Chapter Text
Witches, he god damn hated witches, there was nothing left in the world for Peter Hale to hate as much as he hated witches. Witches were the most aggravating beings of all the supernatural creatures. Peter had plenty of experience when it came to witches, and each encounter left him with a bad taste in his mouth, and each time he wished he would never again experience witches again. His life had different plans for him and that was why Peter was now trying his hardest to get back up on his feet, cursing the witches as he gasped for air.
Getting blasted through walls by a pissed off witch was never fun and even less bemusing when you weren't a Alpha or twenty-something-young.
It had been Stiles, it is always Stiles, who had realized that something was up around town. The boy who spent every other weekend at Beacon Hills, had noticed something was off, and when he had voiced his worries the pack hadn't noticed anything wrong and laughed and belittled all evidence Stiles had gathered. Even Peter who thought of himself as a very observant person had not noticed anything strange, and was there for unwilling to take the boy seriously.
If the witch hadn't made the mistake of targeting Stiles, then perhaps no one would have ever known that there was a witch in town. But the mistake was made, it started with Stiles catching crippling colds of which one turned into pneumonia while later it became more violent with Stiles getting attacked by animals and insects. Then the animal attacks turned into people attacking Stiles, and none of them ever had a good answer to why they beat the crap out of a kid studying in the library or the boy waiting in line at the local coffee house; each attack more violent.
Targeting Stiles made it very personal for the pack and it became even more personal when Stiles went missing, the boy had been visiting his father and the pack and after Sunday dinner at the McCall's House Stiles headed back to Berkley; once back in his dorm room he called his father and Scott to tell them he was back safe and sound.
Late on Tuesday the dean called Mr. Stilinski to ask if he knew the whereabouts of his son.
It took the pack a few days to track down the witch, and she looked nothing like any of the witches Peter had encountered; she looked more like a supermodel than a spell-casting-bitch-from-Hell. The witch did not live in a small cottage in the woods, she had made a home for her in one of the fine lake houses not too far from the old Hale House.
The witch had let them all just walk into her house, which had made them all wonder if Stiles had been wrong about the woman living by the lake, that was until they could smell him and hear the frantic beating of his heart. As soon as the werewolves were inside the witch started taking them down, laughing happily as she did.
Peter had located the beating heart to a room at the back of the house, the smell of the boy was also strongest at the back of the building. From what Peter could tell the boy wasn't alone for another heartbeat that was slower and a smell of old magic whispered through the door. The werewolf felt a trickle of worry run down his soul as he noticed the changes in the familiar scent, the smell of fear had Peter up on his feet and moving slowly towards the door that the witch had for a moment defended; but she had for now left it for the joy of tormenting Isaac with past memories and fears, while also blasting Derek and Scott across the room. The witch had obviously thought Peter less after he flew through a wall.
Peter drags his body to the end of the hall, without pressing his ear to the door he hears the pitiful whimpers and someone moving around the room. Peter reaches for the doorknob and turns it slowly, as the metallic click reaches his ears the werewolf pushes the door open and like the theatrical man he is Peter enters the bedroom like he belonged there in that bedchamber. The smell of old magic makes his nose itch and aggrivates the beast inside him.
Peter scans the room before closing the door behind him, `We don't need to be disturbed, now do we my dear?´ his voice is smooth and charming, but the hate is there thick and bitter. The old woman grins wickedly at Peter while she swept around in her long black dress, she held a little naked boy in her arms with such force that the already bruised skin would bruise more. The way the pale skin was blooming with cuts and bruises had the beast underneath Peter's skin snarling.
The older witch continued walking around, and watching her Peter began to wonder where Stiles was or had his senses failed him.
No, the beast growled, the pup. Our pup.
Peter snapped his attention back to the child, Stiles' smell came from the child. Peter whispered the name on his lips, `Stiles?´
The toddler was turned to face the werewolf by the witch, her grin growing as Peter realized the child was indeed Stiles Stilinski. The scent was there under all that fear and tears, the chubby little face was doted with black moles here and there but the child was sporting nasty looking bruises, the amber orbs were tearful and mirrored the fear and hurt the child was going through. Looking at Peter the child reached out to the man, eyes so fearful and so pleading for Peter to save him.
The witch slid her hand from the back of toddle-Stiles neck and snaked it around the short throat and tightened the hold, the child went still arms reaching out towards Peter, eyes so wide the werewolf worried they'd pop right out of the small skull. A little whimper escaped the child, but it caused the witch to tighten her hold even more.
`What did you do to him?´ Peter asked with a loud growling escaping between the words, it was hard to control the beast when the witch was harming the boy both Peter and his wolf had grown to care for more and more. But the growling nor the claws that were replacing the human fingernails did not give birth to fear, the witch seemed to find pleasure in the sudden lack of control of the werewolf who, she enjoyed it because she had figured out the weakness of the monster in her bedchamber.
`Oh, nothing really, it was all this little shits doing,´ the witch says with a hiss in her voice, her hold of the throat grew tighter. The toddler stops reaching out to Peter and stars desperatly to try and lessen the hold of the hand around his throat, little legs that had been dangling now kicking franticly.
`Stop that!´ the witch barks at the little boy, and the child stills and the pleading eyes focus on Peter once again, so fearful that it hurt. The smell of pure terror and hurt, and the fear in the wide eyes is all needed to push the werewolf over the edge. The werewolf shifts and lunged at the witch who is rambling on about all the trouble the child has created for her and her daughter, but she never has a chance to finish telling Peter how something inside Stiles had worked against her attempt remove the spirit and spark that hid underneath the skin, because Peter grabs the wrist of the hand around the tiny throat and breaks it with ease. Before freeing the child from the witch, the werewolf rips the flesh of the forearm, little fists grasping to hold on for dear life to the monster that any other child might have feared.
But not Stiles, not our cub, the beast hums with delight.
The werewolf had the toddler with a blink of an eye cradled to his side, perched on the beasts hip little legs tightening as best they could as did the little hands that were grasping to what was left of Peter's shirt. With the child safe, the werewolf sank its sharp fangs in the long neck of the witch who hadn't yet realized what was going on it was only as the supernatural creature had its fangs deep in the throat, but she could not make a sound her proud eyes no longer bemused but fearful of the death that was to come. The werewolf tore a piece of flesh as it pulled away from the throat, and soon blood that belonged on the inside was rushing out of the witch. Without giving the witch a second glanze the werewolf was out of the window and running through the woods, not pausing for a moment not even when he turned into something more human he had the child cradled in his arms and slowed down his run for a brisk walk.
The wolf in Peter demanded they protect the pup, their pup. They had found the toddler and it needed them, so it belonged to them. Although Peter knew the boy wasn't a stray cat you could just take as your own, it was hard to argue against every little reason the beast within him gave and some of the reasons were not new to Peter. Since the day he had become aware of the younger Stilinski Peter and his beast wanted him, as first just as a beta and then as he watched the boy and listened to him the feelings changed; he wanted to care for the boy more so when he watched the relationship between Sheriff Stilinski and his son, neither Peter nor his wolf would have ever treated the boy the way the alcoholic father did.
When the werewolf and the toddler reached Peter's apartment the child had stopped crying and was sound asleep, the child looked content and peaceful. Peter smiled down at the more innocent version of Stiles; a version he loved ever so slightly more than the first version he had come to know.
The toddler started to stir, which had Peter go all rigid as he expected the child to start shrieking and flailing as it would try and escape from Peter. But instead the little the little boy smiled up at Peter and began babbling quietly, the tiny hands reaching up to touch Peter's face.
`Stiles?´ Peter says as he adjusts the baby in his arms, the little boy takes advantage of the closeness of Peter's face to play with his nose, it makes the older man chuckle. The werewolf breathes in the smell of the toddler, and says, `I think someone needs a bath.´