👀😤😏 @stetervault
The moment Stiles stood up and the bandages fell off him, he realized something was wrong.
He was off balance, dramatically so, movements weighted too far forward. He stumbled, crashing into Melissa. His mind was an angry nest of confusion and fear, unaware of why he felt so unbalanced, unsure if the nogitsune was actually gone, and unsettled at the idea that his pack hadn’t known whether he was him or not.
Melissa caught him around the waist, steadying him in time to hear the gasps behind him. He twisted around to see what was going on, only to find everyone staring at his back, mouths open. He craned his neck around, looking at his back with an unimpeded view.
Unimpeded.
No feathers tickling his nose. No wing joint blocking his sightline.
Nothing.
He looked up at the others, convinced that this must be another trick of the nogitsune. Another hallucination to play with him, to bring chaos to his mind.
One by one, they stared back at him, pity in every face. Exactly as Stiles imagined his worst nightmare would go. The nogitsune took its cues from Stiles’ own mind, maybe this was all made up and taken from himself-
His eyes reached Peter. His face was unusually grim. He looked back at Stiles, no sign of a cold smirk or cutting grin anywhere. He simply looked at Stiles, serious, a hint of grief in the set of his mouth.
It was real.
Stiles screamed.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Three years later, he still thought it would have been easier to handle if the nogitsune had left scars. Something, anything as proof that his wings had once existed. Had once surrounded him, keeping him warm and lifting him from the earth, wings that looked exactly like his mother’s.
He only had pictures of either now.
But no. The skin of his back was smooth and unmarked. He’d taken to telling the people he slept with that it was a birth deformity. The lie was never discovered- after all, they would have had to stay for at least a second night to find out, and Stiles would never allow that.
Most of the time he wasn’t even around by the next morning, already on his way to the next town with the next job.
Besides, sometimes he almost believed the lie himself. He was so far divorced from his former life that it felt like someone else’s memories.
He’d found benefits to being wingless. The effort he had to make to re-learn balance had carried him into the kind of grace and stealth that could be very lucrative, when used correctly. Most attacks come from the sky, dropping in suddenly from any direction; and absolutely no one would dare to escape on the ground, where one might be so easily caught.
Unless one was Stiles.
So he took jobs, and did them under the noses of those who looked skyward, convinced that the only worthy threat could come from there.
The jobs were dubiously legal at best, but that didn’t matter. Not when any possible future law enforcement career had been stripped from him the moment he lost his wings. Instead, he used his comprehensive knowledge of the law to break it more effectively.
Not at the moment, though.
At the moment, he was having a perfectly legal cup of coffee, in a perfectly respectable Starbucks, so Seattle-generic that he wondered if his client would be able to pick it out from the other three Starbucks on the street.
He sipped the cold brew, back to the wall, no one paying enough attention to him to notice the missing wings. It was relaxing, not being noticed. Not being stared at. He slouched back further onto the wall.
He was mid-sip when the door opened again. His eyes flicked over, looking for the identifier his client had said he’d be wearing.
A red and white striped pocket square in a vest.
He also wore sunglasses and a well-tailored jacket, hair styled fairly long.
Definitely longer than the last time he’d seen him.
“God fucking damn it, Peter,” Stiles sighed.
Peter took a seat across from him, taking off his sunglasses and folding his wings behind him.
“Is that any way to greet an old friend?” he chided, reaching out to snag the cold brew from Stiles’ hands, until Stiles stabbed him with the coffee stirrer.
“What do you fucking want?” Stiles said aggressively, no longer comforted by the wall at his back, but trapped by it.
Peter frowned at him as he picked splinters out of his hand.
“I want to hire you. Or did you not actually read the last email I sent?” He raised a judgemental eyebrow.
Stiles stared at him flatly.
“I don’t believe that you've ever had a single motivation for doing something in your life. Your plans have so many layers that they’re hidden in plain sight by pretending to be lasanga. What. Do. You. Want.”
Peter smiled brightly.
“You caught me. Dual motivation. I wanted to steal the Deschamp Bestiary, and your coffee.” He reached out again, faster this time, and managed to snatch it, taking a long sip.
Stiles pinched the bridge of his nose.
“In all seriousness,” Peter continued, “I want that bestiary, not only because it’s a one of a kind book worth millions, but also because it’s currently in the hands of a dangerous family. A dangerous family absolutely full of bastards.”
Stiles looked up at him.
“And you need me, specifically, to help you do that,” he said, obvious skepticism in his tone.
“I did mention that they were bastards, right?” Peter said lightly, taking another sip. “Awful bastards. With bastard tight air security. No one drops into their compound without being killed.”
Stiles sighed, clearly able to see where this was going.
“I need someone competent in ground infiltration. And you, my dear, are the most competent on the market right now.” The look he gave Stiles was heavy lidded, a mixture of pleasure and anticipation.
Stiles wasn’t sure it was entirely for the upcoming job.
He chewed on his lip, internally debating.
As a general rule, Stiles took any job that would fuck over a hunter. He had enough grudges left over from high school to make it worth it. He also generally took any job with a high enough payout.
However, he didn’t take jobs from people he’d helped murder once. In general.
“What are you even doing in Seattle?” Stiles asked, delaying his decision.
“I live here,” Peter answered, swirling the coffee a little, trying to get cream up from the bottom.
“You left Beacon Hills?” Stiles said, actually surprised.
“After you left, I hardly had anything keeping me there,” Peter sniffed delicately. “You were the only worthwhile member of that pack. Besides, McCall started getting a little too friendly with Eichen House... I could only assume that would not end well for me.”
Stiles snorted, unsurprised that Scott would work with Eichen House to get Peter put away.
“I have a pack here now-” Peter continued.
“Wait,” Stiles interrupted. “You have a pack or you’re part of a pack?”
Peter briefly flashed red eyes in response. Stiles groaned.
“Who did you kill?” he demanded. He had a vague idea of Peter killing Scott on his way out of town, and if that was what had happened, he was absolutely not taking the job. He didn’t want to touch Beacon Hills nonsense with a ten foot pole.
Peter looked at him with wide, innocent eyes.
“You don’t think I’m worthy of True Alpha power, Stiles?” he said, beseeching.
Stiles brandished the coffee stirrer again, face deadly serious. Peter laughed.
“Deucalion,” he finally answered, adjusting his wings until they hung more loosely over the back of his chair.
Stiles relaxed. Peter smiled in amusement.
“I’ve had nothing to do with Beacon Hills for almost as long as you have,” he said, voice quieter, more sincere. “I really, truly contacted you because you’re the best person for the plan, and my plans are always the best. The fact that I get to see you again is just a bonus.”
Stiles sat back, face impassive as he searched Peter’s.
Peter hadn’t once brought up Stiles’ non-existent wings, despite that being the reason Stiles was available for the job at all. He didn’t glance over Stiles’ shoulder, looking for the thing that wasn’t there. He looked Stiles in the face, as if that was the only place he wanted to look.
Damn it.
“Alright. I’ll do it.”
