#hale feels

[ravewulf]

I have decided that Once Upon A December is one of Derek’s songs. Especially these bits

Someone holds me safe and warm. Horses prance through a silver storm. Figures dancing gracefully Across my memory... Far away, long ago, Glowing dim as an ember, Things my heart Used to know, Things it yearns to remember

[halinski]

When I started writing this drabble or whatever it is, I had this whole rant going on in my head that I wanted to post here because I don't know how I feel about tumblr or fandom, I'm still hurt when certain things pop up, still so frustrated, still doubt if I belong here, still dunno if I can do it, but idk some of you have told me you care about me and although everything in me screams that you can't because what's there to care about me anyway, it's nice to know, and I might be back for you guys. I'm still struggling though. But sterek, I will never leave sterek and that's why I started writing this. Also because I used to relate to Derek before but now I feel like I've been betrayed and robbed of my safe space by someone I used to care a lot about (it's probably partially my fault but I refuse to put all the blame on myself, I'm fighting for my mental health - though now my physical health is giving me hell as well) and losing my pack, my everything, my one love, all in the same year (I'm still waiting for her to come back, nothing is right without her, it's not like I just lost a limb, it feels like my whole chest has been ripped out) and I relate to Derek a lot more now. So this is kinda self-indulgent, the beginning of this came from not being able to express my feelings in any way, not even writing so I just forced myself to write anything at all. And it's an idea I got based on real life. See, no matter how much I hate everything about myself (you guys have no idea) there is one thing that when reminded of, I can always be proud of - my heritage. A month ago I got a tattoo so I can wear it proudly and a few days later, I tattooed it on my sister via hand poke (a thing I'm getting into - just tattooed myself last night hah) and that's what made me think of Laura and Derek, hence feels. But of course, I had to make it sterek. And so there you have it, I don't know what I'm doing but see I was thinking maybe if I make this place more personal, if I reclaim my space here, and own it, maybe I can be back on here and that's what this here intro is about. Might be doing that more often. Just putting all my brain scramble out here and those who care to deal with it, welcome, those who don't, well there are a bunch of other sterek blogs out there, I'm just trying to find myself and I don't expect anyone to suffer through that. I struggle so much with so many things, even writing, but I don't go down without a fight, it's in my blood to survive and hope. So here I am. All the thanks to @hailderek for encouraging me (sorry if I made you read all that). Thanks to everyone who stuck with me and the blog, sorry if I did anything wrong. And now for anyone who made it through this, here's a little hurt/comfort centered around Derek Hale ❤

"A cup for hope," Stiles said, his finger running across Derek's skin. He was laid out as a grounding weight across his back and legs, ever so slowly, ever so softly tracing the ink of his tattoo. Derek could feel every twisting curve, as if he was being branded all over again but with gentleness, with something so soft that it felt like it filled some of the cracks in his back and strengthened him. Like serenity was being pressed into his chest, planting a warmth between his ribs. "A cup for love." A warmth that could grow to take down the walls he'd built, with creeping vines that never ceased to find their way, and build something up from the center, build up on his heart like a fortress - strong and grand, while vast and filled with life and light within. "And a cup for memory."

Stiles' hand came to a stop only once his palm was stretched out across the full size of the triskele as if to keep the spell inside, Derek's heart beating heavy, and painfully, once, twice, and a third time, and finally, it grew three sizes. Derek knew what he was been given; knew that he was physically whole only through Stiles' help; knew that he'd been laid out for Stiles to see all his pieces and that the boy had wrapped his arms around them all and had had his back ever since Derek had seen the understanding in his eyes. Stiles was like the vines, inconspicuous, but ever there. He had crept in, built him up and held him together with the promise of hope, soothed him with the gentle touch of love, and left enough memories to prove his steady loyalty. It felt like pack before Derek could even allow himself to admit it. The way Derek’s breaths started to rasp reminded him of the distinct sound of lead across an old newspaper, scratching, scratching heavily, over and over, loud enough to compete with all the big city sounds, as rhythmic as maybe the buzz of the fridge, or the honking of cars. There was Laura, staring at the large papers spread out in front of her, but with her gaze focused on a mere corner of the margin. He'd walked in from a nap, it was all the sleep he got those days, making him heavy lidded and muddy brained despite the werewolf regeneration. There were too many nightmares, too many thoughts that wracked his brain if he allowed it to run at full capacity. But there Laura was, repeatedly following the same lines over and over again, hypnotized almost by the flowing form. Both of them were changed persons now and it had torn at Derek's chest until he'd learned to numb it down to indifference, the only way to survive the pain. Laura still never showed open weakness at all, though he'd heard her fall apart in the darkness of her room before, night after night. She knew how to be strong though, knew how to carry on, but she hadn't lost herself and he knew that then, when he stepped up to her side to see the family crest sketched up on the newspaper and she said, unmoving, "I want a tattoo." It was quickly organized, for Laura knew how to get things done. She always had. Derek suspected she would have gotten a tattoo even if none of the life changing events had happened, and he thought, she'd still be getting a tattoo, but this was still his fault. It was his doing that she felt she had to burn her family into her skin, as if the scent of the ashes wasn't still wafting with every move they made, as if Peter's unhealing face wasn't enough. Laura never made a sound through all of it, staring boldly at the process, as if daring the world to try to take anything from her again, daring it to try and make decisions for her. If the nightmares got worse that week, who was to say it had a particular reason. If Laura had to hold him down again as he sobbed with claws extended, slightly bloody from his thrashing, with his fangs digging into his lips, trying to prevent each shaky breath, no one was the wiser where it came from. At least Laura wasn't. Derek had never told her, even when she'd begged him not to blame himself because she thought there was nothing he could have done. He couldn't get it past his lips, couldn't face the look in her eyes, all he could do was shake. Until the night, when he'd ended up in her arms again, and he looked at her with pale blue eyes, rimmed with red, and asked her for the same tattoo. She didn't question any of his decisions, not even the one to have her execute the procedure. He let her wield fire, and she let him burn, as if she knew. He'd shaken beneath her just like this back then. His bones had rattled, mind aflame with thoughts of burning whole, because what was left of him anyway, and why shouldn't he feel what they had felt, when he'd sealed their fates, like Kate had sealed the house with ash. Forgoing hope or love, Derek had carried the triskele like a sentence on his back. It weighed heavily, and rightfully so, he'd thought, it was all he deserved. It weighed heavily enough that even with Stiles now kneeling at his side, he didn't have the strength to move, didn't dare to fill his lungs with air. He wouldn't deserve it, such greatness in a body of despair. Laura had been merciful in part, as to let him feel the pain, even while running a finger over the burns, to make sure he'd been marked just right. She'd let him take it, let him feel it, let him balance it with the poison in his heart and keep it for himself, while easing it, sharing it with him. Stiles on the other hand, Stiles' hands were telling him to let go of the pain, and let it bleed out. They met it with an undying light that made the dark dissipate, and assured him he'd be caught, like it had all been endured long enough, like he was finally allowed to heal and stand on his own. The thing about healing was, it was scratchy. It was an itch out of reach and it made Derek want to tear the tattoo off his back, because he didn't deserve it, did he? If he contorted himself enough he could. He could rid himself of the last thing marking him as a Hale. He could wrench himself from the comfort of Stiles' arms and rid himself of any last semblance of himself. But it was that itch, that discomfort that let him know, he really was healing. It would take a lot more energy to rip the wound open again rather than to give in. Everything was soft around him, the mid morning light falling into the room in a haze, the smooth pale blue sheets beneath him and the gentle murmur at his side. He was the one piece that didn’t fit, he thought, panicking, tensing with the need to flee. He had never been good at fighting anyway, never had enough to fight for. Yet, he wasn’t alone now. A second scent was mixed with his all across the bed, so intertwined it was almost like one and that- Derek couldn't sense anything wrong with that. He could stay, let his edges bleed out to let himself become part of the scene, part of home.

Stiles was a murmur at his ear that he could maybe understand if only his heart stopped beating so loudly and he wasn't gasping for breath - so he held it.

“Breathe in. Breathe out,” Stiles said softly, and it was the opposite of what Derek was doing now but he listened, lifting himself onto his elbows slightly to give his chest room. He followed Stiles’ counts, until he felt the tension slowly slipping and giving way to weariness, dragging his limbs back into the mattress.

“I'm here, sourwolf,” Stiles continued, prompting Derek to turn his head toward him, regardless of the mess he probably looked like. He closed his eyes and leaned in, feeling Stiles’ fingers in his hair only a moment later.

“Can-” Derek had to clear his throat to find his voice again. “Can you…” but he still couldn't get the words out. Instead he lifted an arm helplessly, hoping Stiles would get the message. Which he did. Lowering himself down, Stiles wrapped his arms around Derek and pulled him tight against him. One hand came to wrap around the back of Derek’s neck, guiding him into his own neck. Derek gratefully burrowed in, breathing Stiles’ sent in and relaxing into his hold.

“What were you… You said something earlier,” Derek managed to get out. Even talking was enough of a struggle, and now Stiles’ skin muffled his words. The male still managed to understand him though, telling by the hum that he let out.

“ 'A cup for hope!' she said,

In springtime ere the bloom was old:

The crimson wine was poor and cold

By her mouth's richer red.

'A cup for love!' how low,

How soft the words; and all the while

Her blush was rippling with a smile

Like summer after snow.

'A cup for memory!'

Cold cup that one must drain alone:

While autumn winds are up and moan

Across the barren sea.

Hope, memory, love:

Hope for fair morn, and love for day,

And memory for the evening grey

And solitary dove,” Stiles recited, voice flowing smoothly over the words like it was nothing, like it didn’t bring silent tears back to Derek’s eyes. It was like Stiles saw him as that solitary dove, rather than a demon. “It’s ‘Three Seasons’ by Christina Rossetti… It’s the, the number three that made me think of it. And my… my mother. She- that is when she knew that it was… over for her she left a different poem by her and I looked into more of them.”

Stiles’ hands continuously ran up and down Derek’s back, up into his nape and hair, soothing him via contact, while Derek’s fingers wrapped in the material of Stiles’ shirt. Derek counted his heartbeats over and over again, letting their steady presence keep his thoughts focused on his spark and away from wandering into the dark corners of his mind.

“It’s called ‘Remember’. The poem that she left us. Do you want me to recite it?”

Derek was silent for a while, contemplating but unsure of what decision to make.

“I think you’ll like it. Do you trust me?”

To that question Derek found himself nodding right away. They wouldn’t be in this position if not.

“Remember me,” he starts,  “when I am gone away,

        Gone far away into the silent land;

        When you can no more hold me by the hand,

Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.

Remember me when no more day by day

        You tell me of our future that you plann'd:

        Only remember me; you understand

It will be late to counsel then or pray.

Yet if you should forget me for a while

        And afterwards remember, do not grieve:

        For if the darkness and corruption leave

        A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,

Better by far you should forget and smile

        Than that you should remember and be sad.”

Derek swallowed hard. The emotions were rising again but this time they weren’t so overwhelming. This time he was being held fast, safe. This time his edges were softened enough for him to merge with Stiles it seemed, to share his pain and accept the healing touch - nothing like the pain drain of a werewolf and yet all the same.

[eternalsterekrecs]

BALANCE

Author: artemis69

Summary: Derek is eight, and he can control the change, his glowing eyes, his sharp claws and fangs. He learned with his dad how to move without noises, with Peter how to move with the wind, and from Grandma how to kill without making the animals suffer.

Derek is eight and a predator in training.

Derek is eight, hidden behind a pitiful bush, knees digging in the mud.

Hunting was more glorious in his imagination.

Info: 2k | Not Rated | Derek Feels

Notes: This fic is so short but so beautiful! If you’re a Derek stan this is the one for you but beware, it will probably leave you with tears in your eyes. - C

Sneak Peek:

“The universe is all about balance Derek. If you take more than you can eat, hurt more than you should, you disturb this frail equilibrium”

[leatherandwolfsbane]

Peter’s love of Malia gives me life! 

He found the strength to fight the Riders cause of her, he encourages her to run, she woke him up....

FEELS, MAN

[therapeutic-steter]

Derek and Peter having a nephew-uncle-moment and Stiles is watching the heartbreaking moment.

This one is short but angsty. I don’t think a lot of Steter came through, but I’m always game for Hale family feels too. Hope you enjoy!

—–break—–

Stiles watched in horror as the flame atronach hissed,embers spitting from their body as they rushed towards Derek. Derek wasnear-paralyzed, his leg still broken from where he’d been thrown into a treeearlier, fear clearly shining through on his face. Stiles felt so helpless,looking around desperately for something to distract the atronach.

A roar drew their attention, including the atronach’s. Peterslammed into the flaming creature’s body, roaring his fury and wildly slashingat its burning flesh. The atronach screeched, flames burning brighter andthrashing from within Peter’s hold until Peter finally got a good hit and endedits life.

The clearing was quiet, everyone holding their breath. Peterwas panting even as his skin flaked and sizzled. Stiles winced, wondering howmuch times a person could possibly by burned alive.

Derek let out a high whine and Stiles looked to him,wondering if he’d been burned too. Instead though, the man was looking atPeter, devastation in his eyes as he practically crawled to his uncle’s side.

“Uncle Peter,” he said, voice worried. He reached out buthesitated over Peter’s burned skin, scared to touch and cause more harm. Petertrembled, body shaking in pain, and Stiles bit his lip as his own eyes stungwith tears. Peter’s lip curled and his eyes were shut. His breaths shudderedwhen he exhaled.

“You…” Derek started, voice cutting off from a well ofemotion. Peter finally opened his eyes to look over at his nephew, eyes pinchedin pain even though there was relief there too.

“Let’s not have a moment,” Peter said, voice strained.

Derek whimpered again. He looked more vulnerable than Stileshad ever seen, and the human felt like this wasn’t something he should bewatching. Derek reached out carefully, very very carefully, and helped Peter tohis feet. His skin went black as he started draining the pain from Peter. Derek’sknees shook as the pain hit him and Peter pulled away, frowning.

“No need for that,” Peter said, standing under his own powereven as he swayed precariously. He jutted his chin out proudly, locking his kneesand dutifully ignoring the pain Stiles was sure his nerves were screamingabout.

Stiles ran to get his jeep, letting them work out the familyfeelings without some privacy and pulling as close as possible. Peter gruntedas he climbed into the back and Stiles winced with every crackle of his burntskin. He said nothing when Derek climbed in the back also, worrying over Petereven as the man sat back with his eyes closed and dutifully ignored hisfretting nephew.

“Thank you,” Derek murmured so quiet Stiles almost didn’thear.

Peter hummed, not responding.

“Uncle Peter,” Derek said, voice breaking.

“It’s okay, Derek,” Peter said, reached over and patting hisnephew’s hand. “It’s going to be okay.”

Stiles really hoped so.

[paintedrecs]

The second request for this meme was for “blush,” which happens to show up at the beginning of my upcoming winter/christmas fic. This was initially intended to be for the Sterek Secret Santa, but when it ballooned past the 3k word limit and into 43k, I decided to go ahead and post it on its own. I’ll be editing it after nano’s done, and posting by mid-December. It’s a roughly canon compliant fic, with some picking and choosing. Entirely in Derek’s POV, it explores what happens when Derek leaves Beacon Hills for good, and Stiles comes after him. This beginning section is mostly Hale Feels, which is also...a fairly large and important aspect of the story.

1,800 word excerpt from tide pulls from the moon

It never snowed in Beacon Hills. It hadn’t, for as long as Derek had been alive, and his grandmother had shaken her head when he’d crawled into her lap - five years old, snug in pajamas and the warmth of their always-bustling house - and begged her to tell him stories about “the old days.”

His grandmother, who’d passed on the Alpha power to her eldest daughter and taken on the equally challenging role of resident babysitter, story-teller, and feelings-soother, would stroke over the stubborn cowlick on the crown of his head and let him tuck himself under her chin. “It’s not cold enough here, my little wolfling,” she’d say.

He'd grown up relying on her as his first resource on any difficult subject: what makes snow (his introductory lessons on the intricacies of science and nature); why his mother was gone so often (Alpha duties - protecting her territory and advising other werewolves on theirs); where babies came from (a conversation his father had been roped into, and which had turned into an outline of his responsibilities as a soon-to-be older brother);  why Laura was such a jerk (don’t say that, darling: some day, I promise you’ll be grateful for her friendship); and what it meant that he got the same fluttery sensations in his chest when Charles touched his hand as when Anna did (love is love, my sweet; just be sure the person’s good to you, and you to them).

It didn’t snow in their part of California; it never had, and likely never would. But that didn’t stop him from asking, or longing, once he was too old to believe his parents could make anything happen. Maybe it wasn’t the natural state of the world, for a town that wasn’t far enough north, or high enough in the mountains, to gather that magical dusting he daydreamed about every winter. The thing was, though. Most of the world didn’t know werewolves existed outside of fairy tales and horror films. People relied on what they knew, and what they’d been taught, without opening their eyes to other possibilities.

So he patiently wrote "snow" at the top of his wishlist, every year, in careful blocky letters, from the time Laura made fun of him for assuming they were writing to a benevolent werewolf named Santa Claws, to the point when even Cora was old enough to start rolling her eyes at the holiday festivities.

Derek pretended, after that. Groaned loudly when his mom insisted he go to the woods to chop down a tree with his sisters. Griped about the lights strung up on the lamp posts in downtown Beacon Hills, the carols playing on a loop in the stores, the overpowering scents of cinnamon and peppermint in every coffeeshop and bakery. He faked disappointment when his birthday presents were inevitably, and clumsily, wrapped in shiny scraps of snowflake- and candy cane-patterned paper.

“I know it’s not easy being a Christmas baby,” his mother apologized every year, frazzled by the community responsibilities she always ended up overbooking. She’d whirl in and out of the house, kissing Derek and Cora on the tops of their heads, squeezing Laura’s shoulder and reminding her to take care of them, and coaxing his dad out of the combination office-library at the back of the house. Derek spent a lot of time in there, dipping into the dusty old history books his dad was studying, and occasionally serving as a sounding board when he wanted to try out a new lecture for his upcoming seminars.

Winter was the best time of year, even inside the house. They’d keep an unnecessary fire crackling in the fireplace, Derek tucked into an oversized armchair with a book, and his dad frowning away at the papers spread across the table, his glasses in constant danger of slipping down his nose. The library wasn't off limits to Laura and Cora, per se, but they never chose to spend time in it. Laura was constantly picking up odd jobs and volunteer work - trying to follow in her Alpha's footsteps, Derek figured, or maybe they were just that similar - and Cora preferred to run around in the woods at all hours of the day and night, often sneaking out of bed to chase the moonlight.

His mom would enter the library, sigh fondly at her bookish boys, and ruffle Derek's hair before tugging her husband into accompanying her to another charity fundraiser dinner. He'd emerge from his studies, a little bleary-eyed but smiling, always ready to draw his wife into a kiss and follow her anywhere. Derek would blush as they kissed under the fake mistletoe in the doorways, and Cora would make fake gagging sounds until Laura pinched her, but their parents' love had been their anchor their entire lives.

The holidays made Derek happy, every year, even if the weather never did shift over into the picture-perfect landscape all the movies and songs lingered over lovingly.

He even secretly loved being born on Christmas Day - "the best gift I've ever received," his mom would say. "Me too," Laura would add, since her reward for a ruined Christmas spent in the hospital had been a silky black puppy with big eyes and bigger paws. She'd spent years trying to shift into her full wolf form so they could tumble together in the Preserve, two woodland creatures at play.

She hadn't managed it - not then. Not until years later, long after the Alpha powers had coursed through her body and left her shaking and sobbing, grey-white flakes drifting softly in the air and settling onto their bowed shoulders, coating their smoldering house and scorched yard into a mockery of the winter wonderland Derek had always dreamed about.

It'd been snowing in New York the day he felt her die.

The plane to California, the taxi ride from the airport to Beacon Hills, finding Laura's Camaro parked at the house - all of it passed in a daze. The ground was cold, but not icy, when he'd dug her grave. The air was crisp but clear as he'd wrapped her up and covered her, letting the wolfsbane rope shred his hands as he buried it in a protective spiral around her.

He stayed there for a while, hunched over in the ashy dirt, not sure whether he was going to cry or puke or scream at the top of his lungs.

In the end, he did none of it. His hands healed, the blood drying on them as a reminder that this, too, was his fault, because he hadn't wanted to go back with her. It'd taken years to clear the scent of ash out of his nostrils, to not flinch at every brush of a snowflake against his skin, or melting in his hair. And now he'd lost everything. His Alpha, his sister, all the hard-fought progress at not hating himself every day of his life.

New York had been their final destination, but Boston had been the first place he'd ever seen snow. Laura had thought - well, she'd gone with what she knew of him, not realizing that the memories that kept her on her feet left him feeling raw, flayed open. It was the first time he'd cried - standing on the ice in the Public Garden, Laura sweeping her arms and legs into a snow angel on the thickly-coated bank.

He wanted the ice to crack under his feet. He wanted to sink into the water, to have it knit itself back together over his head. He wanted to disappear. But he couldn't - not with Laura still there - laughing a little at the snow slipping under her collar, calling out for him to join her. He brushed roughly at his eyes, told himself to grow up - he was sixteen, it was old enough to know better, to be better - and pushed it all down.

He built a snowman with her. He let her push him into a snowdrift and rub snow into his hair, smiling in an attempt to wipe away the worrylines that’d begun to etch themselves around her eyes and mouth. He helped her pick out a tree and sneak it into their hotel room, pine needles dropping in a clear trail down the hallway. He spent an hour staring blankly at gloves and scarves and jewelry and perfume in Macy's, sharp reminders coming up every time he saw something he wanted to buy for his mom, or Cora, or his grandmother, or his little human cousins, who'd been visiting the night of the fire. Who hadn't even known - too young to keep that kind of secret - the Hales were something more than human. Who'd burned alive anyway, because Kate - because Kate had let him believe she'd loved him, then destroyed everything.

He stayed in Beacon Hills, after Laura. He stayed because he deserved the daily reminders - the old ladies in the grocery stores who remembered his mother, the long paths in the Preserve he'd run with her and his sisters, his dad's charred glasses in the rubble of his library. The way Scott, freshly turned and angry about it, hated him, but needed him. The way Stiles hated him, but ... but that part he didn't understand, not for years.

Stiles was fire and fury, in a way Kate had been - vibrant and smart and beautiful, with a dangerous underlayer that he couldn't help finding appealing. He threw himself at Stiles with harsh words and toothless threats, antagonism always simmering under the surface. He was waiting to be broken. Ready to fall apart under the weight of Stiles's disdain, to watch someone else stand over him, triumphant in his defeat.

But Stiles didn't break him. Stiles picked him up. Stood over him, yes, but only to slap him back to consciousness, relief pouring through his scent as Kate's bullet wound faded into his skin. Held him above the water, until his limbs were trembling, moments away from drowning alongside him. Yelled in his face but dragged him out of the hospital elevator, a look in his eyes that Derek hadn't been able to read, and couldn't think about without his heart twisting strangely in his chest.

When he left Beacon Hills, finally ripping the tether free and remembering how to breathe, how to live again, it was Stiles who came after him. Stiles, who showed up at his door with blazing eyes, looking like he wanted to punch him in the face, but wrapping his arms around him instead, making him grunt in surprise at the raw strength of his embrace.

“You asshole,” Stiles said, slapping him heartily on the back as he extricated himself, his voice rough under his bright smile. “You couldn’t have made yourself harder to find, could you?”

[bentnotbroken1fanfiction]

As much as I'm actually enjoying this season of Teen Wolf

I seriously miss Derek! Like for realsies. I fuckin MISS my Sourwolf so bad rn.

I also miss Danny.

And Coach.

And Allison.

But I digress.

[eternalsterekrecs]

THE CARDS ALL FALL

Author: ChaoticReactions

Summary: Peter needs his revenge.  But for that, he can't be under constant surveillance. And so he comes up with a plan to distract Derek and Stiles with each other. Things go as expected, and then they don't.

AKA That one where Peter makes everyone's lives a little better completely by accident.

Info: 52k | Mature

Notes: This is something different, Peter’s POV, post S2, it starts a little bit morbidly, but Peter in this one is just amazing. The story shows so much about him and I really love how he is changing and truly becoming pack. Sterek is slow, almost pre-slash, but it’s great and if you like Peter this is a must read! - K

Sneak Peek:

By the time he made it back downstairs, Sheriff Stilinski was settled in the loveseat that Peter had vacated.  “Wait, slow down.  If it wasn’t any of you, then who was the one doing the killing then?”

Oh, goody, that part of the past few months.  Refusing to let his footsteps stutter, Peter swallowed hard and set the whiskey on the coffee table slightly too hard.  Before he could interject some flip response about how it had been him, Stiles continued on.  “Rogue Alpha werewolf.  He was completely out of his gourd crazy and was after hunters.  He died that night, though, so nothing to worry about.”  

Straightening, Peter’s head whipped around to stare at Stiles, whose gaze was focused on his father rather than him.  But his heartbeat had stayed completely steady, even in the face of something that should have been a plenty bold enough lie for Peter to hear it.  A glance at the rest of the Pack showed that none of them looked like they disagreed, or even thought the statement was odd.

Peter slipped into the kitchen and took his time getting the glasses.  This time his stalling was for a different reason.