“What the fuck do you want?”
“Aw, I love you, too,” Erica answers despite the Caller ID having been Allison’s contact.
Stiles groans. He’s too old for this. “Hi, girls.”
Various greeting range from a deceptively sweet hello from Lydia to a friendly fuck you from Allison—and something probably kind from Kira.
“Kira, don’t talk while eating a burrito,” Stiles reprimands.
“Man,” Erica sighs, “it never gets old that you know everything. Are you sure you have no supernatural blood?”
“One hundred percent certain,” Lydia answers for Stiles.
Stiles doesn’t bother asking her how she knows that and with such confidence. He cuts to the chase. “Who am I killing?”
See, the thing about falling into illicit detective work when you haven’t even reached double digits in age is that eventually you get noticed. Getting noticed somehow leads to a professional career as some fucked-up first-rate hitman by fifteen. Naturally, this leads you to begrudgingly taking a thirteen-year-old Banshee orphan under your wing on your twenty-first birthday and by twenty-eight you’ve unofficially adopted three more teens in the bounty hunting/hitman/supernatural hunter business.
At the sweet age of thirty-six, Stiles hit the brakes, leaving his legacy to his murder girls. He lives under the radar in a nice cabin and goes to the local community college at the insistence of his first adoptee, Lydia. He writes bizarre children’s stories on a little lizard named Monkey in his spare time.
Basically, he’s retired from killing until his girls call him up.
“Is this urgent,” he asks when he’s got all the details from Ally, “or do we have time for Code Red?”
“Code Red,” Kira shouts with backed up enthusiasm from Erica.
“Not urgent,” Lydia answers, and Stiles trusts her.
Grabbing his car keys, Stiles demands, “Text me a vegetable you’ll each eat and I’ll get the regular haul.”
After a three-day weekend of junk food and DIY spa and trashy movies and hurting his back from falling asleep on the couch in the middle of his girls gossiping, Stiles cracks his knuckles. He buckles down on his target—Hale, Peter.
Coordinates are the only information Stiles needs to kill for his girls but Erica repeatedly pulled him aside to emphasize he needs to go in deep. It had been a lot worrying and Stiles upped his surveillance on each of his girls to make sure they’re okay after whatever-the-fuck they’ve gotten themselves into.
Peter Hale is a werewolf Left Hand and Stiles wants to brain himself on his coffee table. It’s a very nice coffee table, though, and it’s much less satisfying ruining furniture that you personally bought and didn’t steal.
Left Hands are a bunch of shady shit stacked on top of each other in a trench coat. Stiles had made sure to stay away from those assignments. It’s hay in a needle-stack to find what shady shit is genuine shady shit.
Hale is from the Hale pack—shocking—that’s incredibly well-known, making this all the more worse.
No wonder his girls voted Erica to call him. She's the winner of getting in the most trouble and tries to drag him back into the mess, meaning he avoids her calls until she steals one of the other girls’ phones. On the flip side, he has an incredibly large soft spot for being the one person she trusts as back-up, and if the other girls rally behind Erica, he’ll always say yes.
Everything “bad” about Hale is frankly impressive as fuck. The worst Stiles finds on the werewolf is his interest in Banshee books a few years ago. Stiles calls Lydia under the guise of needing her to proof-read some of his homework so he can hear her voice, safe and prissy.
Then, Stile grits his teeth and does what he never does—asks for help.
“Wow, can you sound any more surprised? Where is the love?” Stiles teases.
“Last I saw you, you told me to never speak to you again.”
“That’s your fault for being an incredibly good fuck,” Stiles defends. “I’m not going to fall down the rabbit hole of sex with one of my girls’ dad.”
Chris Argent, birth father of Allison, is in the messy process of mending his relationship with Ally after she ran away from Chris’ horrible family at seventeen.
Chris agrees, a touch wistful, “It was fantastic sex.”
Stiles hums. He asks, “Have you had fantastic sex with Peter Hale?”
The spluttering choke and following coughing attack has Stiles laughing harder than when Erica snorted milk out of her nose this weekend.
“That’s a no but you so wish that you did,” Stiles gleefully says. “Guess family drama would get in the away of that. My sincerest apologies that your sister nearly killing his entire pack prevented Hale from experiencing the holy experience of your sexual prowess.”
“Jesus Christ, Stiles.” Chris sighs his heavy Dad-sigh. If Stiles’ dad had been alive and sighing at him like that, he would have run away too. “What do you want, Stilinski?”
“Info on Peter Hale.” At Chris’ silence, Stiles adds, “Yeah, yeah, me asking for help, big shock, let’s not make this awkward.”
“No, that’s not—” Chris cuts himself off and Stiles’ bullshit radar blares to life. “I don’t have any useful knowledge.”
Stiles' voice deepens as he threatens, “I’ll tell Ally you had sex with me if you don’t spill your guts immediately.”
“Those girls coddle you as much as you coddle them.”
“I’ll say you seduced me.”
“Fine." Chris tests Stiles' patience with a drawn-out pause. "Word may have come my way about a Hale looking for someone to track you. You said not to contact you personally, so I passed the news on to Ally.”
Stiles nearly brains himself on his very nice personally paid for coffee table. “I’m going to kill them,” he says and hangs up.
Stiles trained his girls well but they’ll never be prepared for him.
It’s probably his second favorite thing about life after Code Reds—their startled squeals when they look up from whatever mindless activity they’d been doing to see him sitting across from them with unblinking eyes.
“Now, Erica and Kira I get,” Stiles says after he corralled his girls together once they stopped screaming and throwing weapons at him. “Ally is not too surprising.” Stiles ignores the noise of protest. “But Lydia? Come on.”
“It was her idea,” Kira says. Stiles purposefully keeps his eyes off of her. Kira’s sunshine smile is killer.
Lydia gives Stiles the middle finger.
“Yeah, fair enough,” he concedes. “Still an asshole move, girls.”
“I knew this would work but still—your type is disturbing, Stiles. I don’t even know half the shit he’s done but it’s disturbing.”
Lie—Allison most definitely researched the hell out of Hale before passing the info to Lydia and then researched again before agreeing with the other three’s cooked up plan.
“I don’t know. He could make worse choices,” Kira says to Allison. Stiles still refuses to look at her but he knows her sunshine smile has been joined with laughing eyes. Fuck. How does she know about that hate-sex rendezvous with Chris?
“I’d bang him,” Erica helpfully pipes up. “Does this mean we get the green light for murder attempts?”
Stiles flippantly waves his hand. At the squabbling uproar for first go, he claps his hands and levels them each with a glare. “If you’re going to be brats then we go in order from first to last stork child.”
“Aw, no fair,” Allison whines.
Kira comes closest to fatally wounding Peter Hale. Allison doesn’t get her chance of testing the werewolf’s worth because Hale strikes first.
Stiles adds pressure to his boot planted on Hale’s shoulder. The mountain ash lining on the sole burns through Hale’s slutty v-neck and blisters his healing skin.
At this point in Stiles’ ambush, Peter’s not getting up, boot or not, but Stiles needs to drive his point in. He locks eyes with Hale for a full sixty-seconds before lifting his foot.
“Touch one of my girls ever again,” Stiles uses the end of his baseball bat to gently tilt Peter Hale’s chin back, baring the werewolf’s neck, “and I promise you, you’ll never have experienced anything close to what I am.”
Then, he knocks the asshole out.
Four months later, Stiles shows up to kill someone Kira sent him a picture of. He finds the victim dead at Hale’s feet.
“I’d prefer fatherfucker,” Hale says. He tilts his head, regarding Stiles. “Unless you go by mother.”
“Ew, neither. Also,” Stiles frowns, “that’s the grossest pick-up line ever.”
Hale raises an eyebrow. “Your girls act like you’re their precious parent.”
At the mention of his girls, Stiles bristles. “Shut the fuck up and get out of my sight before I kill you.”
Hale pouts, his lower lip jutted out and everything. He kicks the dead dude and chides, “That’s not a nice thank you to my gift.”
Stiles twists the handle of his bat and shoots Hale in the foot.
Allison texts Stiles in the middle of his creative writing class. It’s a picture of the single use campus bathroom with Hale tied to the toilet and glaring.
Love you, Stiles texts. They message back and forth over what to have for dinner. It’s a rule that if one of his girls is nearby they are required to sleep at least one night over to catch up with him.
“Date him,” Allison says half-way through Chinese take-out.
There’s a muffled shout from the guest room. Hale’s awake, then, and eavesdropping. And for some godforsaken reason, he’s encouraging Allison’s opinion despite everything he’s gone through.
“Because I’m not taking the chance of you and my dad happening.”
Stiles eats an egg roll like it’s the last food he’ll ever eat. Because he’s not an idiot and doesn’t want to die tonight, he says, “Okay.”
At the muffled cheer from down the hall, Ally snorts.
Hale’s been tied up in the guest room for six hours by the time Stiles slips into bed. He falls asleep like a baby.
A single claw pressed under his chin wakes him up.
“Bare my neck to you again and I’ll shoot your other foot,” Stiles says without opening his eyes. Flipping over onto his side, enjoying the pleasant scratch of the claw dragging against his skin, he says, “I’m the little spoon.”
The escaped werewolf is smart enough to not keep Stiles waiting and climbs into bed.
“Good night, Peter Hale,” Stiles says, pressing back into the line of warmth snuggling him. His mouth curves up. “You’ll need all the sleep you can get if you want to catch me.”