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Stiles loved Peter Hale.
Loved his mind first. Loved the world of gray he lived in so effortlessly, that he understood that sometimes the hard decision needed to be made. That sometimes a second chance is already one too many. He was a man who lusted after information and, once he had it, made his decision based on facts instead of some moral high ground.
He was fascinated by the intricacies of the werewolf’s mind, of his plans and dreams. Of how devious he could be, always two or three steps ahead in whatever game he played.
Peter had always erred on the side of cruel, in the grays more black, but Stiles didn’t blame him. He knew exactly how much Peter had lost.
His family.
His home.
His autonomy.
His mind.
There’s no reset button for that, a person cannot magically return to who they were before a life changing traumatic event, it cannot be done. They are, forever, a new person. And the new Peter included walls built up inside him to keep everyone else out. To protect him from future loss. You can’t hurt if you don’t care, right?
But Stiles hadn’t wanted Peter to change. He loved him the way he was. Beautiful in his brilliance! Radiant in a perfectly planned scheme. Acidic wit, sharp as a knife meant to cut to the soul. Stiles had understood, he found a kindred spirit in a once mad resurrected werewolf with a penchant for revenge.
He remembered Peter’s surprise when cutting remarks hadn’t sent the gangly sheriff’s kid running for cover. When his growls and snarls only prompted amused snorts or a reassuring hand on the shoulder. He remembered Peter’s mutinous glare when he realized that Stiles had exactly zero plans to leave him alone.
Quite the opposite. Stiles had approximately 6.75 plans for winning the werewolf’s friendship, or at least alliance. He knew an asset when he saw one, even if Scott didn’t. Also, for a kid like Stiles, kindred spirits weren’t exactly a dime a dozen, he wasn’t going to let this one slip through his fingers.
He remembered Peter’s resigned sigh and twitching lips when he finally gave up all resistance to Stiles frenetic charms. When he decided that, fine, he would let this one person in.
Stiles had celebrated with curly fries and a milkshake. Peter had celebrated by flatly refusing to order “horrific food that’s been sitting in a pool of its own grease for the better part of a week, if you spill any of that in my car I will personally rip out your throat.”
They were friends first.
And then it all went to hell. People started dying. The big supernatural reveal. Stiles’ dad murdered because his son ran with wolves. It went to hell in the blink of an eye and Stiles turned to Peter, to his friend, because his dad was dead and the pack was being hunted down and the whole fucking worldwas against them, but he still had Peter.
It’s not easy dating during the end of the world, there was all kinds of obstacles. Like crazy zealot hunters, a constant search for safe houses, rewards attached to pictures of their faces and flashed across the news channels. Being labelled terrorists.
So, yeah, it was complicated. But they made it work. Running from place to place, curling up together every night. Whispering hopes for the future into the dark because they refused to believe there wouldn’t be one. Stiles had laughed when Peter admitted he wanted to have a cabin in the woods with a wrap around porch and a view of a lake. He’d laughed because he didn’t want to cry.
“Should we wear camo and get a couple hunting rifles too?” He’d asked. “To go with our woodsy hunters theme?”
“No, sweetheart,” Peter had said, voice soft and gentle. “No more hunting.”
Stiles sat at the Hale’s dining room table amidst the chaos of pack dinner. There were four or five conversations going on at once, a small kid shrieked somewhere down the line, chairs creaked as the pack shifted back and forth, reaching over and under each other to grab the dishes they wanted. Forks scraped on plates, glasses thumped on the table, people laughed. And in the middle of it all was Peter.
Stiles watched him from across the table, studying the man’s every move and word. Peter appeared to be a part of all five conversations and ready to start a sixth. He laughed, head thrown back and everything, at a joke one of the other adults told. A very young Cora sat next to him, trying to tear her steak apart with her teeth. Without blinking an eye Peter reached over and cut the meat into smaller chunks for his niece, ruffling her hair when she flashed him a grin full of very sharp fangs. Peter, like the rest of the pack was incredibly handsy, bumping shoulders, ruffling hair, generally using any excuse to touch and scent. Running his palm over Derek’s shoulder. Hugging Talia from behind when he got up to grab something from the kitchen. Locking Laura in a friendly headlock that made her kick and scream in mock anger, nearly overturning the table.
This, Stiles thought to himself, this is what a healthy pack looks like. A healthy Peter.
And it hurt, an ache more bitter than sweet.
Knowing every touch, every laugh, meant his Peter would never be. This Peter would never be shaped by his trauma, he would never be cruel – he had no walls built around him. He let everyone in. He wouldn’t come back from the dead. He wouldn’t have the same need to spin machiavellian schemes late into the night. His grays were decidedly more white.
And it was good. Stiles certainly didn’t wish torment and destruction and overwhelming sorrow visited upon this family. Shit, he came back in time specifically to stop that! To stop that and everything else. And he had stopped it, and it was the right choice. He would never regret it for an instant.
But he still mourned his Peter, his kindred spirit. His everything, at the end.
“So, Stiles.” He jerked at his name and cast a guilty glance up the table to James who smiled warmly at him. “Talia says you’ve agreed to be our emissary.”
“Uh, yeah, I guess,” he shrugged, pushing a couple peas around his plate.
“We truly appreciate your enthusiasm for the position,” Peter drawled with a smirk.
Stiles flushed and pointedly ignoring the werewolf, continuing with James as though Peter had never spoken. “I mean, it’s an honor. And I know traditionally the emissary and the Warden are the same person, it just seems like maybe you should have someone with actual experience? Maybe?”
“You are the most powerful Spark we have ever seen, Stiles.” Talia said. “I doubt the learning curve will be to strenuous. You were part of a pack before, if I recall correctly.”
Stiles coughed. “Yeah, but it was kinda a cornucopia of various species, not just wolves. And I wasn’t their emissary. Not really.” His laugh was pained. “So essentially I’ve got the power but not much knowledge – okay, wait, I’ve got a lot of knowledge, just not werewolf/emissary specific knowledge? Deaton certainly didn’t provide any info, that cryptic motherf- uh, mother friend,” Peter snorted. “wouldn’t have freely shared information to save his dick being chopped off, ah shit, sorry Talia.”
“That’s quite alright, Stiles,” Talia said, ignoring her brother’s gleeful snickering. “I appreciate that you at least made the effort. I’m sure it’ll improve over time.”
“We’re all works in progress,” Peter added sagely.
“The good news is Peter has quite the collection of volumes on emissaries. Perhaps he can show you where he keeps them after dinner.”
“Oh. Good.”
Stiles obediently, and with only a little dragging of feet, followed Peter upstairs after dinner.
“The emissary books are in my study for safe keeping,” Peter said. “I wouldn’t want the grubby hands of small werewolves to find them.”
Stiles nodded. “Yeah, small werewolves are definitely known to love highly technical volumes.”
Peter raised a sardonic eyebrow at him. “Small werewolves are known to be destructive little bastards. I doubt you would appreciate all the precious information being gnawed on by a teething pup.”
Peter’s study was on the third floor. It was cozy, with a large picture window, a writing desk in the corner, and several deep sitting chairs that a person could curl up in and disappear. The walls were also lined with built in bookcases.
Stiles bit his lip and breathed deep. His Peter had a room just like this one.
“Stiles.”
“Hey, Peter!” He didn’t bother looking up from the book on the floor in front of him, just lifted a hand to wave over his shoulder at the werewolf in the doorway. He’d spent the better part of the day in the werewolf’s ‘secret’ apartment. It was really just a studio above a quiet antiques shop, but it had wall to wall bookcases, incredibly comfortable sitting chairs, and a fancy espresso machine that Stiles had been banned from because of one small incident that, for some reason, Peter would not let go. It was cozy. It was secret. And it was safe.
And it smelled like Peter, even to Stiles’ human nose.
“I don’t recall inviting you over today.”
Stiles snorted. “If I waited for an invite I’d never get to read your books. And you have some trulyawesome books.” He paused in thought before adding. “Your ass isn’t bad either.”
“And yet you’re here for my books,” Peter tsked.
Stiles finally rolled over to grin at his boyfriend. “The night’s still young, Peter, I can read this book and get fucked silly.”
Peter snorted. “You have such a way with words. Unfortunately both will have to wait, we need to go deal with another one of McCall’s ‘good deeds’.”
“Ugh, again?”Stiles flopped over in a boneless pool of annoyance. “That’s like the third time this week! An axe murdering gremlin isn’t going to have a life changing experience just because the True Alpha told him to! How does Scott not get that?”
“Common sense,” Peter murmured as he walked over and nudged Stiles with his toe. “Not as common as we may wish.”
Stiles pouted up at him and tried to wiggle out of toe range. “I’m super comfy, Peter, maybe you could go get your murder on while I stay here?
“Absolutely not, sweetheart. We both know that if I go alone and deal with it our dear alpha will accuse me of murder and malevolent artifice. If we both go, you’ll be acting as the Left Hand and I’ll just be backup. Expendable backup.” Peter scowled.
“Aw, Peter!” Stiles scrambled to his knees and threw his arms around the werewolf’s waist, squeezing him tight and burying his face in the man’s stomach. “You’re not expendable backup.” The wolf huffed in annoyed disbelief. “You’re my favorite backup! Scott can suck an egg if he thinks I’m every letting you go! You’re mine forever!”
He felt Peter soften at the words and he squeezed harder. They were both super screwed up, but they had each other. And not much else. He would remind the wolf as often as necessary that he was wanted, and loved, and cherished.
The world was going to hell in a handbasket but Stiles had found his happily ever after and he wasn’t giving it up.
“Tell you what, we go rip that horrible little gremlin into a thousand tiny pieces, light those pieces on fire, and then I’ll show you all the reasons Scott’s wrong and I love you. . .And I’ll show them to you naked!”
Peter’s smile was fond. “Alright, sweetheart. You certainly know how to woo a man. Grab your coat, it’s going to rain.”
“Stiles?” A large hand squeezed his shoulder.
Stiles jumped guiltily. “Uh, sorry. Just kinda fazed out, I guess. Sorry.”
Peter frowned at him but didn’t press the issue. “Well,” he said, turning back to one of the shelves. “These are the emissary books, several are in english, but mostly they’re in archaic latin and greek. And french.”
Stiles shrugged. “Cool. Can I borrow a couple? Or is it a ‘can’t leave the library’ kind of thing?”
“You’re welcome to take several home with you,” Peter smiled. “It’s not like I don’t know where you live.”
Stiles arched a brow at the werewolf. “Right, because that isn’t creepy as hell.” He snagged three likely looking volumes before heading for the door. “Great, thanks, creeperwolf. See you around.”
Stiles stared at the ceiling, tapping each finger in turn against his chest. He couldn’t sleep. Again.
His bedroom was small, but the bed was comfortable and he had a lovely view of the night sky that he had become intimately familiar with on the nights he didn’t stare at the bare white ceiling. The sky was open, hopeful. Filled with light and possibilities. The ceiling was not. Some nights he just didn’t have the heart to look at the sky, when he knew reality more closely ressembled his ceiling.
He tapped his fingers again.
The emissary books sat on the tiny desk shoved in the corner. He’d been through them all once already, a second sweep would provide details he missed the first time around. Then he could go back and get more. There was a lot of nitty gritty traditional stuff when it came to emissaries, Stiles wasn’t even sure most of it had a purpose or if it was just all for show. Would the Nemeton be offended if he didn’t skin five squirrels and make parchment of their skin to record his communication with the great tree? Or would it be totally down with a legal pad and number two pencil?
Stiles smirked. That would’ve horrified Deaton if he’d suggested it. But Deaton had been behind the times, even by druidic standards.
He sent a brief image of paper and pencil to the Nemeton, it sent back a curious and intrigued vibration.
Yeah, Deaton was shit as a Warden and an emissary.
“He’s a cryptic asshole and I don’t trust his expressionless face!” Stiles growled, aggressively grabbing a handful of rosemary.
Peter hummed over by the lemongrass. “I must agree. He’s not exactly a fount of information.”
“More like a stopped up toilet, full of shit and just waiting to spill it all over the floor if you flush one too many times,” Stiles muttered.
“Lucky for you, you have me.”
“Yeah, okay. That’s true.”
Stiles pursed his lips and set down his scissors. “Do you think I’ll ever be Scott’s emissary?”
Peter didn’t look up from the horehound he’d found, busily snipping away at the leaves. “No.”
“Oh,” his shoulders slumped.
“Not because you couldn’t be, of course. You’d make a wonderful emissary, Stiles. Your thirst for knowledge and your determination to protect those you consider pack, those are the exact traits of a truly great emissary.”
“Really?”
“Yes, unfortunately McCall is an idiot who wont even think to ask. His ability to let valuable resources slip through his fingers is truly amazing. Take myself, for example.”
Stiles rolled his eyes.
Peter stood and walked over, setting his basket of fresh herbs next to Stiles’.
“If I am ever an alpha again, my first order of business will be to secure you as my emissary,” Peter said.
“With benefits?”
His wolf laughed and ran a hand through his hair, tugging the strands gently, Stiles practically melting at the pleasant sensation.
“With benefits,” Peter agreed. “Although, I suspect that will go without saying, as my second order of business will be to secure you as my mate.”
“Oh,” Stiles said, voice cracking. “Cool. Uh, does that have to wait until you’re alpha or. . .?”
Peter’s grin was all teeth. “Shall we head back home?”
“Yes, geez, let’s go!”
Well, apparently he was going to be the Hale emissary, and it had definitely been one of their first big asks. So maybe his Peter was right and he was a valuable resource, and most people could recognize that and see it’s worth.
He rolled onto his side and stared out the window at the stars.
Sighing, he reached over the side of the bed and snagged his extra pillow off the floor. It was big and fluffy and if he wrapped himself around it just right it almost felt like he wasn’t sleeping alone.
“Are you gonna dog my steps all the way to the Nemeton?” Stiles asked, casting a mildly annoyed look at the werewolf trailing behind him. This wasn’t new, Peter had taken to randomly showing up at Stiles’ store or shadowing him on errands. He supposed it might be a pack thing, but more likely it was a Peter thing. Peter and his curiosity, sticking his nose in everyone’s business. Stiles still wasn’t sure how he felt being on the receiving end – maybe it was payback for all the times he’d showed up at his Peter’s place uninvited. Karma was a bitch.
This Peter was kind and fun, witty, and not bad on the eyes, Stiles genuinely liked him. Would find himself laughing and grinning along with the werewolf. Then he’d say something that sounded sofamiliar, that he’d heard a hundred times before from a man fifteen years his senior, and suddenly that ache was back in his chest, compressing his lungs and tightening his throat. Suddenly he couldn’t remember how any of the ache was sweet when it twisted his heart in two at a word.
It was an emotional roller coaster, to say the least.
Peter frowned but stepped out from behind the tree. “How did you know I was there?”
“Dude,” Stiles rolled his eyes. “I’m your freaking emissary, I can feel you. Also the Nemeton keeps lighting you up in the back of my brain like a radioactive GPS.”
“Huh,” Peter said. “Is it displeased by my presence?”
“No, it just thinks I’m an idiot and hadn’t noticed you.”
“But you did.”
“Ye-p.” He popped the ‘p’.
Stiles continued walkng until he came to the clearing the Nemeton lived in. Peter stopped next to him.
“Moons above,” the werewolf breathed.
Stiles nodded in agreement.
The stump was magnificent, giant, and alive. Proper care from a proper Warden meant the Nemeton had been healing and growing. The old stump was ringed with sprouting saplings, vying for light and rain, silvery leaves trembling in the still air as the Nemeton greeted him. The soft rustle a whisper of delight that echoed the whispers in the back of his mind.
“Well,” Stiles said. “It’s nice to see you too.”
He walked over to the laughing stump and pulled off his flannel and t-shirt before toeing off his shoes and socks. It was a pleasantly warm day in late spring, which meant he wasn’t about to poke anyone’s eyes out with his nipples or get the worst sunburn of his life. He scrambled onto the stump, walked its perimeter, ran his fingers along the saplings, and then laid down in the center. The Nemeton was an ancient being but, in many ways, it was also like a newborn child. Hence the skin on stump contact. He could totally commune fully clothed, but the Nemeton quieted down a lot faster this way, and he needed it settled and calm while he checked the territory. An excited Nemeton was a destructive Nemeton, if only because it was so great and powerful that it could accidentally pound Stiles brain into jelly if he wasn’t careful.
He closed his eyes and sank his consciousness into the tree, following its vast root system to the edges of Hale territory and beyond. Looking for threats. Looking for friends. Looking for opportunities. He checked on their neighbors, Satomi’s pack, to the east. He checked on Deucalion as far north as Oregon. Through the Nemeton he could see it all, feel it all, and know that – today at least – all was well.
Stiles came back to himself with a gasp, his body feeling incredibly small and cramped after traveling through a being so much larger. He rolled onto his side and patted the stump gently.
“You did good, buddy. No threats whatsoever. And look how much you’ve grown! Geez, your saplings are turning into giants!” He smiled at the answering thrum of delight. “Alright, I gotta go deal with Peter and report back to Talia. You good?” A rippling tickle of inquiry tugged at his brain and Stiles chuckled. “Yeah, alright. I’ll bring the pups next time, you can have a playdate, weirdo.” Another thrum of delight.
Stiles swung down from the stump and put his shoes and socks on before grabbing his shirts and wandering over to Peter. He noted with approval that the werewolf had stayed on the edges of the clearing. The Nemeton wouldn’t hurt one of its guardians, but respect was always appreciated.
“Alright, how long was I out?” He asked.
“A couple hours,” Peter said, eyeing Stiles’ naked torso appreciatively. “I thought perhaps you’d decided to take a nap.”
“Naw, too busy patrolling our borders. Emissaries don’t sleep on the job.”
Peter snorted, eyes going back to the tree.
“Have you seen the Nemeton before?” Stiles asked, suddenly curious.
“Once,” Peter said. “When I was very young. We all do at one point or another. Every pup gets lost in the woods and they always end up here.”
“It wants to meet its pack. Every kid is a new guardian in the making, seems reasonable to want to say hi.” Stiles shrugged and turned back to the stump.
The touch of fingers along his back was unexpected. He froze, then whipped around, swatting Peter’s hand away.
Peter looked horrified. “Stiles, your back-?”
“It’s nothing,” he said, voice suddenly hoarse as he struggled back into his shirts. “It’s nothing!”
He could feel his eyes flaring, couldn’t stop the magic welling up inside him. Panic was a powerful thing. He knew mentally he was safe – it was Peter for fucks sake – but trauma didn’t care, trauma and panic were unreasonable and he needed to leave now!
Stiles blinked. And he was gone.
“Pack your plaid, sweetheart,” Peter growled. “We’re going to Canada.”
“What? Why?” Stiles asked, frowning at the werewolf. “And why my plaids? Isn’t denim more Canadian? Pretty sure a Canadian tuxedo isn’t plaid.”
“Plaid, denim, I don’t care as long as we blend in,” Peter snapped, fangs flashing.
“Peter,” Stiles demanded. “What happened? Why are you freaking out? Dude, you’re scaring me!”
The werewolf sagged over the bag he’d been stuffing clothes into. “You’ve been added to the shoot on sight list,” Peter whispered.
“What?” Stiles choked.
“We have to leave, sweetheart, our time here is up.”
Stiles stared at him, words, for possibly the first time in his life, deserting him in the face of Peter’s desperation. He’d thought they could fix this, he’d thought that maybe, given enough time, people might get over their prejudices. That the McCall pack might go down as the heroes instead of the enemy.
But they’d been living in hiding for months, separate from the rest of the pack for safety. Don’t carry all your eggs in one basket, right? And they had safe houses and backup safe houses but it didn’t matter because they were still being killed off, one by one. Their faces were splashed across the evening news every night. That’s how they’d gotten Lydia and Jackson, someone recognized them from their photos.
They’d been shot in the back because they’d tried to run instead of fight.
Danny had been thrown in prison because he was human. He’d been given a life sentence because he ran with wolves.
Up until that moment Stiles had assumed he’d be in the same boat. But apparently he’d been upgraded. And Peter, well, Stiles knew his werewolf, and the one thing he could not survive was losing Stiles.
And he shouldn’t fucking have to.
Not when he’d already lost everyone else that mattered to him.
He pulled Peter into a ferocious hug, holding him so tight it hurt. Then he grabbed his go bag from under the bed and slung it over his shoulder.
“I’ll toss what food we have left in the cooler and stick it in the-”
“We can’t take the jeep, Stiles.”
He gave Peter a watery smile. “I know, I was gonna say the neighbor’s Subaru, they wont mind us borrowing it. The jeep stands out, we’d be dead before we left town.” He scrubbed at his eyes and headed for the door. “I’ll grab Dad’s gun too.”
“He’d be proud of you, Stiles,” Peter whispered, pulling him into another desperate hug.
Stiles snorted. “He’d be pissed off I stuck around this long.”
Stiles headed for the door, leaving Peter to pack what few belongings they needed that weren’t already in their go bags. He ransacked the kitchen, shoving all their canned goods, protein bars, and the giant bag of apples into a cooler.
He was just returning with the keys to the Clarks’ car when he heard a soft growl behind him. Stiles grinned and turned. “Scott! You could not have better timing! Peter and I are getting out of dodge before I get shot.” The True Alpha continued to growl, the sound picking up momentum. His eyes were bright red and locked on Stiles. “Uh, hey, Scotty, you wanna turn off the light show before the neighbors call the police? Scott?”
The alpha roared and lunged.
Stiles spun on the spot, screaming Peter’s name as his brother’s claws split the skin of his back open. He rolled under the jeep that sat covered in the driveway, screaming a second time as gravel ground into his wounds.
Behind him Peter roared. The sound was filled with rage and terror.
Stiles scrambled out from under the car, crying in pain as he forced himself to his feet. Scott was doing his level best to rip Peter limb from limb and the beta was barely staying out of range.
“Stiles, use your damn mountain ash!”
“Like hell am I locking you in a circle together, Peter!”
Stiles scrabbled for his dropped go bag and grabbed the gun he’d tucked away inside only moments before. The bullets were wolfsbane.
Peter howled in pain, Scott’s claws raking across his belly.
Stiles screamed in despair, leveling the gun at his brother and unloading several bullets into his leg and shoulder. Scott yelped, turned to snarl at Stiles before fleeing down the street.
Stiles fell at Peter’s side, murmuring an incantation that took the wolf’s pain. But that was all he could do. He couldn’t heal Peter, and Peter couldn’t heal himself, not when the injuries were inflicted by an alpha. Stiles tore off his shirt and pressed it to the gaping wound in his werewolf’s gut, pulling Peter’s head into his lap and murmuring soft words of comfort into his hair.
Peter gasped, hand clenching at Stiles’ wrist. He let the werewolf intertwine their fingers, holding on tight.
He could hear sirens in the distance.
“Peter, Peter, I need you to hold on, okay?” Stiles said, words tumbling out. “You’re all I have left, I need you!”
Peter sighed. “I know, sweetheart.”
Stiles choked on a sob. “What the hell am I supposed to do without you? What’s the point? !”
“You can go back.”
Stiles almost didn’t hear him.
“Not without you, Peter, I can’t. Not without you!” His voice cracked. “What if you don’t love me anymore?”
Peter raised his hand to Stiles cheek. “Sweet boy, no timeline exists where I don’t love you. It’s impossible.”
“You promise?”
“Always, Stiles.”
Stiles pressed his lips to Peter’s forehead, tears falling freely. “I love you so fucking much, Peter Hale,” He whispered. “More than anything.”
He sat there with his werewolf cradled against his chest until the end. Until the sirens were too close to ignore. Until he was left truly and irrevocably alone.
And then he stood, grabbed their go bag s , and left.
Stiles opened his eyes in the backroom of his shop.
Well, that was unfortunate.
He sighed and rubbed a tired hand across his face. Peter was probably still at the Nemeton, Stiles felt kind of bad for abandoning him there, but not bad enough to go back. He was a werewolf, he could find his way home with ease.
Shaking off the memories, Stiles walked to the front of the shop to double check the door was locked before heading up the rickety stairs to his apartment. He kicked his shoes off by the door and downed a glass of water. Eventually he sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, head in his hands, as he breathed.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
Exhaustion was a wonderful thing. Those were the nights he looked forward to. When he’d had too many sleepless nights in a row, too much taxation on his magic, and his mind and body simply gave up the good fight and passed out. Those were the nights he slept dreamlessly for long hours. Those were the nights he didn’t feel alone.
Between the Nemeton, the teleportation, the panic, and his general lack of sleep, Stiles knew this would be one of those nights. And he relished the thought.
Peter was certain to show up at his shop bright and early the next morning, full of questions that would poke and prod at Stiles’ deepest secrets and fears. But that was a problem for future Stiles, present Stiles was going to sleep and pretend that the afternoon at the Nemeton never happened. Because that was the healthiest way to handle trauma, right? Press it down until you could function and then act like everything was okay.
Stiles laid back in bed, not bothering to change clothes, simply wrapped himself around his pillow and sighed heavily, letting the darkness pull him down.
He woke to the sound of his window sliding open.
Stiles twisted where he lay, scrabbling for the bat wedged between the mattress and wall. His hands closed around the grip and he came up swinging, nearly slamming the barrel into Peter’s jaw.
“Shit! Stiles!”
He froze. “Peter?! Geez! What the fuck is it with werewolves and climbing in my window?!”
“So this is a common occurrence?”
Stiles swung the bat out, pointing it threateningly at the wolf standing in the corner. “It’s been a long fucking day, Peter. I am not in the mood for your sarcasm.”
Peter raised his hands, pulling of a surprisingly believable innocent look. “I’m not here to bother you.” Stiles snorted. “I’m here because you are pack and you are in need.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re clearly not.”
“What happened to not bothering me?”
Peter growled softly and crossed his arms.
“Look, I know what happened earlier was crazy and weird, okay? I own up to the crazy, but the touching caught me by surprise. And I’m sorry. But you just woke me up from the first real sleep I’ve had in days, so forgive me if I’m a little cranky.” Stiles gave the werewolf an exasperated look before chucking his bat back between the bed and the wall.
“Why haven’t you been sleeping?”
Stiles sighed, falling back on the bed. “Dude, I hardly ever sleep. It’s probably PTSD or some shit you’re too young to understand.”
“That hardly seems healthy.” Stiles could hear the frown in the werewolf’s voice. He rolled his eyes.
“No shit, Sherlock.”
“Can I try something?” Stiles raised his head and squinted quizzically at the wolf, Peter smiled tentatively back. “It’s a trick for wolf pups who wont settle- and yes, I know you’re human, but it might still help.” Stiles gave a guarded nod, watching the werewolf carefully when he sat on the edge of the bed. Between whispered instructions and gentle prodding, Stiles ended up on his side, Peter at his back with one arm around his waist and the other acting as pillow.
Stiles lay there quietly for several minutes, trying to ignore how good it felt to be held. Finally, after so long.
He cleared his throat. “So, spooning. Spooning is your fancy trick to settle pups.”
Peter huffed into his hair, blatantly scenting him. “Yes.”
Stiles scowled but didn’t pull away. It really did feel amazing. And right. Peter was exactly the right shape, after all. And when that low comforting rumble started up in Peter’s chest, Stiles went boneless in recognition, tears filling his eyes. He’d fallen asleep to that sound every night.
They laid together for a long time. Stiles walking the soft edges of sleep and wakefulness, marinating in that soft rumble.
“My brother.” Stiles blinked, realizing he was the one who’d spoken. He coughed lightly. “My brother went feral, at the end. Nearly killed me. Ripped my mate’s stomach open.”
“Oh, Stiles,” Peter murmured, holding him tighter.
Stiles’ throat was unbearably tight. “Found out after, he’d just lost the second love of his life. She’d been shot. They were all shot. Eventually.” He sniffed loudly. “That’s where I got the scar. I’d been planning to come back, but not alone. I was never meant to do this alone.”
“As long as I’m living,” Peter said, voice soft but firm. “You will never be alone again. You hear me, sweetheart?”
Stiles breath hitched on a sob. He nodded. He nodded and hoped he’d done enough to save this Peter. Because even if all he got was the occasional chance to sleep in the arms of his love – who wasn’t his love – it would still be enough. He could pretend, he thought as he finally drifted off to sleep. Pretend that his Peter was holding him, was wrapped around him, a barrier against the outside world. That his Peter was whispering sweet words and promises in his ear, and that they would all come true.
And when they didn’t come true, at least he wouldn’t be alone.