Yeah. That seems on theme. [Not the school, which he supposes make sense. Vague industrial area is also very Derek, which he thinks is an observation Derek would not appreciate. He'll tell him in person: he could do with a laugh, later. At the prospect of food, Chris makes a face which says oh, I suppose I'm paying for that. He supposes he is. It doesn't matter how rich he knows Peter actually is, this Peter has zero access to it. That's funny too, though he's laughing internally.
Sometimes Scott brings up Peter losing a million dollars in bonds and they all have a quiet chuckle. It's the little things.
Anyway. Breakfast is --] Sounds like a fair trade off for you getting shot. You going to brave the outside world in those or are you going to get dressed. [Sometimes ... the Dad tone never leaves you. Or the instinctual raised eyebrows. ] You've got thirty minutes.
[ That's a multifaceted comment there, intended to do different kinds of work: mildly repudiating the taste of whoever originally selected the clothes, Chris' taste in selecting them a second time, the fact this person is currently missing from Chris' life, a general implication of I make this look good (and is that at odds with his earlier comment about it being nice about someone paying attention to him...? But that hadn't been about his attractiveness). Not that he self-congratulates or anything, he airily moves off with his coffee to do as suggested.
Not that Peter restricts himself to the stuff picked out for him. He is 100% going to snoop unless stopped, and pick out clothes for himself. Isaac's jeans definitely fit him better, and he might take a shirt from there too. Chris is going to lose one of his flannel shirts, though. And he's back, fairly promptly, just finishing his coffee with the disgustingly chipper aspect of one who's not only young, they are bursting with life. ]
[He isn't exactly dwelling on Isaac as he rinses his mug out, but there's something sad, perhaps, about how yeah, Isaac probably is not missing the few clothes Chris has. In another life, Chris thinks he could have perhaps been a little like Peter. Just detached enough from morality to be an efficient killer. That's a funny, if not slightly morbid comparison. He turns, and then double-turns with a crease in his brow. An irritated frown as he definitely recognises his own flannel.
He imagines a life where he's still an efficient killer, and grabs his phone, still frowning. ] Is that mine? [Now is not exactly the opportune moment to be distracted with the immense annoyance of having Peter Hale raid through his things! Scott would never do this??? Breakfast burritos are likely, hashbrowns even more likely. What's even more likely than all of that, is that Chris might actually pull a dad move and make Peter ride in the backseat as punishment for snooping.]
[ His voice suggests that Chris is being unreasonable, though naturally it focuses on the wrong thing entirely rather than the obvious objection to personal items being filched. Of course he does, and of course he acts like it's totally normal as he washes his mug in the sink, demure and domestic, apparently unaware of any fantasies of murder efficiency that may be accumulating in anyone's mind. As for driving arrangements: ]
Should of thought of that of that before you went pilfering.
[Realistically, Chris cannot exactly stop Peter from riding shotgun? It's a symbolic punishment at best. Chris does not hate werewolves, he just hates that they have super strength. By the time they are at the car, Chris has some idea of where he's going. How many industrial areas can Beacon Hills and the adjoining towns have?
Something to worry about after breakfast.] You think you can remember anything more specific about your industrial area after a breakfast burrito?
[ To which Peter slides him a pitying look, and gets into the back seat, and once Chris starts driving, he leans forward between the seats, one arm slung casually around the headrest because he is reflexively a shit and turning a symbolic punishment into a mutual one is actually better than getting into the front seat. For now. Or maybe Chris will be surprisingly tolerant of a werewolf hovering at his shoulder, but he's thinking probably not. From this angle he can observe a lot of things closer up than he might ordinarily be able to, which has its interesting parts. For instance, what speaking nearly into Chris's ear does for his comfort levels. ]
It's in the south part of town for sure.
[ He goes on to list some landmarks, and given his state last night, he must have thought about it carefully beforehand to be so thorough about it. It is indeed not that far from Derek's place, which must have been a deciding factor in the older Peter's selection. ]
[Chris lacks some of the more intimate details of Peter's going ons. Scott, for example, might know that Peter spends an extraordinary amount of time haunting Derek's old place and other such settings. What Chris knows is that sometimes Peter has an uncanny knack for showing up and being a huge, enigmatic pain in the ass. So when they do drive by Derek's long-since abandoned apartment building, Chris isn't surprised, but there's a measure of unexpected irony in it, maybe.
It's always hard to tell if Peter cares. Kate made that observation once, when they were younger. She had seen it as an opportunity: Chris had no idea how much it would come back to bite him in the ass down the line. He thinks, now, that Peter must care more than he gets credit for. Chris, for example, doesn't think he would spend this much time around Kate, even if he didn't want her locked up. Family drama. Maybe one day they'll have a joke about that, and maybe he will see a flying pig.
He parks a little bit away, between some stacked up shipping crates and towering wooden pallets. Peter will know the way, sure, but Chris is -- apprehensive. Cautious as he looks out, eyes drawn to every dark corner; every high vantage point. These new hunters may be over-eager, but they've all got the advantage of Gerard's second-hand training and it hasn't been watered down enough quite yet for abush-mistakes to be made yet. Truth be told, he is truly fucking sick of hunters. The deepest irony yet! ]
I think, [he says, like Peter did not say something similar earlier,] that we might be alone. For now. [He's leaning forward on the steering wheel, eyes moving back and forth; always trying to anticipate his fathers moves. How he thinks. ] But we won't be for long. Eventually someone's going to come looking for their missing buddies.
[He rubs an eye with the corner of a knuckle, and then leans back, head turned to Peter. He's not Scott. Not by any stretch of the imagination, but ...] I need you to keep your ears wide open. Let me know if you hear someone coming. [Maybe Chris can put aside his prejudices for half an hour and they can figure this thing out before Derek shows up to make things 100 x more uncomfortable. ]
[ Usually there when he's unwanted, and rarely around on the few occasions when they could actually benefit from information he might have: it takes an extraordinary amount of informed awareness to be that inconvenient, if only anybody thought about it in those terms. But then, Peter (of either age) doesn't encourage such a mindset. It ruins the effect.
He seems much more relaxed than Chris as they make their way back to the vault, memories blooming out of the dark confusion of the previous night, which when combined with the present smell of blood and death is easy enough to find. It's... new, backtracking like this with Chris. Not many people are available for Peter at this age, and even when Derek trusted him, he was too young, stuck in school, and justifiably concerned about disobeying his alpha mother. It's... reassuring? Which makes him want to laugh, horrible ugly laughter at himself for having the temerity to feel that way ever, let alone in regards to an Argent.
That, he keeps in and locked down, though there may be a thread of it lurking in his voice as he returns the eye contact carelessly. He sounds like that a lot, though, so it shouldn't be too remarkable. Amused at inappropriate times, sounds like Peter all right. ]
I wasn't planning on staying quiet and dying with you, Chris.
[ And maybe the unaccountable warmth with which he says that is a little different, like the ratio of sarcasm to deliberate overfamiliarity is off. ]
I've never been caught. Don't you know that?
[ This airy reassurance is half a real query as he undrapes himself from Chris' seat and slides out of the car. Peter does have a reputation for being slippery, or so he assumes. Then again, maybe Chris is about to inform him of all the times a future Peter has been captured, and that will be very informative. He's alert and bright-eyed as he scans around, with a deep even breath or two, taking stock of how alone they might or might not be. And apparently sensing nothing of importance, he starts towards a dark red shipping crate, where the bloody handprints along the doors are somewhat obscured. ]
[There is a joke to be made at Peter's expense, but it's maybe lost on Chris' way out of the car. He's checking his gun, his mouth pulled into a wry kind of smile that suggests otherwise, but the words never really fully form beyond an amused yet, and then they're moving. Everything about Chris these days is engineered to tolerate smart-asses. He's tolerating Peter with surprising ease. Worse, he's finding that he doesn't actually dislike him very much at all. Maybe this is just his penance: doomed to find himself sort-of liking annoying young people.
What might be strange for Peter, is that Chris is watching his back. Not keeping tabs on him specifically (which he is, but less pressingly), but rather genuinely watching out for anyone and anything creeping in the shadows. Dead hunters attract more than other hunters, sometimes. Especially this close to Beacon Hills. Nothing is ever truly a surprise anymore, and least of all Peter having a vault somewhere in the middle of shipping crates and abandoned industry ghosts.
(He does think, quite blithely, that there's always the possibility that Peter might lead him into a trap. But to what end? Just because? Well ...) ]
I know I shouldn't, but I really gotta ask why you Hale's always end up in places like this. [It's quiet enough that Chris could be talking to himself. Peter might know, or have some vague idea. Maybe not. Chris has noticed enough differences now to be able to place a definite distinction between Peter Hale and Okayish Peter. ]
[ What a tragic outcome, his voice facetiously implies, even as he tilts his head towards the crate, listening a moment before pulling the door open. No hideous metallic creaking, thank god, everything nice and quiet just as some mysterious hoarder werewolf would want it to be on the occasions that he, whoever he might be, would come around to inspect his stuff. Barely visible in the darkness, stairs lead down to even murkier depths down in the solid concrete. It's all about the construction, Chris. (Peter doesn't expand upon that.)
He can smell the blood much more strongly now; probably even Chris could once he's near enough. ]
You should wait up here a bit. In case of any more traps.
[ The loitering friendliness persists, but the new hint of aloofness is either professionalism on Peter's part or something else. That very familiar sense of him keeping shit to himself. ]
I'll call when it's clear.
[ Though if he expects Chris to come down sooner or later, it's hard to say what he could be hiding. He doesn't just descend, either, he waits to see if Chris agrees, which is far more obliging than his older self tends to be. ]
[It's not hesitation that keeps him from keeping his stride; it's the mild curiosity of examining the opening, looking at the odd formation of making this into something else entirely. This in itself is definitely a Hale thing, something Peter at least inherited from his extremely extra ancestors. The smell gives him pause too: just because you're used to a thing doesn't make it any less stomach turning. ]
You've got ten minutes. [Chris, for one, can only imagine what older Peter has hidden in this odd little hide away. Nothing good, he tells himself and only half-believes it. Peter being a hoarder of priceless supernatural artefacts is the least surprising thing Chris has ever learned about him. The most surprising, actually, is that his eyes aren't blue yet, as he is now.
Never in his life has he considered he might be too hard on Peter Hale. Life really does come at you fast.
After five minutes of surveying the entrance, he's ... Bored. Losing interest in waiting for hunters that might not come until much later. ] Peter? [It's a mildly loud call, echoing against the metal walls. ] I'm coming down.
[ Once you expect that it belongs to Peter, it's hard to interpret most aspects of it any other way, from the generous head clearance on the stairs to the impersonal, industrial lack of sentiment, just like Derek's stupid apartment if it were even less hospitable. Someone definitely died on the stairs and drag marks indicate Peter moved the body while fastidiously avoiding leaving any boot prints in the blood; and the door at the bottom looks heavy where it's propped open, florescent light cutting through.
Inside, a couple metal shelves are overturned, a few more bodies, all in that hybrid outdoorsy kind of attire which must be intimately familiar to Chris. For people planning to pass between suburbs and forests, no bright colors, nothing noisy or difficult to clean. Most of the bodies have ugly barbed arrows in them. Perhaps one of them even has a weapon with a broken off tip which Chris pulled out of Peter last night. The smell, as before, is more powerful here. Not decay, thanks to the relatively short time line and somewhat shielded environment, but still distinct and unpleasant.
As for the presumed priceless supernatural artifacts, things are looking scarce down here. Perhaps the older Peter hadn't had time to fill it all up. There are a few things strewn from where the shelves fell over, and the still standing shelves don't have much. A strangely shaped carved wooden board, cracked roughly down the middle. Some broken glass or crystal bits that crunch underfoot. It's possible the Peter of this age doesn't even know what half of it is, and they'd have to ask Deaton. ]
It's probably fine, I think they already triggered everything —
[ He sounds preoccupied, though, not as cavalier as he had five minutes ago, casting a look back and forth like he's trying to remember. ]
It has to have been something here. But I'm not seeing anything remotely relevant.
[He is, for the first few moments, preoccupied with the smell. After that, he in turns looks at each of the bodies to determine whether he recognises any of the faces. Maybe one or two; they don't seem as young as he was maybe expecting, and although that isn't exactly a relief, he's glad there's no dead sixteen year olds tonight. He might reach fifty and become a pacifist; the burden of dead kids is a heavy weight, after all.
One he isn't all that keen to keep dwelling on, and so he turns, unsettled, and spares a look at the things the other Peter has collected, and has now subsequently lost. It's almost funny, really, how he keeps just losing his things. ]
Where exactly did you ... realise you were here? The exact spot. [Retracing the steps is useful to a point. More so, he just wants to see what objects might have been around Peter at the time of their switch. If there even was a switch, that is. He has a horrible moment wherein he realises that the other Peter might ... Still be out there? And after that, resigns himself to having a drink later. Maybe four.
While Peter either decides to comply or not, Chris does do a quick sweep again over the objects. Some things are familiar, but not enough that he can quickly recall from where. Others, less so. Before Deaton, there's always Chris' family archives. The ones he managed to take with him, anyway. Distracted: ] If I can figure out what was around you, we might be on to something.
[ There are reasons, well, one reason he wanted to be down here without Chris seeing him, and he already took care of that. So it's a bit surprising for him to realize that when Chris is here again, he's still somehow relieved. Not that he was worried about being here, not that he was scared at all — in fact, it would be strategically more sound for Chris to still be outside in case they get ambushed or they accidentally trigger some kind of stupid trap that causes the vault to shut on both of them — but sometimes, things are easier to work through out loud, with someone else. Someone with Chris' experience and training.
He'd vaguely retraced what he remembers of his position that night already. Chris being here makes it easier, though, because all the bodies are in the wrong places relative to the memory and... Chris is (was?) a hunter, it just. Works. He crosses to the other end of a weapons rack (mostly empty, the weapons either missing or on the ground) and in front of a stark splotch of blood on the wall behind it. ]
Here...
[ And his hand comes up to the mostly healed wound on his stomach. His expression doesn't change. When he's older, it's such a terribly empty look, though perhaps Chris might never have seen it. At this age, you could mistake it for absent minded. Not fully present, if only for a moment, before he resumes speaking without even a blink to acknowledge that. ]
Grabbed something off here, stabbed him, then. Arrows? Happened? And someone knocked over a shelf going for the stairs...
You couldn't have had a lot of time to get your bearings.
[This could be a compliment; it's said in the same tone he might suggest a random fact. He's never known Peter to be slow on the uptake and he has to assume that's always been the case. Around Peter, Chris examines the shelving, the floor, and then circles around him to get a good look at the back. If there's anything that might be responsible, he hasn't seen it on a first glance.
So, for plan B, he turns to the hunter with his broken off weapon and wrenches it from his hands. It's grim, of course, but he gives it a good look -- and smell -- for any kind of strain of wolfsbane. He doesn't need Peter's nose for this, specifically (he's done this so many times now and worked with so many kinds it's second nature), but he does offer it over, for a second opinion. ] Doesn't seem like you were stabbed with anything suspect either.
[And therein lies ... The problem? The mystery. He looks around again, and for a moment tries to imagine that he's Peter himself. What things he might keep here; what possible artefacts might be responsible for conjuring someone from the past. Or reversing his age, and his memories. His eyes seem to gravitate back towards this Peter naturally, and again he feels like that little swell of pity. It's easier to feel it when the face is younger, and the eyes aren't stained by murder. ] Do you smell ... Anything off down here? Besides the obvious.
[ Accepting the weapon, Peter uses his fingers to scrub at the blood around the remaining metalwork of the broken part, frowning at what he can see of the design. He doesn't recall what the broken off bit looks like. Probably neither of them had been paying attention, and it could still be lying in Chris's kitchen sink for all he knows. ]
It hurt a lot. But I guess I haven't been stabbed enough times to compare.
[ This casual reminder of the resilience of werewolves and werewolf sort-of-teenagers possibly sounds more palatable from this Peter as well, the sort of thing Malia and the others might say if, in fact, they had not been stabbed enough times to compare, which at this point, they probably have. Peter takes the next suggestion as well, placing the broken weapon back on the rack and shutting his eyes, taking a few deep inhales. ]
... Is that Old Spice? Really?
[ Having been in the bathroom, Peter should know damn well if it was Old Spice or not and also, is this really the time to be that kind of dick, but Peter grins as he hurriedly adds: ]
Not exactly, I can smell my own blood and it does seem. Weird. Can't tell if that's just, you know. Age. Or whatever happens to me.
[With all the patience he has ever shown Scott: ] That's it?
[It's about 70% exasperation, and 30% ignoring jibes. It's not difficult to imagine their answer is here, or was here. The latter is -- well. If Peter made it out barely alive, it stands to reason that a hunter might have limped his way out of here with some of Peter's valuable loot. Or at the very least, something they thought might be valuable to Peter.
He's not a detective, though. He's not Stiles, or Alison, who was just as good at this as Stilinski's kid. But he does have the rest of the day, and he does have Peter's nose. ] Okay. [No strange smells, yet. Okay. He turns his attention back to the corpses. He counts. ] You manage to get a head count on how many came at you?
[It's better if he doesn't inspect the bodies for cause of death, but he does anyway. Some bites and scratches, but mostly injuries caused by what he assumes where the booby traps. If Peter were here, it would make sense if he killed a bunch of hunters. This Peter certainly didn't. (He still cannot get over the eyes; he can't remember Peter's first kill the way he can remember Derek's, as told by Kate. If it even happened before Laura. So much keeps happening, he's losing the thread of things that used to be useful. )] I've got a theory, but I need to know if the bodies match up.
[ He shuts his eyes again, trying to remember, and past the calm mask of memory, the fingers of both hands twitch with discomfort or misplaced aggression. The man who tried to gut him. The guy who happened after that. A woman he instinctively tore away from one of the younger, strange werewolves, though he didn't help much more than that — maybe he hadn't had to, maybe someone else had?
His breathing has stayed even because it's been a few seconds at most and why wouldn't it, he's good when he has to be, he's got so much more control than Derek —
Another little twitch, smoothed over as he opens his eyes and comes up with a tentative answer for Chris. ]
Six?
[ Restless, as if to physically shake off the events of last night, Peter moves away from the weapons rack, giving a closer examination to things on the shelf near the other man. That broken wooden board, his fingers tracing the crack roughly down the center, and the deeply carved lines where maybe, one could push something small. ]
I can't be sure.
[ He admits with the reluctance of ego, and pushes the shelf holding the board back into place. Then there's exactly one second where who even knows if Chris is looking in the right direction to catch the acute chagrin on Peter's face at the weird, hollow click! following his action. After that, he'll probably mainly be focused on Peter bodychecking him into a wall, out of the path of even more fucking arrows. The older Peter has a problem. Well, more than one problem. Ironic arrow traps is just, you know, a hitherto undiscovered one. A man gets his vault robbed one time, he probably gets a bit sensitive about it. ]
[Six, sure, that's a reasonable number. And there's --
Well. There is the embarrassing weight of Peter and the hard, aching crush of the wall against his shoulder. His surprised grunt is at least muffled by arrow-fire, but the what the ever loving christ is a bit louder. Every day a teenager is stronger than him is a bad day, but it's especially just outright weird to have his life saved by Peter Hale (jr). The wide eyed, slight panic isn't wholly directed to the arrows, but it would be nice if they could just pretend that it were.
He's fine. It's fine. ] Son of a bitch, [he says, without pushing Peter away from him. It's hard to say if this is about the arrows or his shoulder. Probably, it's both. ] Are you this goddamn paranoid? Where the hell did he get all these arrows -- [He is now, quite slowly, shifting in a way that suggests Peter should give him some space. He just wants to rub his shoulder; he's old, Peter. It's what old people do to their aches. ]
-- Thank you. [This is less begrudging than they both might be expecting. If this Peter ever meets Scott, maybe he'll understand Chris a little better. It's hard not to be a little nicer when Scott looks at you with his big sad eyes. ]
[ For the sliver of mercy that it is, Peter has his head turned for the entire stretch of this enforced close proximity, probably listening for the sound of more trap mechanisms or any bullshit incoming from above. Not in a particularly thoughtful way, he would admit. Just the way any animal listens, because the more calculating parts of himself are caught up in other, less useful figurings.
Such as: Chris babbling a bit (by, you know, Argent standards), how they're basically the same height and even a similar build but Chris just seems sort of tougher somehow when Peter is using a bit of his strength to do this, and, of course, Chris waiting quite patiently to even start hinting that he could be let off the wall now. For Reasons, which Peter surmises probably have very little to do with him, but which allow him to enjoy the benefits nevertheless.
He waits a beat longer after the thanks, glancing blandly back at the other man, and his inhale, the slight expansion of his diaphragm against Chris' body, can probably be felt; it ends in a perfectly excusable sigh, however, as he leisurely slinks back to give Chris room, apparently satisfied there won't be a sneaky second round of projectiles. The weirdness of him couldn't possibly be stronger at the moment. If Scott had done this, there'd be apology with pragmatism. If Derek had done it, a mutual grimace guaranteeing they will never discuss it again. Peter stares at Chris with the corners of his mouth turned up cheerfully, which neither the thanks nor the circumstances that necessitated it should warrant. Unless you're a little shit. ]
I've collected a few hunter arrows, actually. I just figured, if I catch them, they're mine.
[ Nothing particularly funny about that, yet Peter grins to himself as he deliberately looks away, almost in false modesty, like it's a private joke. ]
Anyway, I'd thought that there would be something down here that I — that he — used to store some memories. Memories from around, well, my time. And some interaction between the attack, maybe being stabbed, and that item, might have caused a reversion. But I can't prove it.
[The quality of hunters is, well. It's all about quantity these days, it seems. Big numbers; impressionable kids. Scared kids. Even more scared adults. In any case, this is why Chris uses a gun, but as a matter of pride, he knows Allison wouldn't have missed. He doesn't think about that too hard, though. He can't.
Instead, he welcomes the space, and sure, the snark. He rubs his shoulders, rolls it, and nods. ] Makes some amount of sense. [It's smart. This isn't a shock; part of what makes Peter so dangerous as an adult has always been that he's smart. The absorption of knowledge is a weapon, sometimes more so than claws or bullets. ] So long as we're ruling out time travel, [he says on a wince.] Peter, he -- I'd heard he's a hoarder.
[Very reliable sources have confirmed. Chris can't really judge.] But I don't see anything relevant? No claws. No teeth. No dubiously acquired bones, or hair.
[Nothing to suggest Kate's method either, least of all because they're nowhere near an ancient temple, and the Nemeton is precarious at best these days. ] If there was something, it's gone. If not -- we might be looking at a wider problem. Something unseen. [He's not suggesting that Peter Hale acts like a child: that's Deacon's job, as someone with the qualifications to make a diagnosis. And, well. It's a little mean to this Peter, whose brand of little shit has been perfectly tolerable except for having stole his shirt and having mocked his old man cologne. ] I can keep looking, or I can do some research.
[ Nothing in any of that seems to cause offense. He even seems pleased that in having a reputation for hoarding, Peter has indeed been successful in accumulating a bunch of stuff that other people would probably love to have. And if there's no worry at all evident about that "something unseen," well, no surprise, right? Peter's priorities are never right when he's an adult, and as he takes a cautious little step back toward Chris' personal space, perhaps that's true of him now too. He doesn't say anything at all as he reaches out to put a hand on Chris' shoulder, or almost his neck since he needs the bare skin to do that all too personal pain absorption thing; he doesn't even look at Chris, musing aloud as his gaze sweeps the wreckage of the vault. ]
There are other ways of keeping memories.
[ And there it is again, the casual certainty of Peter's knowledge. All the sneaky little ways he has of finding shit out, and keeping it to himself, and later revealing it in a stingy pinched IV drip, or lying about it for his own purposes. Of course, he wouldn't understand that Chris has heard that tone before. ]
But if it's limited to just me, it's really not that big a deal, is it?
[ It's all coming out excessively casual, while darkness drains away the ache from Chris' shoulder and makes it disappear. One a distraction from the other, though it's not clear which is to distract from which. ]
[Not for the first time, he isn't good at hiding his shock. The amount of shocks he's had in the last 24 hours are mounting, but non so as having the pain slip from him into Peter's palms. He very almost pulls his arm away, but that would be -- what? Telling? A weakness, to show that level of disquiet? ]
I think you're enjoying this. [Being young, or the illusion of glimpsing the future. Maybe it's just funny to have an Argent give a shit. He's assuming, in Peter's recent memory, Gerard has been sowing the seeds of war and chaos with an iron fist. Everything comes full circle. ] -- Thank you. [He nods to Peter's hand. There's a tightness to his voice; wariness. Like he expects a catch. ] I don't think you're contagious, no. Derek wasn't.
[L o l. ] I guess we wait it out. See if something triggers a change.
[ He pretends he doesn't notice, because that's Peter in many forms: seemingly bored, indifferent, always off doing his own thing which may or may not have shady relevance to the most recent bullshit, always an outsider, never a friend or a father or the least bit reliable, even if he is right here, quite close, highly attune to Chris' reactions.
Then there's the other recurring motif of his behavior, which is boundary testing. Chris doesn't pull away, though it was a near thing. Chris thanks him, though he means what are you doing and why. Being given an inch, he'll be on the lookout for a handy mile from now on. Not now, of course. For now he just lets his hand slide limply off the shoulder like it's worn out cat, flexes it idly to make the black veins go away faster as he brushes past Chris to peer out the door and up the stairs. He's done here, but isn't sure if Chris will insist on dealing with the bodies. ]
Don't want to be young again, huh? Wouldn't that be inconvenient. You'd go right back to trying to kill me. I'd have to be really nice to you.
[ No denial that he's enjoying this. He is, for all the reasons Chris considered, and more, and he is audibly smiling because they probably won't be addressing why Peter is being so nice to him right now, probably for the same reason Chris didn't pull his arm away in the first place. ]
So are you gonna make me carry a bunch of bodies now, or can we just. Close the door and go? Decomposition sounds like a problem for future me.
I wasn't the Argent trying to kill you -- [He says this very deadpan, but it's also a little. Defensive? It's complicated. History is always complicated. He's thankful to have more pressing problems to dwell on, like whether or not he wants to move a bunch of bodies: he really, really does not. His mouth forms a little frown as he looks them over, each one seeming to make the prospect less and less appealing. By the time he's done a full sweep with his eyes, he's already thinking about how to leave them here but not? At the same time? ]
We can't leave them here. [By 'we' he obviously means 'I'. His hand has also found his hair; there is some frustrated clawing. ] I'll call Stilinski, later. Obviously, I'll be throwing you under the bus when it comes to helping him move them.
[They're old, Peter. And you're so young, and have superhuman strength. :). ] But if we're done here, we should move before anyone comes back looking to pick up their dead friends first. I'm guessing there's nowhere you need to be, so you can take notes.
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Sometimes Scott brings up Peter losing a million dollars in bonds and they all have a quiet chuckle. It's the little things.
Anyway. Breakfast is --] Sounds like a fair trade off for you getting shot. You going to brave the outside world in those or are you going to get dressed. [Sometimes ... the Dad tone never leaves you. Or the instinctual raised eyebrows. ] You've got thirty minutes.
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[ That's a multifaceted comment there, intended to do different kinds of work: mildly repudiating the taste of whoever originally selected the clothes, Chris' taste in selecting them a second time, the fact this person is currently missing from Chris' life, a general implication of I make this look good (and is that at odds with his earlier comment about it being nice about someone paying attention to him...? But that hadn't been about his attractiveness). Not that he self-congratulates or anything, he airily moves off with his coffee to do as suggested.
Not that Peter restricts himself to the stuff picked out for him. He is 100% going to snoop unless stopped, and pick out clothes for himself. Isaac's jeans definitely fit him better, and he might take a shirt from there too. Chris is going to lose one of his flannel shirts, though. And he's back, fairly promptly, just finishing his coffee with the disgustingly chipper aspect of one who's not only young, they are bursting with life. ]
Breakfast burritos. Hashbrowns. Something. Please.
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He imagines a life where he's still an efficient killer, and grabs his phone, still frowning. ] Is that mine? [Now is not exactly the opportune moment to be distracted with the immense annoyance of having Peter Hale raid through his things! Scott would never do this??? Breakfast burritos are likely, hashbrowns even more likely. What's even more likely than all of that, is that Chris might actually pull a dad move and make Peter ride in the backseat as punishment for snooping.]
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[ His voice suggests that Chris is being unreasonable, though naturally it focuses on the wrong thing entirely rather than the obvious objection to personal items being filched. Of course he does, and of course he acts like it's totally normal as he washes his mug in the sink, demure and domestic, apparently unaware of any fantasies of murder efficiency that may be accumulating in anyone's mind. As for driving arrangements: ]
Chris, come on. It's going to feel like a taxi.
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[Realistically, Chris cannot exactly stop Peter from riding shotgun? It's a symbolic punishment at best. Chris does not hate werewolves, he just hates that they have super strength. By the time they are at the car, Chris has some idea of where he's going. How many industrial areas can Beacon Hills and the adjoining towns have?
Something to worry about after breakfast.] You think you can remember anything more specific about your industrial area after a breakfast burrito?
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It's in the south part of town for sure.
[ He goes on to list some landmarks, and given his state last night, he must have thought about it carefully beforehand to be so thorough about it. It is indeed not that far from Derek's place, which must have been a deciding factor in the older Peter's selection. ]
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It's always hard to tell if Peter cares. Kate made that observation once, when they were younger. She had seen it as an opportunity: Chris had no idea how much it would come back to bite him in the ass down the line. He thinks, now, that Peter must care more than he gets credit for. Chris, for example, doesn't think he would spend this much time around Kate, even if he didn't want her locked up. Family drama. Maybe one day they'll have a joke about that, and maybe he will see a flying pig.
He parks a little bit away, between some stacked up shipping crates and towering wooden pallets. Peter will know the way, sure, but Chris is -- apprehensive. Cautious as he looks out, eyes drawn to every dark corner; every high vantage point. These new hunters may be over-eager, but they've all got the advantage of Gerard's second-hand training and it hasn't been watered down enough quite yet for abush-mistakes to be made yet. Truth be told, he is truly fucking sick of hunters. The deepest irony yet! ]
I think, [he says, like Peter did not say something similar earlier,] that we might be alone. For now. [He's leaning forward on the steering wheel, eyes moving back and forth; always trying to anticipate his fathers moves. How he thinks. ] But we won't be for long. Eventually someone's going to come looking for their missing buddies.
[He rubs an eye with the corner of a knuckle, and then leans back, head turned to Peter. He's not Scott. Not by any stretch of the imagination, but ...] I need you to keep your ears wide open. Let me know if you hear someone coming. [Maybe Chris can put aside his prejudices for half an hour and they can figure this thing out before Derek shows up to make things 100 x more uncomfortable. ]
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He seems much more relaxed than Chris as they make their way back to the vault, memories blooming out of the dark confusion of the previous night, which when combined with the present smell of blood and death is easy enough to find. It's... new, backtracking like this with Chris. Not many people are available for Peter at this age, and even when Derek trusted him, he was too young, stuck in school, and justifiably concerned about disobeying his alpha mother. It's... reassuring? Which makes him want to laugh, horrible ugly laughter at himself for having the temerity to feel that way ever, let alone in regards to an Argent.
That, he keeps in and locked down, though there may be a thread of it lurking in his voice as he returns the eye contact carelessly. He sounds like that a lot, though, so it shouldn't be too remarkable. Amused at inappropriate times, sounds like Peter all right. ]
I wasn't planning on staying quiet and dying with you, Chris.
[ And maybe the unaccountable warmth with which he says that is a little different, like the ratio of sarcasm to deliberate overfamiliarity is off. ]
I've never been caught. Don't you know that?
[ This airy reassurance is half a real query as he undrapes himself from Chris' seat and slides out of the car. Peter does have a reputation for being slippery, or so he assumes. Then again, maybe Chris is about to inform him of all the times a future Peter has been captured, and that will be very informative. He's alert and bright-eyed as he scans around, with a deep even breath or two, taking stock of how alone they might or might not be. And apparently sensing nothing of importance, he starts towards a dark red shipping crate, where the bloody handprints along the doors are somewhat obscured. ]
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What might be strange for Peter, is that Chris is watching his back. Not keeping tabs on him specifically (which he is, but less pressingly), but rather genuinely watching out for anyone and anything creeping in the shadows. Dead hunters attract more than other hunters, sometimes. Especially this close to Beacon Hills. Nothing is ever truly a surprise anymore, and least of all Peter having a vault somewhere in the middle of shipping crates and abandoned industry ghosts.
(He does think, quite blithely, that there's always the possibility that Peter might lead him into a trap. But to what end? Just because? Well ...) ]
I know I shouldn't, but I really gotta ask why you Hale's always end up in places like this. [It's quiet enough that Chris could be talking to himself. Peter might know, or have some vague idea. Maybe not. Chris has noticed enough differences now to be able to place a definite distinction between Peter Hale and Okayish Peter. ]
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[ What a tragic outcome, his voice facetiously implies, even as he tilts his head towards the crate, listening a moment before pulling the door open. No hideous metallic creaking, thank god, everything nice and quiet just as some mysterious hoarder werewolf would want it to be on the occasions that he, whoever he might be, would come around to inspect his stuff. Barely visible in the darkness, stairs lead down to even murkier depths down in the solid concrete. It's all about the construction, Chris. (Peter doesn't expand upon that.)
He can smell the blood much more strongly now; probably even Chris could once he's near enough. ]
You should wait up here a bit. In case of any more traps.
[ The loitering friendliness persists, but the new hint of aloofness is either professionalism on Peter's part or something else. That very familiar sense of him keeping shit to himself. ]
I'll call when it's clear.
[ Though if he expects Chris to come down sooner or later, it's hard to say what he could be hiding. He doesn't just descend, either, he waits to see if Chris agrees, which is far more obliging than his older self tends to be. ]
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You've got ten minutes. [Chris, for one, can only imagine what older Peter has hidden in this odd little hide away. Nothing good, he tells himself and only half-believes it. Peter being a hoarder of priceless supernatural artefacts is the least surprising thing Chris has ever learned about him. The most surprising, actually, is that his eyes aren't blue yet, as he is now.
Never in his life has he considered he might be too hard on Peter Hale. Life really does come at you fast.
After five minutes of surveying the entrance, he's ... Bored. Losing interest in waiting for hunters that might not come until much later. ] Peter? [It's a mildly loud call, echoing against the metal walls. ] I'm coming down.
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Inside, a couple metal shelves are overturned, a few more bodies, all in that hybrid outdoorsy kind of attire which must be intimately familiar to Chris. For people planning to pass between suburbs and forests, no bright colors, nothing noisy or difficult to clean. Most of the bodies have ugly barbed arrows in them. Perhaps one of them even has a weapon with a broken off tip which Chris pulled out of Peter last night. The smell, as before, is more powerful here. Not decay, thanks to the relatively short time line and somewhat shielded environment, but still distinct and unpleasant.
As for the presumed priceless supernatural artifacts, things are looking scarce down here. Perhaps the older Peter hadn't had time to fill it all up. There are a few things strewn from where the shelves fell over, and the still standing shelves don't have much. A strangely shaped carved wooden board, cracked roughly down the middle. Some broken glass or crystal bits that crunch underfoot. It's possible the Peter of this age doesn't even know what half of it is, and they'd have to ask Deaton. ]
It's probably fine, I think they already triggered everything —
[ He sounds preoccupied, though, not as cavalier as he had five minutes ago, casting a look back and forth like he's trying to remember. ]
It has to have been something here. But I'm not seeing anything remotely relevant.
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One he isn't all that keen to keep dwelling on, and so he turns, unsettled, and spares a look at the things the other Peter has collected, and has now subsequently lost. It's almost funny, really, how he keeps just losing his things. ]
Where exactly did you ... realise you were here? The exact spot. [Retracing the steps is useful to a point. More so, he just wants to see what objects might have been around Peter at the time of their switch. If there even was a switch, that is. He has a horrible moment wherein he realises that the other Peter might ... Still be out there? And after that, resigns himself to having a drink later. Maybe four.
While Peter either decides to comply or not, Chris does do a quick sweep again over the objects. Some things are familiar, but not enough that he can quickly recall from where. Others, less so. Before Deaton, there's always Chris' family archives. The ones he managed to take with him, anyway. Distracted: ] If I can figure out what was around you, we might be on to something.
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He'd vaguely retraced what he remembers of his position that night already. Chris being here makes it easier, though, because all the bodies are in the wrong places relative to the memory and... Chris is (was?) a hunter, it just. Works. He crosses to the other end of a weapons rack (mostly empty, the weapons either missing or on the ground) and in front of a stark splotch of blood on the wall behind it. ]
Here...
[ And his hand comes up to the mostly healed wound on his stomach. His expression doesn't change. When he's older, it's such a terribly empty look, though perhaps Chris might never have seen it. At this age, you could mistake it for absent minded. Not fully present, if only for a moment, before he resumes speaking without even a blink to acknowledge that. ]
Grabbed something off here, stabbed him, then. Arrows? Happened? And someone knocked over a shelf going for the stairs...
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[This could be a compliment; it's said in the same tone he might suggest a random fact. He's never known Peter to be slow on the uptake and he has to assume that's always been the case. Around Peter, Chris examines the shelving, the floor, and then circles around him to get a good look at the back. If there's anything that might be responsible, he hasn't seen it on a first glance.
So, for plan B, he turns to the hunter with his broken off weapon and wrenches it from his hands. It's grim, of course, but he gives it a good look -- and smell -- for any kind of strain of wolfsbane. He doesn't need Peter's nose for this, specifically (he's done this so many times now and worked with so many kinds it's second nature), but he does offer it over, for a second opinion. ] Doesn't seem like you were stabbed with anything suspect either.
[And therein lies ... The problem? The mystery. He looks around again, and for a moment tries to imagine that he's Peter himself. What things he might keep here; what possible artefacts might be responsible for conjuring someone from the past. Or reversing his age, and his memories. His eyes seem to gravitate back towards this Peter naturally, and again he feels like that little swell of pity. It's easier to feel it when the face is younger, and the eyes aren't stained by murder. ] Do you smell ... Anything off down here? Besides the obvious.
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It hurt a lot. But I guess I haven't been stabbed enough times to compare.
[ This casual reminder of the resilience of werewolves and werewolf sort-of-teenagers possibly sounds more palatable from this Peter as well, the sort of thing Malia and the others might say if, in fact, they had not been stabbed enough times to compare, which at this point, they probably have. Peter takes the next suggestion as well, placing the broken weapon back on the rack and shutting his eyes, taking a few deep inhales. ]
... Is that Old Spice? Really?
[ Having been in the bathroom, Peter should know damn well if it was Old Spice or not and also, is this really the time to be that kind of dick, but Peter grins as he hurriedly adds: ]
Not exactly, I can smell my own blood and it does seem. Weird. Can't tell if that's just, you know. Age. Or whatever happens to me.
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[It's about 70% exasperation, and 30% ignoring jibes. It's not difficult to imagine their answer is here, or was here. The latter is -- well. If Peter made it out barely alive, it stands to reason that a hunter might have limped his way out of here with some of Peter's valuable loot. Or at the very least, something they thought might be valuable to Peter.
He's not a detective, though. He's not Stiles, or Alison, who was just as good at this as Stilinski's kid. But he does have the rest of the day, and he does have Peter's nose. ] Okay. [No strange smells, yet. Okay. He turns his attention back to the corpses. He counts. ] You manage to get a head count on how many came at you?
[It's better if he doesn't inspect the bodies for cause of death, but he does anyway. Some bites and scratches, but mostly injuries caused by what he assumes where the booby traps. If Peter were here, it would make sense if he killed a bunch of hunters. This Peter certainly didn't. (He still cannot get over the eyes; he can't remember Peter's first kill the way he can remember Derek's, as told by Kate. If it even happened before Laura. So much keeps happening, he's losing the thread of things that used to be useful. )] I've got a theory, but I need to know if the bodies match up.
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His breathing has stayed even because it's been a few seconds at most and why wouldn't it, he's good when he has to be, he's got so much more control than Derek —
Another little twitch, smoothed over as he opens his eyes and comes up with a tentative answer for Chris. ]
Six?
[ Restless, as if to physically shake off the events of last night, Peter moves away from the weapons rack, giving a closer examination to things on the shelf near the other man. That broken wooden board, his fingers tracing the crack roughly down the center, and the deeply carved lines where maybe, one could push something small. ]
I can't be sure.
[ He admits with the reluctance of ego, and pushes the shelf holding the board back into place. Then there's exactly one second where who even knows if Chris is looking in the right direction to catch the acute chagrin on Peter's face at the weird, hollow click! following his action. After that, he'll probably mainly be focused on Peter bodychecking him into a wall, out of the path of even more fucking arrows. The older Peter has a problem. Well, more than one problem. Ironic arrow traps is just, you know, a hitherto undiscovered one. A man gets his vault robbed one time, he probably gets a bit sensitive about it. ]
... huh.
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Well. There is the embarrassing weight of Peter and the hard, aching crush of the wall against his shoulder. His surprised grunt is at least muffled by arrow-fire, but the what the ever loving christ is a bit louder. Every day a teenager is stronger than him is a bad day, but it's especially just outright weird to have his life saved by Peter Hale (jr). The wide eyed, slight panic isn't wholly directed to the arrows, but it would be nice if they could just pretend that it were.
He's fine. It's fine. ] Son of a bitch, [he says, without pushing Peter away from him. It's hard to say if this is about the arrows or his shoulder. Probably, it's both. ] Are you this goddamn paranoid? Where the hell did he get all these arrows -- [He is now, quite slowly, shifting in a way that suggests Peter should give him some space. He just wants to rub his shoulder; he's old, Peter. It's what old people do to their aches. ]
-- Thank you. [This is less begrudging than they both might be expecting. If this Peter ever meets Scott, maybe he'll understand Chris a little better. It's hard not to be a little nicer when Scott looks at you with his big sad eyes. ]
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Such as: Chris babbling a bit (by, you know, Argent standards), how they're basically the same height and even a similar build but Chris just seems sort of tougher somehow when Peter is using a bit of his strength to do this, and, of course, Chris waiting quite patiently to even start hinting that he could be let off the wall now. For Reasons, which Peter surmises probably have very little to do with him, but which allow him to enjoy the benefits nevertheless.
He waits a beat longer after the thanks, glancing blandly back at the other man, and his inhale, the slight expansion of his diaphragm against Chris' body, can probably be felt; it ends in a perfectly excusable sigh, however, as he leisurely slinks back to give Chris room, apparently satisfied there won't be a sneaky second round of projectiles. The weirdness of him couldn't possibly be stronger at the moment. If Scott had done this, there'd be apology with pragmatism. If Derek had done it, a mutual grimace guaranteeing they will never discuss it again. Peter stares at Chris with the corners of his mouth turned up cheerfully, which neither the thanks nor the circumstances that necessitated it should warrant. Unless you're a little shit. ]
I've collected a few hunter arrows, actually. I just figured, if I catch them, they're mine.
[ Nothing particularly funny about that, yet Peter grins to himself as he deliberately looks away, almost in false modesty, like it's a private joke. ]
Anyway, I'd thought that there would be something down here that I — that he — used to store some memories. Memories from around, well, my time. And some interaction between the attack, maybe being stabbed, and that item, might have caused a reversion. But I can't prove it.
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Instead, he welcomes the space, and sure, the snark. He rubs his shoulders, rolls it, and nods. ] Makes some amount of sense. [It's smart. This isn't a shock; part of what makes Peter so dangerous as an adult has always been that he's smart. The absorption of knowledge is a weapon, sometimes more so than claws or bullets. ] So long as we're ruling out time travel, [he says on a wince.] Peter, he -- I'd heard he's a hoarder.
[Very reliable sources have confirmed. Chris can't really judge.] But I don't see anything relevant? No claws. No teeth. No dubiously acquired bones, or hair.
[Nothing to suggest Kate's method either, least of all because they're nowhere near an ancient temple, and the Nemeton is precarious at best these days. ] If there was something, it's gone. If not -- we might be looking at a wider problem. Something unseen. [He's not suggesting that Peter Hale acts like a child: that's Deacon's job, as someone with the qualifications to make a diagnosis. And, well. It's a little mean to this Peter, whose brand of little shit has been perfectly tolerable except for having stole his shirt and having mocked his old man cologne. ] I can keep looking, or I can do some research.
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There are other ways of keeping memories.
[ And there it is again, the casual certainty of Peter's knowledge. All the sneaky little ways he has of finding shit out, and keeping it to himself, and later revealing it in a stingy pinched IV drip, or lying about it for his own purposes. Of course, he wouldn't understand that Chris has heard that tone before. ]
But if it's limited to just me, it's really not that big a deal, is it?
[ It's all coming out excessively casual, while darkness drains away the ache from Chris' shoulder and makes it disappear. One a distraction from the other, though it's not clear which is to distract from which. ]
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I think you're enjoying this. [Being young, or the illusion of glimpsing the future. Maybe it's just funny to have an Argent give a shit. He's assuming, in Peter's recent memory, Gerard has been sowing the seeds of war and chaos with an iron fist. Everything comes full circle. ] -- Thank you. [He nods to Peter's hand. There's a tightness to his voice; wariness. Like he expects a catch. ] I don't think you're contagious, no. Derek wasn't.
[L o l. ] I guess we wait it out. See if something triggers a change.
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Then there's the other recurring motif of his behavior, which is boundary testing. Chris doesn't pull away, though it was a near thing. Chris thanks him, though he means what are you doing and why. Being given an inch, he'll be on the lookout for a handy mile from now on. Not now, of course. For now he just lets his hand slide limply off the shoulder like it's worn out cat, flexes it idly to make the black veins go away faster as he brushes past Chris to peer out the door and up the stairs. He's done here, but isn't sure if Chris will insist on dealing with the bodies. ]
Don't want to be young again, huh? Wouldn't that be inconvenient. You'd go right back to trying to kill me. I'd have to be really nice to you.
[ No denial that he's enjoying this. He is, for all the reasons Chris considered, and more, and he is audibly smiling because they probably won't be addressing why Peter is being so nice to him right now, probably for the same reason Chris didn't pull his arm away in the first place. ]
So are you gonna make me carry a bunch of bodies now, or can we just. Close the door and go? Decomposition sounds like a problem for future me.
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We can't leave them here. [By 'we' he obviously means 'I'. His hand has also found his hair; there is some frustrated clawing. ] I'll call Stilinski, later. Obviously, I'll be throwing you under the bus when it comes to helping him move them.
[They're old, Peter. And you're so young, and have superhuman strength. :). ] But if we're done here, we should move before anyone comes back looking to pick up their dead friends first. I'm guessing there's nowhere you need to be, so you can take notes.
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