Wild Creatures

Part 4

This doesn't even begin to fix what's wrong with you," Lydia says, drifting towards Peter's desk. She takes a sheet of fresh parchment and quill, scrawling some sort of list, presumably all of Stiles' faults. Stiles sighs. This is going to be a long day.

Lydia proves herself a relentless taskmaster. Hardly content with Stiles show of independent spirit, she spends the entire morning and most of the afternoon correcting his posture through a series of walking and sitting exercise, while she rattles off assorted court rules and etiquette. Her tone is precise, sharp in some places but not unkind. It's evident that she doesn't expect Stiles to know anything, she explains each social interaction with its relevant context and history.

"We're speaking your tongue for your benefit," Lydia says, handing Stiles several leather bound books, "you will need to learn ours in order to navigate the court."

"I can barely speak my own language," Stiles replies, tracing the embossed covers, "I don't know if I'll be good at this." He notes the arch of Lydia's eyebrow, the downcurl of her lip. "I'm not saying I won't make an effort, I'm just saying that comprehending languages is not my strong suit. I'm only literate because I stole books and taught myself. I'm good with numbers, good with thinking on my feet and planning ahead but my mouth is not good at wrapping around unfamiliar syllables."

Lydia taps her lip with her index finger, before scribbling on her list.

"Then we will start small and work up."

She takes the books back, setting them aside and encouraging Stiles to take a seat. She grabs a few objects from around the room, placing them on the table. She sits opposite, holds up a quill and states its fae name. Stiles repeats it, slowly and clumsily. Lydia offers him an encouraging smile, prompting him to try again.

They spend the rest of the afternoon this way, Lydia gently coaxing Stiles into this new territory. Stiles didn't expect this kindness, this involved approach to his learning and though he tries not to show it, he's grateful that Lydia has chosen to be gentle instead of cruel.

---

Stiles is creating his own vocabulary book, his spidery handwriting corrected with Lydia's looping cursive, when Peter returns. They're crowded close together, Stiles repeating syllables as he writes them down and he doesn't notice Peter until he hears Peter's voice.

"Learning the local language I see."

Stiles stills. He pulls his vocabulary book to his chest, hiding it from Peter's gaze. Lydia gets to her feet, smoothing down the pleats of her skirts.

"I will see you tomorrow Stiles," she says, collecting her books and papers. Stiles nods, snapping his vocabulary book closed. Lydia glides towards the door, stopping to murmur something in fae to Peter before disappearing down the corridor. Peter uses his foot to close the door, unbuttoning his shirt as he walks over to the wardrobe. Stiles pointedly looks down at the table, studying the grain of the wood.

"I assume given that you're still in one piece that Lydia wasn't too vicious."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "I'm still not going to wear a corset, no matter how much it may improve my royal posture."

Peter chuckles. "You've foiled my cunning plan, I guess I'll have to try harder."

"By all means, continue to try to trick me, I'm sure it will work out fine for you."

Peter wanders over, dressed in a more loose fitting shirt. He runs a hand through his hair, making it disheveled in a way that instantly softens him. Stiles leans back in his chair, taking it all in. Peter offers a hand.

"Come take a walk with me before dinner."

"Where?"

"The garden, it's beautiful during sunset."

Stiles doesn't take the offered hand but he does get to his feet, motioning to Peter to lead the way.

The garden is beautiful, but it's not so much a garden as a huge greenhouse filled to the ceiling with plants of all kinds. Stiles cranes his neck to look up at the ceiling. It's dusk, the sky fading from cerulean into a soft coral colour, purple blooming at the edges like bruises. Stiles closes his eyes, breathing in the different floral scents, listening to the gentle splash of the waterfall. The outside world cannot reach inside here, the glass an effective barrier from all that weighs on Stiles' shoulder.

Stiles opens his eyes as Peter passes him. Peter's carrying a pair of shears. He stops a few feet in front of Stiles, bending down to clip a few dead leaves from a nearby plant.

"You're welcome to visit here whenever you like," Peter says, searching the underside of the plant for any more shrivelled leaves.

"I don't have to like, take care of the plants right?"

Peter laughs, a soft, indulgent chuckle. "No, Stiles, you won't be expected to do that. You can just sit or meditate."

Stiles looks at the plants, at this delicate ecosystem contained within a bubble.

"This is a lot to trust me with," Stiles comments, idly reaching out to trace the underside of a fern. The leaves curl in on themselves, away from his touch. "Given that we barely know each other. How do you know I won't destroy it all? I'm an invader, after all."

"Are you going to?"

Stiles shrugs. "Probably not."

"So that declaration was merely a curiosity as to my motives?"

"Among other things."

"Other things?"

Looking into Peter's eyes is somewhat similar to staring at the dark water churning beneath the surface of an ice covered lake, so Stiles looks at his own feet instead. The leather shoes he was provided with are soft, much softer than he is used to.

"I am curious," Stiles says, "as to why you would agree to marry someone you had not seen. Why you agreed to this treaty at all."

"Aside from ending the bloodshed you mean?"

Peter has moved closer to Stiles. The sky has darkened to an inky blue, candles begin to flicker into being all around them. Stiles represses a gasp when Peter uses his claws to tip Stiles' head up.

"And what exactly are your motivations Stiles?" Peter murmurs, "your reasons for entering into this bargain?"

"The societal standing, obviously."

"Obviously."

"Not having to do manual labour ever again is also a plus. Food's better, living arrangements are definitely better."

Peter's lip curls, amused by Stiles' answers. "So, you're motivated by materialism."

"Yes. I'm very materialistic. Emotions are fleeting but things are forever and so forth."

"You have the capacity to be a good liar Stiles," Peter says, dropping his hand from Stiles' chin. The way he says Stiles name, like it's something expensive, something caramel sweet and decadent, makes Stiles' gut clench. "But something tells me you're not trying."

Stiles shrugs, gesturing with his hands as if to say what-can-you-do . He holds Peter's gaze, lets himself fall into the swirling abyss of blue.

"We're in this together, even if your people would have you believe otherwise," Peter says. He reaches up, tucking a small pink flower behind Stiles' ear. "This can work, if you let it."

Stiles takes a step back. The intimacy is overwhelming, like he's fallen through the ice of Peter's eyes and is struggling to break the surface. His heart thumps against his rib cage, his breath stumbling against his lips. Peter doesn't say anything, merely steps backwards to give Stiles some space. Stiles clenches his fists, getting himself under control. Breathe in, one two, breathe out, three four.

"You can stay here for a while if that would make you feel better," Peter says, carefully stepping around Stiles, "I'll have someone bring you some food."

"No, I'm ok. Lets... let's go eat. Together."

Stiles follows Peter out of the greenhouse. He keeps the flower in his hair.

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