Gen

The pack was gone.

Stiles could hear them in the distance, voices fading through the trees. Scott's laugh!  Scott's fucking laugh echoing through the woods, Fucking McCall!! 

The crunch of boots on dead leaves grew softer... softer... gone.

Nobody looked back.

Nobody did a fucking headcount!

He was gasping. His side was on fire. He slowly crawled through the dirt, one hand pressed hard against the gash in his ribs. The fucking thing wanted to make mincemeat out of his insides.

He'd been an idiot! Wolves heal! Humans don't...not fast anyway.

Why had he thrown himself between the wendigo and Liam, again?

The kid's fine.

Scott's fine.

Everyone's fucking fine.

Except him.

"Fuck," he choked out, as he spit out blood. The taste of copper, thick in his throat. His vision swam for a minute, blurring at the edges. The constant sting was mind numbing. The preserve was quiet, too quiet now. Just his ragged breathing and the wind screaming through the branches overhead.

Then—footsteps.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Not running toward him. Just slow enough to have his whole body on edge.

He tried to push himself up, got as far as his elbow before his body gave out and he collapsed back with a heavy grunt.

The closer they got, the more familiar they became.

He knew those footsteps.

Fucking wolves!

"Well, well, well, now what do we have here?" Peter Hale emerged from the shadows like he'd always been there, hands comfortably in his pockets, head tilted in that considering way that made Stiles' gut twist.

"Hale," Stiles rasped. Tried for venom, sounded closer to pathetic. "The fuck do you want, creeper?"

Peter didn't answer right away.

Just started walking—a slow circle around where Stiles was bleeding into the moss and leaves.

A predator orbiting prey.

"You humans," Peter said, almost conversationally, "always have to be so self-entitled."

"Look who's talking..." Stiles spat back, blood dribbling down his jaw.

Peter stopped mid-step, and the smile that crossed his face was sharp enough to cut. "Tsk, tsk, tsk." He crouched down, just out of reach, elbows resting on his knees. "That's where you have it wrong, darling. I've never claimed to be a good man." He paused. Letting it settle. "...The human part is actually quite debatable."

Stiles tried to laugh. Wrong move. It turned into a strangled cough, wet and painful.

Peter stood again, resuming his slow orbit. "I'm merely an animal. I move by instinct. Survive, hunt, protect what's mine. But you?" He gestured vaguely in the direction the pack had disappeared to. "You claim humanity. Morality. Nobility. And yet, when met with the right circumstances..." He stopped directly in front of Stiles now, looking down. "...You'll be just as bad as me."

"Fuck you," Stiles gritted out, but there was no heat to it. He was shaking now, probably from blood loss or rage or the truth he didn't want to hear.

"Don't play victim," Peter continued, voice dropping lower, colder. "And don't you dare claim to be a martyr. You're just as depraved as I am, Mischief. The only difference?" He crouched again, close enough now that Stiles could see his reflection in those pale eyes. "I welcome it with open arms. I don't hide behind man-made labels like 'hero' or 'pack.' I don't pretend the monster isn't there."

Stiles' breath hitched. He wanted to argue, wanted to scream that Peter was wrong, but the words wouldn't come.

The pack had left him.

McCall had left him.

And some dark, bitter part of him whispered that maybe he deserved it.

Peter stood, brushing imaginary dirt from his jacket.

When he spoke again, his tone was almost gentle. Almost.

"Here's my parting shot, sweetheart." He stepped over him, one foot on either side of Stiles, looking down on him like the insignificant bug that he felt like.

"When you're tired of claiming sanity... when you're done bleeding on the ground for people who don't even remember you exist..." His smile deceptively sweet. "...My door's always open to you."

And then he was walking away.

Stiles twisted his head, trying to track him through the blur of pain and tears—and that's when he saw him.

Argent.

Christopher fucking Argent, standing at the edge of the clearing like a fucking sentinel.

Full tactical gear, rifle in hand, eyes scanning the treeline.

Cold.

Professional.

Not looking at Stiles at all.

"Argent—" Stiles rasped. "Chris! what the—"

But the hunter didn't move. Didn't flinch.

He just kept watch.

A soldier on duty.

For Hale!?

Peter's voice drifted back through the trees, already fading.

"Think about it, Stilinski. I'm not in a rush."

And then there was nothing but silence, and the sound of Stiles' own broken breathing.

Scenario: They're in Theo's truck after school. Liam has been quiet for an unnaturally long time.

The Setup:

Liam was staring out the passenger window,unblinking. He'd been silent since they left the school parking lot, a record for him. Theo drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"I think I’m pregnant!"

Theo's hand stilled. He took a slow breath, eyes still on the road. "What?"

"In health class. They said... you know." Liam's ears were turning pink. "If you, uh. Do stuff. You can get pregnant."

Theo blinked once. Twice. He risked a glance. Liam still hunched in his seat, genuinely worried.

"Liam," Theo said, his voice dangerously calm. "We're both male. Biologically. And I’m pretty sure no matter what, there’s no way you can magically get pregnant."

"But we... you know." Liam gestured vaguely between them, getting redder by the second. "Last week. And the week before that. In your bed."

Theo pulled the truck over to the side of the road with a slow, deliberate sigh. He put it in park and turned fully to face Liam, who was now studying his own knees with intense focus.

"Okay," Theo started, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Let's walk through this. First, what, exactly, did they say in health class?"

Liam mumbled something into his chest.

"Speak up, Dunbar."

"They said sometimes it only takes one time!" Liam burst out, finally looking at him, his eyes wide with panic. "And I've been feeling weird all week! My stomach feels... bubbly!"

Theo stared at him. The sheer, unadulterated idiocy on display was almost breathtaking. A slow, incredulous smirk spread across his face. "You mean the three burritos you inhaled before practice? The ones you chased with a gallon of chocolate milk?"

Liam's mouth opened, then closed. The panic in his eyes shifted to dawning, humiliated comprehension.

Theo shook his head, a short, sharp laugh escaping him. He reached out, his knuckles brushing lightly—almost fondly—against Liam's flaming cheek. "You're an idiot."

He put the truck back in drive, the smirk still playing on his lips. "I'm buying you a biology textbook. And we're never speaking of this again."

Chris didn’t bother pretending he wasn’t following him. Peter would’ve heard him the second he stepped off the elevator anyway.

The front door was cracked open. That alone was suspicious. Peter never left anything open.

Inside, the lights were low and the massive TV lit half the living room. Stiles sat cross-legged on the floor, too close to the TV. Peter sat on a very expensive couch, perfectly relaxed, a bowl of buttery popcorn on his lap.

Two women on the show were in a full screaming match.

Stiles didn’t look away. “Hey Mr. Argent.”

Peter didn’t look away either. “You took your time. I was starting to think you’d lost track of me.”

Chris ignored both of them and stepped inside. “You’ve been skipping pack nights.”

Peter finally glanced over, one brow lifting. “I’ve been busy.”

Stiles snorted. “Yeah. Busy yelling at trashy TV.”

Peter flicked popcorn at him. “Shut up, Stilinski.”

Chris looked at the screen, then back at Peter. “This is what you’ve been doing every Friday night?”

Peter smirked. “You followed me across town because of it, so apparently it’s not that boring.”

Stiles made a small strangled noise. “Urgh! I’m third-wheeling two grown men who won’t even admit they’re weird about each other.”

Neither of them acknowledged him.

Peter clicked the remote. “Sit down, Christopher. You’re blocking the TV.”

Chris didn’t move for a moment. Then he walked over, and settled into another ridiculously expensive armchair. Eyes on the screen, but his attention fixated on Peter.

Peter leaned back, looking entirely too satisfied.

Chris found him slumped at the end of Derek’s bar, a row of empty glasses in front of him. Derek just nodded toward Peter—your problem now.

Chris didn’t say anything. He got an arm under Peter’s shoulders, pulled him upright, and steered him toward the door. Peter mumbled something under his breath and let his head drop against Chris’ neck.

Chris’ jaw tightened. “Let’s go, Hale. You’re done.”

Getting him into the passenger seat was a fight against dead weight and flailing elbows. Chris wrestled the buckle into place, only to feel Peter’s hand clamp onto his coat.

Peter blinked up at him, eyes blurred and trying to settle. “He wasn't you,” he slurred, voice thick with whiskey.

Chris froze for a beat. Then he pried Peter’s fingers loose.

Peter clocked it the second he walked in. He didn’t ask. Just crossed the room and set his chin on Chris’s shoulder — the usual spot, reserved for moments when talking made things worse.

Chris’ hands were locked around the counter edge. Knuckles tight, then easing, tight, easing again. No thought to the action. The breath he let out sounded scraped raw.

Peter didn’t move. Didn’t say a word. Just breathed with him, steady, until Chris’s shoulders finally dropped, that tiny shift Peter always waited for.

He slid a hand to Chris’ hip, thumb hooking through a belt loop. Anchor. Familiar.

Minutes dragged. The fridge hummed. Somewhere upstairs a bed creaked—one of the kids shifting in their sleep.

Chris tilted his head, temple brushing Peter’s. Peter nudged back.

That was the whole conversation.

They stayed until Chris finally peeled his hands off the sink and covered Peter’s. Fingers laced. Comfort. Home.

Chris: [deadpan] I’m calculating how much trouble you’re worth.

Peter: [leans closer] And?

Stiles: [already settling in with his book] I know.

Peter: ...

Stiles: ...

Peter: Coffee?

Stiles: Please. Extra-

Peter: I'm not—

Chris: Peter.

Peter: [pause] I don't know how to let you in without it blowing up in our faces.

Chris: We practice. We mess up. We try again.

Peter: That simple?

Peter: [grinning] And yet you keep coming back.

Chris: Someone has to keep you from burning down the town.

Peter: [leaning in] Is that really why?

Chris: [pause] ...No.

Theo: Show me what?

Liam: That this is real. That you matter.

Theo: [quietly] I'm not good at believing that.

Liam: Then I'll keep proving it until you do.

Theo: That could take a while.

Liam: I've got time.

Stiles: You don't have to keep buying me things.

Peter: I like buying you things.

Stiles: I don't need—

Peter: [softly] I know you don't need them. I need to give them.

Stiles: ...

Peter: How do you show you care?

Stiles: I... solve things. Do things.

Peter: And I buy things. So, are we good now?.

Here me out….

Everyone would assume it would be Argent because of how he was raised and his hunter mentality but mixed with Peter, he can be pretty chill. I can totally imagine Peter being the helicopter parent.

Here are my reasons why :

---

1. Young parent panic

He had his kids early.

And when you’re young, overwhelmed, and suddenly responsible for tiny humans?

You overcorrect.

You try to control everything because you’re scared of messing up.

Totally fits him.

---

2. Youngest sibling syndrome

He grew up as the baby of the Hale family, way younger than Talia and the others.

Parents get softer with the youngest, rules get looser.

Which often creates the “chaos child.”

And chaos children? Well most of them anyway.

Become strict parents because they know exactly the kinds of trouble kids can get into…

---

3. Trauma disguised as management

Even without the fire, Peter canonically went through dangerous pack politics, hunter conflict, and a childhood with extremely high stakes.

Being strict becomes a coping mechanism.

He keeps tight control because unpredictability used to mean danger.

---

4. Hyper-observant personality

Peter is one of the most perceptive characters in the show.

He reads people, situations, patterns.

That kind of mind easily turns into a helicopter tendency:

“I see everything, so I’m going to react to everything.”

---

5. Old-school Hale expectations

Talia ran a tight pack.

Not cruel, but structured.

Hierarchy mattered.

Discipline mattered.

Reputation mattered.

Peter internalized all that, even if he rebelled against it as a teen.

As a dad, that flips into:

“My kids should know better.”

(But in a weirdly loving way.)

---

6. Protectiveness turned up to eleven

Peter is fiercely loyal once he commits to someone.

So imagine that instinct but with his kids?

Strictness becomes a form of protection.

He’s the “you won’t like the consequences, so don’t do it” parent.

---

7. He’s petty but consistent

You know how he holds grudges like trophies?

That trait works perfectly for a strict parent.

If a kid breaks a rule, Peter remembers.

Hence:

“No dessert. No arguing. I said what I said.”

---

8. He needs order to stay sane

Peter is the type who craves structure even if he pretends he doesn’t.

Order makes him feel grounded.

A color-coded chore chart?

Absolutely believable.

It’s soothing.

It keeps him in control.

It makes the house predictable.

---

9. He’s surprisingly domestic

Canon gave him a whole library.

A literal “I read because I’m dramatic but also intellectual” vibe.

Peter?

He’s making homemade lunches, not store bought alternatives.

He’s labeling the pantry.

He’s lecturing the kids on actually doing their homework.

Strict, yes.

But also weirdly caring.

---

10. And the funniest one: no one ever expected it

People assume Chris would be the authoritarian.

Peter just messes with that expectation.

And he kinda likes being unpredictable that way.

---

Stiles: You literally moved in with Chris after three weeks.

Peter: That wasn't a relationship, that was coexisting in the same premises.

Chris: [from across the room] Is that what that was? So do you want me to cancel Friday night's dinner reservation?