Chapter Text
It takes Peter long than he’d like to admit to realize his plan is backfiring. Spectacularly. His initial idea had been to break Stiles down in subtle, non-permanent ways, then piece him back together so that Stiles would become dependent upon him. Peter is smart enough not to believe he could convince Stiles to trust him, not outright, but manipulation is Peter’s specialty and Stiles... Well, Stiles isn’t exactly a wealth of self-esteem. Even less so now that his “best friend” is spending most of his time with someone else. And it should be amusing, should be pleasing, to watch how Stiles’ lips turn down at the corners when Scott turns to look at Isaac first. He thinks he should find some small amount of joy in the knowledge that everything is unfolding exactly as he had hoped, but it doesn’t. Instead, Peter is left feeling annoyed on Stiles’ behalf, and bereft on his own when yet more broken plans result in Stiles avoiding all werewolves for days on end.
Somehow, the tables have turned, and despite Peter being the one to sow the field, Stiles is the one who looks most likely to reap the benefits.
Peter has half a mind to give up, to choose someone else, but he knows that this boy is the key; no one else will do. So he stays close, follows Stiles from his part-time job at the library to his near full-time job watching the three young boys of single mother across the street. It’s frighteningly easy to watch Stiles chase them around the backyard, or walk them down the block to the small park, and at some point, without knowing when or how, Peter goes from silent observer to silent protector. He falls into a routine far more easily than he could have imagined, and for a moment, he forgets everything else.
Then the Alpha Pack makes their first move.
Despite the foolishness of the idea, and despite having a place of his own, Derek continues spend a surprising amount of time in their crumbling family home. Against his better judgment, Peter goes with. Isaac does as well, on the rare occasions he is not at Scott’s house or the clinic. Derek takes a job at the very same garage where the kanima made its second kill, losing himself in grease and oil and metal. When Peter isn’t watching—standing guard—over Stiles, he likes to visit Derek, if only because he knows his presence makes his nephew nervous. He wonders if Derek will ever break and just ask why he’s still there, but he finds it doubtful.
No one is really expecting it, even though they’ve all been waiting for the Alphas to make their move. It’s just a day like any other, and it stays that way right up until Derek and Peter arrive at the burnt-out house to find Stiles standing on the porch, face pale and shaking. Peter can smell his fear the moment he steps out of the car, and it has his hackles up. Stiles doesn’t say anything, just nods toward the house, and it’s not until Peter crosses the threshold and the scent hits him that he wonders why he didn’t notice it sooner. The jacket is lying across the back of a chair, and at first appearance, it looks as though it was simply discarded by a careless hand. But the honey-and-apricot scent of Erica’s conditioner is all but drowned out by the stench of pain, blood and otherness that has Peter’s wolf snarling, just barely restrained.
Derek’s reaction is less than pleasant, his fury sending Stiles storming from the house reeking of anger, sadness and something almost desperate. While it’s obvious Derek’s anger stems from the helplessness he’s feeling in the face of a pack member being hurt and possibly—probably—killed, Peter still feels a twinge of something close to sympathy toward Stiles. Maybe a few weeks ago Peter would have agreed with Derek’s complete dismissal of Stiles being pack, but weeks spent following Stiles around has left Peter feeling drawn to Stiles in way he never anticipated. It’s only because Peter is looking that he’s sees it, the look of regret that flits over Derek’s features before his nephew’s face shuts down once more, and it’s then that Peter realizes that he’s not the only one drawn to Stiles. But unlike Peter, Derek is fighting the desire to care for all he’s worth.
Peter is the one to move first, picking up the jacket with careful hands, carrying it upstairs and out of sight for the time being. Downstairs, Derek and Scott argue about Stiles, and Isaac moves about restlessly torn between his loyalty he feels toward the opposing forces of his best friend and his alpha. Peter wonders what is going through the boy’s head right now. For a while, Erica and Isaac had been closest, their bond strengthened by their familiarity.
He stays upstairs in the burnt remains of the old guest bedroom until he hears Scott and Isaac leave, and even then, he is slow in leaving his sanctuary. There is a part of him that wants to go find Stiles, to see how he’s is holding up—another part of him that wants to see if he can break his boy down any further just so Peter can offer him disingenuous solace—but he pushes that aside in favor of searching out Derek. In the doorway of the library, Peter pauses to watch as Derek paces the length of the room, stays just out of sight but not invisible until the silence becomes too much to bear.
“Why are you here?” Derek asks at last.
The words are almost plaintive, and it’s tempting to answer Derek honestly, to say, ‘I’m here to steal your pack away from you, with or without your consent,’ but instead he says,
“If you would like some privacy, Derek, just ask. I’m more than glad to take a walk.”
For a long time, Derek just stares, his thoughts locked away behind the cool mask of indifference he’s been wearing since he turned sixteen. The only real change is that now there’s an edge of hardness to his expression, created by the injustice that is life. The air between them feels thin, and Peter takes a step back, hands up in a defensive gesture.
“I’m not the enemy here,” he says, but that’s not exactly true and Derek knows it. With a shrug, Peter backs away, stopping just outside the room. “I’ll just take that walk, shall I?”
He doesn’t return until long after sunset, slipping in through the back just as Isaac arrives, and he hides the soft snick of the door under the pounding of Isaacs steps up the stairs. He basks in the startled look on Derek’s face when he steps into the burned-out kitchen, and inclines his head in greeting to hide his smirk. By some unspoken agreement, they’ve decided to stay at the house, but if Derek thinks that will keep the Alpha Pack from discovering where he lives, then he is sorely mistaken. No one speaks as they settle down for the night, but there is a current of awareness all around them, and it gets sharper with every passing second.
*.*.*.*
After he stretches, he heads out the back, this time with Erica’s jacket in his hands. It’s tempting, overwhelmingly so, to take it over to Stiles’ house, to slip it into his closet or even into his bed, just to smell the sharp spike of hurt and helplessness he knows will follow. Later, when he reflects back on this moment, Peter will feel ashamed at how easily he caved to that desire, but for now, he simply lets his feet lead the way, sticking to the shadows of the trees. He’s close, a block away from the Stilinski house, when he smells something other, and he changes course without thought, moving so he is downwind of the wolf staking out Peter’s territory.
The werewolf is young, caught somewhere between eighteen and twenty-two as only werewolves can be, and he stinks of alpha power as he hides behind the thick-trunked tree. Peter ducks back further, creeps up silent and slow. As he watches the werewolf watch Stiles playing with the neighbor’s children, something dark and ugly slides up his spine, through his veins. He finds he hates the way the other wolf tenses every time Stiles’ laughs, hates the cloying scent of eager want that promises both pleasure and pain. The alpha in front of him would play with Stiles, string him along and make him feel wanted, probably desired, then rip him to shreds and leave him broken—dead—on Derek’s doorstep as a reminder of just how fragile humans are. Peter knows this; it is no different than any of the thoughts he’s had himself, back when he was hunting Kate and all the people who helped her destroy Peter’s life.
Peter isn’t aware of moving, but in the next moment he’s closed the distance between he and the strange alpha and stupid as it is, dangerous as it is, he’s throwing himself against the other werewolf’s back, fangs and teeth extended. He isn’t an alpha, not anymore, and Peter isn’t particularly fast as a beta, but he is feral with rage, and he all but guts the other wolf before it has a chance to retaliate. Three claws to the throat have him stumbling back, and he wavers, fear chasing the edges of darkness circling his consciousness. He falls to his knees, blinking through the pain trying to blind him, and watches as the other wolf flees, a bloody trail all that is left behind.
Every breath hurts, and Peter wonders if this is how it’s going to end for him, bleeding out in the bushes after being burned to death twice and Stiles just twenty feet away, oblivious to what is happening. The sound of his own heartbeat is loud in his ears, pounding out the last moments of his life. Everything feels heavy and cold and foggy and he thinks, at first, that he’s imagining the burning warmth of hands on his face, shoulders.
“Jesus, what the hell—”
It is the shock of Stiles’ voice that has Peter jolting back into awareness, the haze of pain and probable death pushed back. He opens his mouth to speak and chokes on blood, and from above him, Stiles sobs out an unhappy laugh.
“Don’t—don’t speak. Jesus, who did this to you?” Stiles fingers skitter over Peter’s neck, holding the flaps of skin in place.
He’s muttering under his breath, whispering words in a half-song that ring familiar through Peter’s skull. They echo through his veins and Peter can feel the exact moment his blood stops pulsing out of him, is lulled by the soft flow of it as the wound on his neck starts to heal too fast for it to be just his own body at work. He stays there on the ground, unmoving as Stiles pushes warm earth magic into his skin, and he starts to drift off when he feels something wet hit his face. He can smell the salt and he opens his eyes to stare up into Stiles’ tear-streaked face.
“If this was your grand plan for catching me off-guard and, like, manipulating me, I swear to god, I will encircle you with mountain ash and leave you here.”
Peter sucks in a breath, thankful when he doesn’t immediately feel like he is drowning in his own blood, and sighs out an indistinct, “Would you?” The words feel twisted up on his tongue, and it is clear by Stiles’ expression, that Peter was not understood. He closes his eyes, breathes out, and says, “I promise you that damaging myself is in no way part of any plan.” When he meets Stiles gaze once more, he finds a smile there, though it still carries the weight of sadness in the corners.
“Of course it’s not,” Stiles huffs, but there is still a hint of worry in his voice. “So then what the hell happened, man, because one minute I’m playing tag, and the next, it sounded like two wild dogs were tearing each other up? Which…” As he talks, Stiles guides Peter up by the shoulders until he’s sitting upright.
“One of the alphas was watching you.” He pauses, and another thought occurs to him. “The children?”
“I sent them inside. Their mom is home, I was just giving her a break. I told them I’d make sure no dogs were dead or dying and then I’d see them tomorrow with a full report.” Stiles stands and pulls Peter up with him. He grimaces at all the blood matting the grass and beginning to crust under his fingernails. “I’ll tell them I took the dog to Deaton’s, though I’ll have to give him a heads up as well.” His gaze is steady, disconcerting, and before he can voice the question on the tip of his tongue, Peter says,
“I will be fine.” He fingers the curve of his throat, where the skin is sticky with blood but whole thanks to Stiles. “You’ve been learning.” He slants a sharp look at Stiles and is taken aback by how pleased he feels at Stiles’ startled appearance. Something shifts in his head, a memory long thought lost resurfacing in bits and pieces. He frowns, focuses on it, and lets out a soft, surprised breath. “Your mother—she had a way with plants and animals. A… gift.” Peter has no idea why he’s only just now remembering, and it’s almost more shocking—and painful—to realize just how much he missed while in a coma. “She passed away. I’m sorry.”
It’s not the first time the subject has come up, but it’s the first time Peter has associated faceless woman behind Stiles’ constant grief with the bright, laughing woman who would drive out to Peter’s sister-in-law’s house to collect whatever random woodland creature had been found hurt. Deaton had not yet opened his practice, was still solely serving the Hales in a non-veterinarian capacity, and it never occurred to them to ask old Dr. Richards.
Like that, Peter is swamped with shame and guilt. The faded image of a young woman with auburn hair, warm brown eyes and a never ending smile sharpens into clarity, becomes distinct and overwhelming, and Peter has to brace himself for the assault of memories. He remembers the teasing tilt of her mouth when she spoke, the affection in her eyes upon meeting Peter’s son and the cool press of her chapped lips against Peter’s cheek during his one visit to see her after the initial diagnosis. The smell of death and the sterile hallways of the hospital rises up and Peter lets out a low, aching groan.
“Hey, whoa, dude. You’re, like—you’re too big for me to carry man. Snap the fuck out of it.”
The curse is out of character it has Peter returning to himself with a visible shake. This time, when he looks at Stiles, it isn’t a target or a tool he sees, but a likeness of his own son. He understands then the reason he made no move to harm Stiles despite the opportunities. He gets it, why a small part of him was almost hurt and when Stiles refused the bite. There is so much strength in him, so much character, and Peter—Peter wants nothing more than to make this bright, intelligent, fiercely loyal boy his. A surrogate child that will never replace David, but could ease the constant ache in Peter’s heart.
“I need to go,” Peter says, stumbling back. His body is still trying to make up for the blood lost and he feels a little dizzy as he moves back, but he cannot stay there, not if he wishes to remain in control of his actions.
“Look, dude, my Jeep is right there. Let me drive you back to the house.” Stiles bends, picks up Erica’s jacket with steady hands and folds the worst of the blood in so it won’t rub off on his clothes. Peter looks away, unhappy with the reminder of what he intended to do less than twenty minutes prior, and focuses on Stiles’ words.
Peter shakes his head. “Not there. Not now. I need to… regroup.”
“Yeah, I can get that. I’ll drive you, though, because even if you are a creepy stalker, you’re a creepy stalker who probably saved my life, so.” He tips his head to the side, cautious but stubborn. He won’t take no for an answer.
Peter submits because he knows he won’t be able to walk the whole way, not covered in blood and still healing. In the Jeep, he tips his head back against the seat and closes his eyes, waiting until the car is moving before breaking the silence.
“I remember your mother. I don’t know how I managed to forget her. Or you, for that matter, though you were very young the first time we met.” He can sense Stiles’ tension, and he pushes on. “She was lovely. You remind me of her quite a bit.” He smiles at the pleased noise that earns him, then rattles off his address before lapsing into silence once more. He must doze off because the next thing he knows, the car is stopped and Stiles is tapping his fingers against the steering wheel, off-beat and distracting enough to have Peter reaching out to cover Stiles’ fingers with his own.
“It’s not what I would have pictured,” Stiles says at last.
Peter doesn’t fault him for his dubious tone. Before the fire, Peter had been motorcycles and leather jackets; a far cry from the cottage-like house standing before them. He liked being the cool uncle, the rebel, but here… here he was a father and a husband, the latter in name only, as far as the state was concerned. He had been surprised, the first time he returned, to find the cottage had not been sold during his coma and his belongings were more or less secure. He hadn’t gone inside then, had instead headed out of town to a store where no one knew him and bought clothes the Peter Hale of six years ago would never have worn.
In the first few months after his awakening, Peter visited at least once a week but refused to step inside. Just the thought of his home left him feeling raw with hurt, and back then, he had needed his rage to keep him going. After that, it was just easier to stay outside, removed from all the physical reminders of what he will never have again. He doubts it is a smart move on his part to break this habit now, but more than anything, he wants to wrap himself up in Mark and David and forget about everything else for a little while.
Stiles doesn’t follow as Peter climbs out of the Jeep, but he does not pull away either, just sits with his engine idling, waiting for god knows what. Peter ignores him, stumbles up the walk and shoves his key into the lock, shoving until spills over the threshold. Every breath hurts as he moves through the living room to the mantel, his fingers shaking as he picks up the frames, one after the other.
The pictures of David as a baby, of Peter and his mate, Mark and a of David’s birthmother, Sarah, are coated in dust, relics of a life he no longer lives. Some he will pack away, when the idea of putting his family in a box doesn’t make his gut twist up and clench, but for now, he gives into his need to see and touch. He traces the faces protected by glass and pretends he doesn’t notice the splotches that appear in the dust.
“I miss you every day,” he whispers, voice cracking. He can feel the burn of his tears down his cheeks, but he doesn’t wipe them away. There are no witnesses, and even if there were, he would never deny his family the grief they deserve.
In the bedroom, he strips off the previous days clothes and stands under the shower, skin going from pink to pale again as it heals beneath the scalding water. He uses Mark’s shampoo, the scent all but faded and lost after six years, and when he’s done, it is a pair of Mark’s worn pajama pants and faded T-shirt he dons. In the bedroom, he stands beside the bed lost in thought, and startles when at the sound of a throat clearing. When he turns, it is to find Stiles watching him, his expression one of sympathy and shared grief.
“I, uh. I was headed home, but then I got kinda worried because you never closed the front door. So, yeah. And then, when I saw how everything looked—” Like a mausoleum, he doesn’t say, “I figured maybe you shouldn’t be alone right now.”
“I wanted to hurt you,” Peter says by way of reply. He catches Stiles’ flinch and bares his teeth, a mockery of a smile. “Possibly, probably, I would have killed you, but I wanted to strip bare every emotion you have managed to hold in that fragile body of yours. I wanted to make you suffer, the invisible and unknown force behind all your woes, and then swoop in to fix you up.”
The corner of Stiles’ mouth twitches down and his eyes go dark with sadness. “I can’t be your family, but if—if you’re part of Derek’s pack, then I can be a part of your pack, too.”
“Not Scott’s, though?”
The question startles a laugh out of Stiles. “His too, but he’s not alpha material. Not just yet. He will be, but he needs to stop being a giant dick about communicating with Derek. Or just people in general whose names don’t rhyme with Ballison.”
Peter nods, quirks a small smile that disappears as his gaze drifts back to the bed. He wants nothing more than to sleep, but he can’t do that in here just yet, cannot face the empty pillow where Mark’s head once lay. Without meeting Stiles’ worried eyes, Peter shuffles past him, caught in an internal debate between the last two places he can lie down. Instead of heading for the couch in the living room, Peter retreats to David’s room, crawls between the Batman and Robin sheets and lies there staring at the childish drawings pinned to the wall.
Behind him, the bed dips, and something tight and hurt unfurls in Peter’s chest as Stiles settles down on the too-small bed, his back pressed to Peter’s. As they lie there in silence, an uneasy truce takes hold, slips beneath Peter’s skin and reaches out to link with Stiles. He should move away, should chase out of the house with gnashing teeth the comfort Stiles offers so willingly. Instead, Peter lets sleep wrap itself around him, and for the first time since he woke in the hospital, skin searing and his mind blank of all the familial bonds he once took for granted, he does not question what the future holds.