Archive of Our Own ^beta

He shouldn’t care. It wasn’t in his wheelhouse, and really he was just not that empathetic. Especially for someone, he had already helped kill once. Peter Hale was dying. He had already died once, and he had already made his peace with it this time, but Stiles had not.

He was pack, he was family, Stiles would even go as far as to say they were friends. They had spent long hours together, just the two of them. They talked about everything else when they weren’t discussing the alpha pack or the occult. Cooking, books, movies, everything. Stiles had come to enjoy his presence, and that was what made everything so much harder.

They had talked it out, well, screamed it out, actually. Peter took him to the diner and bought him curly fries and pasta bake to break the news. It was simple words and a simple explanation. The resurrection ritual was to buy him time, not his life. His body was failing, and he would die within the next few months. Peter had even said some dumb shit that was supposed to be comforting.

“You have become the friend that I have never had. The family I have always wished for, so It would be an honor if you were there in my final moments.”

All he could do was stare. He had been so damned stupid. He had started to have feelings for the man, and the universe was taking him away. It was his fault, really; he fancied himself in love, so he should have been surprised that Peter didn’t die sooner, but then again, the universe liked to kick him when he was down.

There they sat in his mother’s favorite diner, in the booth he and his dad sat in once a week. Sure, Peter didn’t understand the significance; they hadn’t spoken about it, not because he was keeping it from him, but because it had never come up. It hadn’t seemed important to let Peter know that in the booth they were sitting, Noah Stilinksi had told him that Claudia, his mother, was dying, and there was nothing they could do to stop it. Peter didn’t know that they sat in that booth, ate pasta bake, and chatted in remembrance of his dead mother.

Peter was staring at him; confusion was written all over his face. Stiles wondered if it was the pasta bake on his fork, suspended in the air, inches from his mouth. Was the other hand crushing the curly fries? Was it the conflicting emotions rolling off of him? Rage, sadness, anger, pity, hurt? In the grand scheme of things, it didn’t matter. Stiles dropped his fork and left. The fries were still clenched in his fist as he started walking down the road.

He didn’t know where he was going, but it didn’t matter. He couldn’t sit in that booth anymore, and he really didn’t care that Peter had driven him. He could hear Peter calling his name, but he didn’t pay him any attention. Peter had let him fall in love with him, just to die like some plebeian. It was his biggest betrayal to Stiles anyway.

“Darling, please get in the car. It’s going to rain.”

Rain would be nice. He wondered if it would wash away the sins that he had committed. He didn’t know exactly what he needed to repent for, but he would. He would sell his soul to stop the horrid things that keep happening to stop. What makes it worse is that it is never him.

Claudia gets sick, loses her mind, and dies. She is the one to die, not him. His father is the one who lost his wife. He gets kidnapped, and Vernon and Erica get tortured. He gets set free, but the alpha pack takes Erica and Vernon. He kills Peter. He set a man on fire after he had already been burned alive once. He needed to atone for that, but he didn’t think that was where the karma started, but it was where it ended. He had fallen in love, and now they were taking him away because, why wouldn’t they?

“Stiles, I don’t know what’s going through that beautiful mind of yours, but please get in the car.”

Stiles wondered if Peter had ever said please before. He was leaning out of the window, a frown etched on his face, but Stiles couldn’t stop. He couldn’t get in the car. He needed to atone. He needed to walk thirty-two miles back to an empty home. He needed to sit alone and never drag any of his loved ones down again. Peter was already paying the price.

Peter was walking along the road with him. He wondered when it happened, but he couldn’t think about it too much. He needed to walk. He needed to let the rain wash away his sins. When the sky opened up, Stiles could not be bothered to even think of cover. He wondered if he needed to shed his clothes to make sure it cleansed every inch of him, but Peter kept grabbing his hands. He wouldn’t let him strip.

Peter was holding his hand. They were just out for a stroll, and Stiles wondered if they should have brought a picnic basket. He was lying to himself obviously, but Peter was holding his hand. He could also hear him talking, but the words were too far away. Stiles tried to breathe with the rise and fall of his voice, but it was too much. He didn’t want to breathe anymore. Too bad his body didn’t give him an option.

“Darling, I wish you would speak to me.”

His voice was raw and gritty. It made Stiles wonder what his voice sounded like right after the coma. Stiles did love Peter’s voice.

“Nothing to say.” It was a whisper, but he knew Peter heard it. He tried to pull them to stop, but Stiles could not stop his feet from moving.

“You always have something to say. You have a sharp tongue and a clever mind. What is it that you don’t want to say, love?”

Wasn’t that the damned question? He didn’t know the answer, though. Just thinking about it made his heart race, or was it the brisk pace he had set? Stiles looked around, unsure of how far they had walked, but he knew Peter’s car was no longer in sight.

“Come on, Stiles, let’s head into this gas station, get out of the rain.”

Stiles nodded but did not turn or change course. “You should. Your sick and dying.”

He didn’t know if it was a jab; it didn’t feel like one. He was just stating the truth. “You’re shivering.”

“Not cold.” He didn’t know if it was a lie because he didn’t feel cold, but if he was shivering, he probably was.

“I know, sweetheart, but we need to get you inside.” Peter grabbed his shoulders, turning him to look at each other. “If I’d known you would react like that, we would have done this at home.”

Stiles shook his head, trying to clear the image of his mother lying in bed screaming for his dad. She was calling him a demon, a monster. The next thing he knew, a vase was flung at his head. They had worked hard to make that bed that room as comfortable as possible, but also like the hospital, but it was the last time she had slept in it. She had to go to the hospital after that. It wasn’t the first time she had hurt him, but it was the first time his dad had seen it, so it was the last time she got to sleep in her own bed.

“Derek is behind us, sweetheart. Why don’t we get in the car? Then we can get you in a warm bath.”

“No baths.” It was a knee-jerk reaction. That was also something they hadn’t talked about. It made Stiles wonder if he had been subconsciously hiding things from Peter.

Peter nodded along, guiding him to the car. “Okay, no baths. Derek has the heater on, so let’s get you warm, little one.”

Peter eased him into the passenger seat and buckled him in. Stiles could feel Derek’s eyes on him, but he didn’t say anything. It was for the best; Stiles wasn’t in a talking mood as it was. They must have walked further than he anticipated because they were in under five minutes at the loft. Derek reached to unbuckle him, but Stiles flinched. He didn’t know why, and he knew if he could see Derek’s face, it would be clouded with hurt, but there was nothing to do about it.

Peter was leaning over him, undoing his buckle, but he couldn’t look away from the trees ahead.

“Can I carry you, love?”

Stiles nodded but didn’t look away. Peter eased his out of the seat. His head was pillowed against his shoulder, and Stiles was nuzzling his shirt. He had to wonder what would go first, his mind or body. He didn’t want either, but Stiles wanted it to be the mind first. He didn’t want Peter to suffer the pain of losing control over his body.

He was in the bathroom, unsure when he got there, but he was sitting at the counter with his feet dangling. Peter was on one knee, pulling off his soaked shoes. It was ridiculous; he should be taking care of Peter, not the other way around.

“You’re dying.” It was the first moment of true clarity since Peter had dropped the bomb.

He looked up from his spot on the floor, warm hand grabbing his thigh. “Yes.”

It hadn’t been a question, but Stiles was glad to clarify. “That diner was where my mom worked.”

“Ah, I had wondered why that place he’d significance to you and your father.”

Peter stood, pulling off Stiles’ shirt. “Dad told me she was dying there.”

Peter hesitated in his movements. His eyes were sad as he watched Stiles hopped off the counter with unsteady legs. He didn’t have anything to say. There was nothing he could say. Stiles shoved his pants and boxers down. He had never been naked with another man, and he was just months shy of his eighteenth birthday. He wasn’t going to be shy now. He stepped under the warm spray, waiting on Peter. After a few moments and Peter didn’t join him, Stiles huffed.

“Are you coming?”

Peter laughed, and the feeling came back to Stiles’ hands. “I might, darling, would you like that?”

Peter stepped behind him, pulling Stiles to his chest. His body was warm, and the water warmed his soul. Sure, that brought the tears, but it was warm. Peter turned him, letting Stiles bury his face into his chest. His hands were trapped between their bodies, and the tears burned his eyes, but it didn’t matter. Peter was running his hand through his hair.

It had been two weeks, and everything was happening fast. His dad hadn’t reached out, and he wondered if someone had already talked to him or he just hadn’t noticed that he hadn’t been home in two weeks. He couldn’t bring himself to care.

Peter was lying on a bed, and his body gave up on him. “My mother died in a bed like that, screaming I was a monster there to kill her. Will you do that as well? Do you need a vase to throw at my head?”

Peter scoffed, but there was no real heat to it. “I’ve lost control of my body, not my mind.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Sure, your not a crazed psycho.”

Peter huffed as Stiles fluffed his pillow. “Not recently, love.”

Derek placed a plate of sandwiches next to them. He plopped in the chair next to the bed, grabbing his book. Stiles flopped down, laying with his head on Peter’s chest.

“Read us a story, alpha my alpha.”

Derek huffed, and Peter smiled. Derek rolled his eyes, but he read them the first few chapters of Valiant by Holly Black.

It had taken another week before his dad had come by. He didn’t say much as Stiles was curled up around sleeping Peter. He took the chair that Derek usually occupied, watching Stiles run his fingers through Peter’s hair. He didn’t need to say anything. There are always tears in Stiles’s eyes, and he wondered if he would survive the other man's death.

“You need to come home.” It should have been an order since he was the parent, but it wasn’t. It was a request, and Stiles had already decided to ignore it. Stiles didn’t know if he would ever be able to go home. He was stuck in that bed just as much as Peter was.

“He needs pain meds.” Stiles had already told Derek, but he said they would do nothing to ease his pain. It made no sense to Stiles as Peter wasn’t healing. His body wasn’t working right, so in his mind, that means his body wouldn’t burn the drugs away like it usually would.

“I’ll talk to Melissa.”

Stiles hadn’t looked up from Peter’s lax face. In the silence of the night, Stiles had been researching other options, and he may have found one, but he couldn’t read up on it with others in the room. Peter would stop him, but Peter was never awake for more than a few minutes.

His dad left with a promise to be back with pain medication for Peter. The book had said it was a death sentence, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He was more concerned about failing. He would need to use the magic he had to heal Peter’s body. He didn’t know if he had enough magic, and if he didn’t, it would all be for nothing. He would drain himself dry, and Peter would still die.

They had doped Peter up with Morphine. Stiles didn’t ask how she got it, but he knew she had stolen it. She had done it not for Peter but for him. He almost felt bad that he was going to die.

Derek was in the shower, so he didn’t have much time, so he rushed off the bed. He had gathered all of the supplies he needed before Melissa had stopped by with the Morphine. He rolled the towel across Peter’s chest, knowing that he wouldn’t wake up. He placed the bowl with all his herbs on the towel before grabbing the knife.

He needed to act quickly, so he strained his ears one last time, listening for Derek slicing his hand open. His blood started to flood the bowl, and he dumped in mountain ash, stirring it with the tip of the blade. He could feel his magic beginning to build in his chest, but he could also hear the shower cut off. He didn’t have much time.

He grabbed the bowl with his uncut hand before straddling Peter’s hips. He brought the bowl up to his chin, dumping the contents down his neck and chest, letting it pool on Peter’s soft belly. He tossed the bowl to the side with a loud clatter. Using his bloody hand, he started rubbing the concoction into Peter’s skin, rubbing it up to his chest.

The magic burned. He could feel it moving in his veins from his heart, down his arms, and out of his fingertips. He looked down, seeing the magic blister and burn his skin as it travels out of his body into Peter’s. Peter gasped, startling awake. Peter looked around with wild eyes; once he guessed what was going on, he grabbed Stiles’s arm. He was trying to shove it away, to stop the ritual, but Stiles was pressing his entire body weight, holding him down.

He could see Peter’s lips moving, but he couldn’t hear his voice. He couldn’t hear anything. His body was weak, and he couldn’t feel the magic burning him alive anymore. Strong arms wrapped around his waist, lifting him off of Peter. He smiled, though he did it, he saved Peter. Everything faded away.

Peter knew he was dying, and he also knew that he was a selfish man. Stiles had been curled around him for weeks. The young man had not left him once, and he knew he didn’t deserve it, but he was selfish enough to relish it. Every time he closed his eyes, he knew it could be the last. He knew that he may never wake again and leave Stiles behind.

His body was on fire. His eyes popped open, looking up at Stiles. He was straddling his hips; while that was amazing, something was wrong. His eyes scanned the room, noting the bowl shattered on the floor. He looked back to Stiles; he could see the man’s magic burning through his veins, blistering and bleeding. He could feel Stiles pushing his magic into him.

“Stiles!” Stiles looked at him with a smile on his face. His nose was bleeding, and the vessels in his eyes were burst. He tried to push Stiles’s hand from his chest, but he was too weak. “Derek! Derek!” He could hear Stiles’s heart begin to slow.

Derek rushed in with a towel around his waist, stopping at the door, unsure of what to do. “Uncle?”

“Get him. Pull him off!”

Derek wrapped his arms around Stiles, yanking him off the bed, but it was too late. His heart had stopped. Derek placed him on the floor, starting CPR. Peter rolled out of bed, crashing to the floor with a loud thump. He used his claws, ripping the flesh of his hand open. He gathered what he could of the mixture, pushing Derek’s hands out of the way. He was giving Stiles his magic back, giving him his life back. His heart started after a few moments, but Peter did not pull away. Derek tackled him to the ground, stopping the exchange.

“No!” Peter yelled. For the first time in years, tears were in his eyes. “Let me go. Let me give it back. Let me give it all back.”

Peter slumped, head on the ground as he watched the steady rise and fall of Stiles’s chest. “Uncle, he is alive.”

Peter was on his side, tears streaming down his face, pooling on the ground. “He gave me his magic.” Peter shuttered, looking at Derek. “He might never wake up. He could be stuck in a coma until someone puts him out of his misery.”

Derek looked back at Stiles with sad eyes. “That was his choice.”

Peter was entirely healed by the end of the week, but he didn’t leave the bed unless he needed to. He curled his larger body around the young man, seemingly as cationic as him. If Stiles ever woke, he would have dark scars from his heart to the tips of his fingers where his magic burned him.

Peter laid there with him for another month before Derek drug him out of bed. Sure he didn’t go far, but he was out of the bed, or at least that was what Derek thought. As soon as he left, Peter would crawl back into bed, curling around him, but when Derek was there, he would sit in the chair next to the bed, reading aloud to Stiles.

The young man’s magic had been growing since his birthday the week before. Deaton said not to get his hopes up, but he couldn’t help it. Losing his magic had caused the coma, so getting it back should heal it. He knew there were flaws in his thoughts, but he couldn’t lose hope entirely. Especially when Stiles hadn’t.

One hundred and twenty-seven days. That is how long Stiles had been in a coma. It was two seventeen in the morning when Stiles cleared his throat, but his eyes had not yet opened.

“You watching me sleep, Creeperwolf?”

Peter dropped his book, standing to get a good look at Stiles’s face. “You know it, darling.”

Stiles huffed what was most likely a laugh, but he was still weak. His eyes eased open, trying to get used to the light of the moon. Peter was inches from his face. “Hey.” He gave him a smile.

Tears filled Peter’s eyes, but it didn’t matter. He pressed a kiss to Stiles’s forehead, then nose, then finally lips. He closed his eyes, pressing their foreheads together. “You ever try to do that again, I will lock you away and never let you escape.”

“Promises, promises.” Stiles reached up, nudging him. “Come cuddle me. I need wolf cuddles.”

Peter laughed, crawling into bed, curling around Stiles. Peter pressed his forehead to the top of Stiles’s head, breathing him in. “I will be forever yours, my love.”

Stiles grabbed his shirt, trying to pull him closer. “Right back at ya.”