. Oh, he’ll never be able to beat a werewolf, but at least he feels like he could throw a solid punch or two, which is more than Peter first thought when this charming creature slid into the seat across from him and upended his life.

Little Red’s date finally recovers at that point. He puffs up his chest, like he’s a peacock, and blusters, “Who the hell do you think you are, interrupting our date?”

“Oh, it’s a date, is it?” Peter tilts his head and nuzzles the shell of Little Red’s ear. The resulting shiver is absolutely delicious. “Pray tell, what is the name of this very charming fellow, my dear? I had no idea that your work colleagues were so . . . charismatic.”

“This is Henri,” Little Red says, and there is the faintest edge of strain in his voice – true strain, one that makes Peter’s wolf whine to cuddle him. “He isn’t from . . . work.”

“Well, you are allowed to have friends, darling,” Peter says. “But surely you are thirsty? Should we go get you that drink?”

Henri bristles like a cat that’s been sprayed by a water bottle. “The only one buying him a drink,” he bites out, “is me.”

Peter hums, putting as much disbelief as he can into that one note. “And yet you’ve been here for some time,” he notes, for he can smell how Little Red’s anxious scent has started to sink into the chair and table, “and not ordered anything. That seems rather . . . rude of you.”

“Why you – ”

“Why don’t we have a quick word, Peter?” Little Red interrupts, pasting a bright fake smile on his face. “Finish our conversation about that work assignment and then I can get back to my date. You know, the thing I especially came here for. Without you. On my own.”

It is, quite frankly, not what Peter had expected to hear. He had expected Little Red to jump at the chance to get away.

But Little Red gives him a look and also steps very heavily on his foot, so Peter plays along. “But of course, darling,” he says smoothly.

“I’ll be right back, Henri,” Little Red says to his date, with that same bright insincere smile. “Why don’t you get started on appetizers? That way it’ll be ready for us when we get back.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

It’s a very unenthusiastic response. Peter would almost brand it on the edge of sulking, which is neither fitting for a man his age nor attractive for a man his age trying to date. But he holds his tongue; even though the man is definitely not a werewolf and so wouldn’t hear anything Peter whispers, long habit of waiting in silence to avoid eavesdropping ears has him keeping his comments to himself until they turn the corner into the hallway and are out of sight as well as hearing.

Which is when Little Red slams him into the wall, which is rather less expected.

Peter raises an eyebrow. “Do you like him that much? Because, to be honest, he didn’t really seem to be your style, Little Red.”

“You don’t know the first thing about my style,” Little Red hisses, and there’s the anger, leaking into his scent, lending a sharp citrus edge that is honestly just as appealing as when he’d been batting his eyes. “Secondly, you have no right to say anything about who I do or do not date, Hale.”

“A right? No,” Peter agrees, because apparently this is touchy enough for Little Red to revert to his last name. “But a choice? Absolutely. I mean, look at his jacket.”

“This is not about his clothes!”

“He also reeks of cigarette smoke.”

“Oh my god, it isn’t about what your freakish wolfy nose can pick up either,” Little Red says, rolling his eyes so hard Peter fears that they might shoot out of his head. “This – This is about me being able to do what I need to do, and you staying clear out of it – ”

“Well, forgive me, but every single time we’ve met, you have asked me to chase off your date, no matter how pleasant they are. You might say it’s your fault for beginning that habit in me.”

“Two times is not enough to make a habit!”

“And that is why I said beginning, Little Red, do keep up.”

Little Red groans. “God, why did I pick you?” he complains. “You’re just as bad as him, honestly.”

“How dare you,” Peter says, feigning outrage. “I wouldn’t be dare show my face in public in that outfit, and I certainly wouldn’t be caught dead leaving my house smelling like a chain-smoking section from the 90s.”

“You’ll be dead if Henri doesn’t buy my excuse,” Little Red mutters.

He cranes his head, as if he’s trying to peer around the wall without getting caught. And Little Red has shown sneaky behavior before – it takes a lot of skill to manage sneaking up on a werewolf, on top of then succeeding in sneaking away from a werewolf – but that anxious edge is back to his scent, and he’s so tense he might as well be cut from a rock, and he’s probably wrinkled Peter’s suit from his tight grip.

Which is when Little Red’s strange word choices sink in, and Peter frowns. “Wait. Hold on. Did you say ‘what I have to do’ earlier?”

“Oh, now you’re listening to what I have to say?”

“Why do you have to – ”

“Goddamn it, he’s gone,” Little Red hisses, yanking his head back. “And he didn’t order food, damn it, damn it, damn it. We gotta go – now.”

“But, darling, I haven’t finished my drink yet – ”

“Now!” Little Red snaps, and he propels Peter towards the exit door with a surprisingly amount of strength.

Peter is, of course, practiced in pretending to be at the same strength level as the humans around him, which includes staggering under entirely useless shoves from his colleagues, but he also keeps himself in good shape and so can usually get away with putting on a show of having a high level of muscle and weight – yet Little Red pushes him clear off his feet as easily as a dog picks up a puppy.

And keeps pushing, all the way until they’re down the hall and out the door and into the alleyway.

“Is there a reason why – ”

“Shut up and keep moving,” Little Red tells him.

“I might be amiable, Little Red, but I’m not easy,” Peter replies, and then he plants his feet so that Little Red is jolted to a stop when he tries to continue hauling Peter forward. “Now, then. We’re out of sight of the humans and the cameras. Mind telling me why you’re in such a rush?”

“We don’t have time for this – ”

Peter pops a claw. Just one, but he knows Little Red feels it from the way he goes still.

“Then,” he says pleasantly, “I suggest you make time. I am not in the habit of following anyone into the shadows, Little Red, not even pretty young things. Perhaps especially not pretty young things. And definitely not pretty young things who vanish without a word and then pop up, accost me, and do not explain why they wish me to run.”

Little Red groans. He runs a hand through his hair, messing up what Peter now realizes was a carefully styled and gelled hairstyle, and pulls on Peter’s arm again.

Peter does not go. It takes him a bit more strength than he normally needs, but he holds firm.

“Listen,” Little Red says, and now there is an alarmingly tint of desperation in his voice, “if you want answers, I’ll give them to you, but not here, okay? And definitely not now. We need to move, Peter, before that guy comes back with the hunter friends he definitely texted when he left – ”

Every nerve in Peter’s body jumps to attention. “Did you just say – ” he starts to ask.

And that is when a shiny silver object drops with a pleasant thump at their feet.

Peter looks down. Little Red looks down. Together, they say, “Oh s–”

The flashbang blows them both clear off their feet. Peter hits the nearest wall heavily enough to make his head staring throbbing in perfect symphony with his ringing ears and stinging eyes. Normally, he would be free of those side effects in just a few moments, but he can feel the telltale nausea crawling up his throat and making his stomach sink, and he knows instantly that the flashbang has been laced with wolfsbane.

Which isn’t surprisingly, really. After all, hunters don’t live long if they are foolish enough to underestimate the wolves they hunt.

“Peter Hale,” comes Henri’s gloating voice, followed shortly by his body appearing through the cloud of wolfsbane smoke like a demon parting the veil. “And they said you’d be hard to surprise.”

Peter swallows against the tide of wolfsbane-induced nausea. “That’s because this isn’t a surprise,” he says. “This is a declaration of war. We have a treaty.”

“As if an animal like you could even understand the terms, much less obey them,” Henri says.

“Spoken like a true Argent,” Peter mutters. Then he starts coughing, because the wolfsbane is irritating his throat and he isn’t able to heal it. Normally he would suppress such an attack for the sake of concealing his weakness, but for now it is useful; it keeps them gloating while he inches towards Little Red, who is lying unconscious on the ground with a shallow trickle of blood on his head.

“Nah, they’re just my bosses,” Henri says. “For now, anyways. I’ll work my way to the top eventually. I think bringing them Peter Hale’s head will make a good impression, don’t you?”

“What makes you think you’ll be alive long enough to do that?” Peter asks, and this time he lets his eyes flash icy blue and his fangs peek out of his lips. It takes effort to force the change past all of this wolfsbane, but he is a Hale; they trained long and hard to master transformations, both to hide it and to bring it to the surface, and Peter was better than anyone besides Talia.

Henri laughs. “Cuz you’re outnumbered, you dumb animal,” he mocks. “And outgunned.”

“You’d shoot me in front of a civilian?”

“If he’s friendly with you, he’s no civilian.”

“Yes, because god forbid we have friends,” Peter says, putting in as much exasperation as he can into his voice. “You really think my entire law firm knows what I am?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. But you wouldn’t be covering just anyone with your own body, Hale. You’re not the self-sacrificing type.”

Peter wants to argue that that is a lie, because he would die for his pack – but he doesn’t, partially because he knows that making that argument would be tantamount to admitting that Little Red is more than just a random acquaintance, and mostly because he knows they wouldn’t listen anyways.

Instead, he flashes his fangs and growls. “I could kill you before that bullet even leaves the chamber.”

“Not with this much wolfsbane in your system. And even if you could, I’ve got five friends; you can’t get us all before a bullet finds your brain. Good-bye, Hale.”

And Henri smirks and raises his gun, and Peter snarls and braces himself over Little Red, and that gun goes off with a bang –

The bullet doesn’t hit.

Oh, it fires. It leaves the chamber and shoots out of gun at top speed, almost faster than Peter’s enhanced eyesight can see – but it does not make contact. Instead, it comes to abrupt halt and hangs in the hair a few inches from Peter’s face, as if the very air had turned solid around it.

Peter stares. Henri stares. Henri’s friends stare.

“What the hell,” Henri says flatly, and checks his gun like he thinks it’s defective.

“Not what,” comes a voice from underneath Peter, steady and implacable, like the waves of the ocean. “Who.”

Peter slowly looks down, and comes face to face with Little Red’s now conscious face. Specifically, his eyes. His glowing eyes, so bright and golden that they could rival the sun itself.

“What the – ” Henri stammers, scrambling for his gun.

Little Red’s lips curl up in a tiny smirk, and he makes a lazy gesture with his hand, like flicking a stray drop of water, and that steady wave of the ocean falls upon the hunters like a tsunami as the bullet goes shooting backwards, zipping into and then out of each hunter so fast that Peter registers their deaths only after they fall to the ground.

The last hunter falls with a sound akin to the last tree in a forest, and it is deafening.

Little Red lets his hand drop, and he looks up at Peter, as unconcerned as though he had just closed a door, and not killed an entire group of hunters in less time than it would take someone to blink.

“Oh, hey, Peter,” he says casually. “You good, or is the wolfsbane still working its way out?”

“I – ” Peter says blankly, and then, “You – ”

“So, still in your system,” Little Red concludes. He reaches up with both hands, and Peter flinches, because being attracted to danger does not mean being losing one’s sense of self-preservation, but all that happens when Little Red grabs his shoulders is a wave of warmth that pours through his body, washing away the nausea of the wolfsbane.

Werewolves cannot use magic, but that does not mean they don’t know what it looks or feels like. Peter blinks. “You’re a mage,” he says.

“Uh, yeah. Who do you think spelled your charcoal? Speaking of which, where is the charcoal? You could’ve used it.”

“I – My alpha thought it best that I leave it with our Emissary,” Peter says, still feeling rather wrong-footed. “For examination.”

“She didn’t trust it and wanted it checked out,” Little Red translates without effort. He grins. “I mean, nice instinct, but most mages aren’t gonna be able to do much more than poke at it. There aren’t many of us who can spell charcoal that way.”

“To be quite honest, all my research suggested no mage could spell charcoal like that.”

“Well, hate to break it to you, but your research sucked,” Little Red informs him. “Also, mind letting me up? I kinda wanna scram before anyone comes to investigate the big commotion that just went down.”

“Depends. Are you going to vanish the second I turn around again?”

“Teleportation takes energy, and if you haven’t noticed, I just spent a lot of it,” Little Red says with a slight scowl.

Peter raises an eyebrow. He has heard of mages who can teleport before, but that’s rare skill too. Not as rare as bespelling charcoal, of course, but it still speaks wonders to Little Red’s innate power.

Of course, that doesn’t mean he has to go easy on him. “You’ve surprised me before. Perhaps I am unwilling to be surprised again,” Peter tells him.

That earns him a glittering, golden-eyed glare. “I still have enough energy to knock you on your butt, Peter,” Little Red says sweetly, and elbows him in the gut for good measure. “Now move.”

For all of his bravado, Little Red still staggers when Peter lets him up. It’s not surprising – he has just spent a lot of energy very quickly, and healing magic can be tricky even for the most powerful of mages. There’s a reason Deaton relies a lot on bandages and salves instead of spells when patching up wounds.

Peter isn’t feeling too great himself. Even when purged, wolfsbane tends to leave terrible after effects, like alcohol causes hangovers in normal humans.

On the bright side, this means that when he moves to help Little Red as they limp away, Little Red does not protest. Peter is able to keep him close and breathe in greedy lungfuls of his scent, which soothes the churning, raging instincts inside of him, the inner wolf that is howling and scratching and clamoring to be set loose and hunt down those who hurt them. Never mind that Little Red has killed them all; the wolf is not the sensible side of Peter, it is the feral side.

Peter firmly tells that feral side to sit down and shut up. Also: “I’ll have to come back for these bodies before – ”

“What bodies?”

“The bodies of the men you just . . . Ah,” Peter says, when he looks behind them and sees nothing but little piles of what he would bet were human ash. Transmutation: yet another rare skill. “Well, that’s quite efficient.”

“This isn’t my first rodeo, Peter. Now hurry up, I wanna get to my car.”

“Oh, we’re taking your car, are we?”

“You want blood on your fancy Shelby 1000 Cobra seats?”

“Why, Little Red, I didn’t know you had an interest in cars.”

“Shut up and get in.”

“So, you’re a mage,” Peter says, after they’ve retreated to a charming little house Little Red has spelled to be hidden from, well, everyone. He himself had almost walked right past it until Little Red had grabbed his hand and dragged him through the protective barrier. “And a very powerful one.”

“And you’re a werewolf,” Little Red says, rolling his eyes. “Part of the very powerful Hale pack. We done?”

“Not quite. You know my name. I don’t know yours.”

Little Red gives him a look. It would be more frightening if he hadn’t changed into a baggy pair of sweatpants and a shirt with holes in it the second they got into the house. “Names are powerful things for mages, you know.”

“I didn’t ask you for your true name,” Peter points out. “Just a name.”

“And what, exactly, are you going to do with my name?” Little Red asks, and his eyes are hard and golden when he lifts them.

“Pencil you into my calendar without receiving weird looks from my colleagues and pack.”

The golden gleam fades from Little Red’s eyes, thankfully. Even better, he cracks up and starts laughing. Really laughing, with his entire body relaxed and his head thrown back and his scent going sweet with true delight. Peter drinks the sight and sound in, and is very glad he is not in wolf form, else very likely he might have accidentally started wagging his tail.

“Stiles,” he is told, when the laughter finally stops. “You can call me Stiles.”

Peter takes the offered hand, but he also kisses it instead of shaking it, because nothing says he can’t. “It is very nice to meet you, Stiles,” he purrs.

“Flatterer,” Stiles says, but he doesn’t pull his hand away. “Also, have you seriously been putting me on your calendar?”

Peter shrugs. “Packs are close, as you probably know. We like to know where everyone is.”

“That sounds claustrophobic.”

“It can be, sometimes,” Peter acknowledges. “But it can also be comforting, to know that someone is going to be on the lookout for you. And when everyone is home at the den and safe . . . little is better than that.”

Stiles cocks his head to the side. “Little better than that,” he repeats. “And yet you’ve chosen not to be at your den with your pack, and instead to spend your afternoons and evenings stalking little old me.”

“It’s only stalking if the actions cause the other person to feel fear. I’ve smelled a lot of emotions on you, Stiles; fear hasn’t been one of them.”

“What are you, a lawyer?”

“As a matter of fact, I am. Would you like a card? My secretary keeps ordering more of them.”

Stiles laughs. “Okay, you got me there. But no thanks. I don’t really need a lawyer. I don’t really need anyone, actually.”

His heartbeat is steady and his scent is unwavering; he isn’t lying. And after seeing the raw power he can bring to play, Peter can well believe it. But even though humans aren’t wolves, they are still social creatures; they are not meant for being alone any more than werewolves are. And it’s not like Peter is just going to give up after one dismissive sentence.

“On the contrary,” Peter says, “I think if you’re going to continue throwing yourself at the worst of humanity, a lawyer might be helpful. Or at the very least, a useful alibi.”

“Maybe I like scamming overconfident posturing alpha males out of a meal and drinks.”

“Or maybe you’re hunting for hunters.”

Stiles goes very, very still. It’s almost impressive, considering that for every other minute Peter has been around him, he’s been such an energetic figure – drumming his fingers, tapping his toes, twitching in his seat. It’s as good as a confession that Peter has guessed right about what he’s doing.

As if he hasn’t noticed, Peter continues casually, “Which is an endeavor I cannot help but applaud, but one day, someone is going to be prepared for a mage, and that day, you might want some help.”

“You think you’re very clever, don’t you.”

“Am I wrong?”

Stiles stares at him for a long moment, and Peter can almost feel him debating whether or not to reduce Peter into a pile of ash too. It’s unnerving to feel like prey instead of predator, especially when Stiles looks like nothing more than a boy who just rolled out of bed after pulling an all-nighter to finish a college paper.

It’s also exhilarating, but, well, Peter’s always known that he’s wired a little differently than the rest of his family.

Finally, Stiles sighs. “No,” he says begrudgingly. “You’re not.”

“May I ask why?”

“Can I stop you?”

“Certainly. Just say no.”

“Wow, you sound like a high school DEA officer.”

“I mean it, Stiles. If anyone understands having a grudge against hunters, it’s me.”

“Who did they kill?”

“My uncle,” Peter answers, and he cannot stop the way his claws descend. He curls his hand into a fist, letting the pain ground him. “He was vacationing with another pack when they were all slaughtered.”

“ . . . My father,” Stiles reciprocates, after a long, torturous moment. “He was a sheriff. Started investigating a case. Got too close.”

Peter inclines his head. “My condolences,” he says quietly, but he is not surprised. Hunters like to play god, and that includes covering up their crimes as much as it does committing them. For some reason, it never occurs to them that it’s wrong to kill their own kind just because they were sloppy and don’t feel like concocting an alibi like any other decent person.

“It took me a little while to figure out what had happened. I didn’t know about the whole,” Stiles waves a hand in the air, “supernatural thing.”

Peter raises an eyebrow. Powerful magic can manifest later in life – magical puberty is not at all reliant upon hormonal changes – but it also doesn’t tend to just come out of nowhere. For Stiles to be this strong, he likely has some magical heritage somewhere in his family. Fae, perhaps.

Stiles smiles wryly when he catches Peter’s expression. “I thought it was just severe ADHD. Well. I mean, I still have ADHD. But I was also on, uh, a lot of other meds, and it just took a long time for me to figure out what meds I needed and what ones I didn’t. And even then, you know a lot of us don’t really talk to each other; my mentor never said a thing about werewolves or vampires until one bit my best friend.”

“Fair enough,” Peter says, because sometimes it can be really hard to distinguish between magical potential and just boundless youthful energy in children. “And so when did you begin luring in hunters?”

“When they started trying to kill my best friend,” Stiles says flatly.

Loyalty. Peter can respect that. He nods. “I see. I still stand by my suggestion that your plan would go better with a partner, however.”

“And, of course, I should choose you?”

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t say no. But you should choose whoever you’re comfortable with. The best sort of trickery is one that has a kernel of truth in it.”

“ . . . You know, now I understand why you’ve been pulled over so many times and yet never gotten a single ticket.”

“Why, Stiles, did you look me up?”

“A werewolf started stalking me, of course I Googled you. What do you think I am, an idiot?”

“No, I think you’re clever. Resourceful. Devoted. And in need of a partner.”

Stiles groans and rubs at his head. “Oh my god, if I say yes about letting you partner with me on my next hunter date, will you at least shut up about the partner thing?”

“But if I shut up, how am I to rescue you from your – how did you put it? Ah yes – overconfident posturing alpha male date?”

“Learn sign language,” Stiles deadpans.

“I know it,” Peter signs to him. “Do you?”

“You are so annoying,” Stiles says. “I should have turned you into a frog instead of bringing you back here.”

“That’s a slightly different fairytale, Little Red.”

“Ha ha, very funny. Give me your phone. And stop calling me Little Red.”

Epilogue

Friday evening finds Peter, once again, in his favorite restaurant nursing his favorite drink. He’s at the bar this time instead of a table, but he doesn’t mind having his back open to the rest of the room; the protective amulet Stiles gave him beats in perfect time with his heart, and is powerful enough to halt any attacker in its tracks.

It gives him the confidence to focus on one particular couple in the corner, and their quiet conversation, as opposed to scanning the whole restaurant for threats constantly.

This time, when Stiles slides into the seat next to him, he smiles.

“Why, hello there, Little Red,” he purrs. “Is it my turn to put on some shining armor?”

The deal they’ve hammered out is thus: Stiles will go onto various forums and apps and seek out dates from people who give them both red flags and bad vibes. He will then ingratiate himself with them and eventually coax them onto a date. If it turns out they are just an annoying human with an irritating hard-on for collecting guns, then Peter will play the role of the knight in shining armor and rescue Stiles.

On the other hand, if they really are a hunter . . .

“Not tonight, Big Bad Wolf,” Stiles says with a sly smile. “My grandmother isn’t feeling well, and I think my gentlemanly date would love nothing more than to escort me into the dark woods so I can see her.”

Peter takes a casual chance over his shoulder. Grimaces. “Yes, he seems . . . very enthusiastic, doesn’t he?”

“We’ll see how long his bravado lasts when he meets a real wolf,” Stiles says, collecting his order of drinks and hopping neatly off his seat. “On my signal, Big Bad Wolf.”

“I’ll be waiting, Little Red.”

Twenty minutes later, the hunter is weeping and begging through a broken jaw for mercy. It never gets any less satisfying, but even Peter has to admit that this one was a very small amount of satisfaction.

“He’s a bit of a wet blanket, isn’t he?” Stiles calls out from where he’s happily digging into the hunter’s bag.

“Just a little bit, yes. Shall I end him?”

“Wait, not yet. I wanna see that technique you said you were going to show me.”

“Oh, yes.” Peter looks up and down the hunter with a critical eye. “We’ll have to use his left leg, I’m afraid; the right one is a little . . . shattered. And you might want to increase the muffling spell, Little Red; he’s probably going to squeal like a trapped pig.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, bossy wolf,” Stiles says, but he flicks his fingers and his eyes go gold as Peter smells the telltale ozone and petrichor scent of his magic.

The hunter indeed squeals like a trapped pig, but before Peter even can bend over and grab his leg. Peter almost wants to pull out his phone and see how many decibels the hunter has reached, because surely it must be impressive.

“You – You two are working together?” he gasps, scrambling futilely in the dirt like he thinks he’ll get away.

“I’d hardly call it work,” Peter tells him. “For one thing, I have an actual job. For another, any time spent with my dear Little Red is hardly work. In fact, I rather look forward to it.”

“I really don’t think he cares, Big Bad Wolf,” Stiles comments.

“Hmm, probably not. Burgers and fries afterwards? You didn’t eat much at the restaurant.”

“Only if they’re curly fries. And only if you’re paying.”

“Well, it would hardly be a date otherwise,” Peter says, and tries very hard not to grin like a lunatic. Normally Stiles refuses his offers of food or drinks, or indeed anything at all. Peter had to almost blackmail him into letting Peter pay for new tires the last time his Jeep needed repairs.

That’s okay. Peter can be patient. And it’s not like he doesn’t have the money to burn.

“Yeah, yeah, fine, it can be a date,” Stiles says. He tries to act dismissive, but Peter can smell the shy delight in his scent. It’s so strange for him to be so confident in his abilities and yet so insecure in, well, everything else, but, like everything else about him, it just makes Peter adore him even more. “Now hurry up and break his leg already. I’m starving.”

“Of course, Little Red. Now – you want to angle the leg like this. See?”

And if they fall on each other like ravenous wolves after their date, well. Peter doesn’t mind. It’s not like it’s their first date, after all.

FINIS