Chapter Text
Stiles isn’t sure where Derek and Isaac are—or Scott, now that he’s decided he no longer wants to be in Derek’s pack—when he pulls up in front of the Hale house, but they’re not who he’s looking for, not this time. Peter is on the porch by the time Stiles climbs out of his Jeep, the door with its unfamiliar mark shut behind him, and they stare at one another for several long moments. The silence is weighted, prickling at the back of Stiles’ neck and making the air hum with tension. Peter is the one to move first, taking a seat on the second from the top step, and Stiles follows suit, sitting just far enough away not to constitute as crowding, but still within grabbing distance. It’s a show of trust on Stiles’ part.
Peter breaks the silence, his tone wry as he says, “I can’t offer you the bite. I’m not an alpha anymore.”
The words catch Stiles off guard and he glances over to see Peter watching him, face blank, gaze unreadable. He shrugs. “Yeah, well, I didn’t come here for that, believe it or not. I came here to say I’m sorry.”
Silence falls over them again, and Peter’s stare hardens just a little. There’s a hint of cruelty in the tilt of his lips when he replies. “For setting me on fire?” One eyebrow arches high, skeptical.
“Well, that too,” Stiles says.
His leg bounces and he twitches a little, uncomfortable at the reminder of his part in Peter’s demise. Never mind that it had taken Allison’s arrow to ignite the damn bottle after Peter caught it. The idea had been Stiles’, and he has yet to make peace with those demons. He doubts he ever will, and adds it to the growing list of ways in which he has proven what a terrible human being he is.
He has to fight just to block out the images of Erica and Boyd’s faces in the Argent basement.
“But I meant for losing your family. For you trying so hard to save them and not being able to. I’m sorry some psychotic bitch did that to you, and I really hope that this is for real, you being here and wanting to be a part of Derek’s pack. That you’re not trying to become the alpha again, or secretly plotting his demise. Because I—I get the feeling that Derek could use some family in his life. Real family, since it’s not like he’ll let any of us get close to him. Kate pretty much saw to that when she seduced him just so she could wipe out his entire family.” And though it pains him to say it, he adds, “And Scott betraying him to Gerard, Erica and Boyd running away, Scott leaving Derek’s pack... None of that helped, either. So, yeah, I’m glad you’re back. You know, as long as you’re not gonna go all crazy-wolf and start killing people. Again. Particularly me, because that would really suck and also I don’t want my dad to be alone. Being alone hurts the worst, and I don’t want that for my dad. Or Derek.” He runs out of steam, feeling far more exposed than he’s prepared to.
Peter’s mouth curves up, but there’s no humor in his smile, only sadness, grief. “Yes, it does,” he agrees.
There’s still a question hanging in the air, and Stiles answers it without looking over. “My dad really loved my mom. Like, loved her a lot. He still wears his wedding band and he goes to visit her sometimes between his shifts. He doesn’t know I know, but.” Stiles shrugs. “When he got his job back, I thought that would make things better, but it didn’t. I’m still telling him the same lies and sometimes—sometimes I think he looks at me and it’s like I can hear him thinking, ‘Why her? Why my wife and not this kid who can’t just sit still and listen? Who’s constantly screwing up?’
Stiles doesn’t know why he’s saying this, but now that the words have started, they don’t stop. He’s not sure he wants them to.
“It was my fault Scott was in the woods that night, and it was because of me that my mom got so sick.” He feels Peter tense beside him and plows on. “I mean, I’m not stupid. I didn’t actually make her sick, but I was always running, never stopping, and she just—I wore her out, like I’m wearing my dad out. The only person who was ever able to just accept me was Scott, and I don’t even have him anymore, not really.”
He swallows hard, and closes his eyes. Waits for some confirmation from Peter. It doesn’t come. Instead, Peter says,
“I had a son. He was a couple of years younger than you, but he had your energy, your...vibrancy. He would climb trees, scale the bookshelves, get himself stuck at the top of doorways.” There’s a pregnant pause, then he says, his voice a bare whisper, “He was human.”
When Stiles turns, he can see the raw grief etched permanently into Peter’s features, but he holds his tongue. It’s easy, this time.
“I wouldn’t have traded him for anything, even on the worst of days,” Peter says at last.
They lapse into silence after that, staring out at the woods. There’s still the sense that something big is coming, and Stiles hopes they’ll be ready for it. The symbol on the door is part of it. He doesn’t have to ask to know that much, and he thinks maybe they’ll stand a chance if Peter is with them, not against. Stiles isn’t aware of how tense he is until one of Peter’s hands finds his shoulder, fingers tight over one of the many bruises littering Stiles’ skin, hidden away by his shirt and jacket. Without over-analyzing it, Stiles reaches up, wraps his hand around Peter’s and holds on.
The next part of the storm is on the horizon and Stiles needs to be ready to meet it head on. They all do.