Chapter Text
Peter reaches for another cookie, but stops after two. It seems to take him a lot of effort to chew and swallow. Stiles finishes up with the cookies while the movie plays, and the last batch comes out of the oven about the same time that it’s finished. The first few batches are already gone. He finally sits down, and realizes in that moment how tired he is. The sun hasn’t even set, but he’s ready to close his eyes and sleep for a week. But he can’t. Not until Peter’s gone.
The others are quietly talking about what happened, about their adventures in Faerie and what happened with Malia and her adoptive father. “I don’t know, just, doesn’t it feel like the bad guys won?” Scott finally asks. “I mean, the Falcon kidnapped Malia, threatened to kill her, and in the end she got exactly what she wanted and she got away with it.”
“Who says she got away with it?” Stiles asks, with a sideways smile.
Everyone in the room turns and looks at him, including Peter. Derek groans. “Okay,” he says. “What did you do?”
Stiles grins. “Well, Interpol never had a picture of the Falcon, right? Only a description. We only knew who she was because a hunter had met her. Different entity. So I snapped a few photos of her and her lackeys while she was busy tonight, inspecting the crown.”
“Well, I guess that’s better than nothing,” Isaac says.
“I also,” Stiles continues, “slipped a GPS tracking chip into the box that the Crown of Erceldoune was in. I knew she’d inspect it for authenticity, but she never really looked at the box itself. Oh, and it looks like that GPS chip is currently sitting in a bag at the airport in Fresno. I presume she’s waiting for a flight to San Francisco or LAX so she can get on an international flight.” He gestures with his phone and says, “My dad forwarded all the info to Interpol, and – oh, look at this text he sent me. The Falcon and her two cronies have been apprehended by TSA and are being taken into custody. My father is going to make sure that the Crown of Erceldoune gets turned over to someone who can Ark of the Covenant that thing.”
Derek gives him a smirk and leans over to rub his cheek over Stiles’ hair. “That’s what I like to hear.”
Peter is giving him a somewhat surprised look. “You really never cease to amaze me, Stiles,” he says.
Stiles shrugs. “I work with the law, not against it. That’s part of what makes me good at what I do. It helps having my dad on the inside, but it also helps knowing how all that shit works.”
“No, that’s not what surprises me,” Peter says. “I’m just surprised you bothered. You didn’t really have a stake in this.”
“Technically? No,” Stiles says. He’s quiet for a moment while he thinks about how to phrase this. “But people don’t get to fuck around on my territory,” he says. “It would set a terrible precedent to let her get away with something like this. Even though the girl she kidnapped had no connection to me, even though I never would have even known if she hadn’t botched the summoning spell . . . nobody just walks into Beacon Hills and does whatever the fuck they feel like.”
Peter’s mouth curves into a slight smile. “Well put,” he says, and gets to his feet. “Walk with me?”
“Sure.” Stiles gets up as well.
Peter is weak and unsteady, but he walks on his own steam. Stiles knows that a few of the wolves are following him, but they don’t venture too close. If Peter’s going to try to kill him, he’s going to have his work cut out for him in his present state. He follows Peter and they walk in silence. He’s not surprised when Peter heads back to the grave they had taken him out of. He sits down on the edge, his legs dangling over the side, and Stiles sits down next to him.
“You will watch out for her, yes?” Peter says, after a minute of silence.
“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Of course. She’s Derek’s cousin.”
Peter nods and continues to look off into the distance.
“Sooooo . . .” Stiles says. “Is this it? I mean, is this it? You’re really just . . . you don’t have any nefarious plans, you’re not going to try to talk me into some magical spell to prolong your life that you just happen to know about? You’re not going to try to get away?” When Peter just gives him an amused look, Stiles’ voice falters. “You really didn’t . . . you really didn’t intend to stay. You were actually telling the truth.”
“I do that quite a lot,” Peter says, “yet people are always surprised.”
Stiles chokes out a weak little laugh at the quote. “You don’t . . .”
Peter sighs. “Stiles. You have to understand. I did this for my daughter. No other reason. Death . . . changes a person. As the pain and torment I endured after the fire changed me, so did my death. I had no desire to come back to this world. Not until Malia needed me.”
Stiles is quiet for a long time. “What’s it like?” he finally asks.
“Dying?”
“Yeah.” Stiles’ voice wavers slightly. “Did it – did it hurt?”
“Yes,” Peter says simply, and Stiles flinches. “It was an exquisite agony. Not just the wounds to the flesh, you understand, but what happens afterwards. A period of . . . reflection. I suppose a religious person would call it purgatory. Facing the regrets of one’s life. The sins that one committed, for whatever reason. Accepting that it’s over, that things can’t be changed, that whatever regrets you have can no longer be answered. It’s an agony that only makes the resulting relief more sweet.”
“What do you mean?” Stiles asks.
“Death,” Peter says. “It’s a sort of . . . peace. A feeling of being one with everything, that . . . everything is as it is meant to be, that all things in life have some purpose.” He shakes his head. “It’s rather difficult to put into words, to be honest. But it is worth it, Stiles. All the regrets, the sorrow, the agony – it is worth it, in the end.” He glances over at Stiles. “I was never angry with you for killing me, Stiles. Even during the pain. I understood the reasons why you did it, and in my own way, I was grateful. Forgiveness isn’t something you should feel I need to grant . . . but if it helps, I do forgive you.”
Stiles gives a choked little sob. “Okay,” he says.
“Now,” Peter says, “I’m tired.” He climbs down into the grave, settles himself back, somehow, into the exact same position Stiles had found him in. His eyes close. “I do like you, Stiles,” he murmurs, and with that, he goes still.
Stiles watches him for a moment, wondering if he should check a pulse, but it’s unnecessary. Before another moment has gone by, Peter’s body has started to decay from around him, and within half a minute, the only thing left are the bones that they had dug up a few days previous.
Derek finds him there a little while later, and although there are tear marks on his face, his eyes are dry. “You okay?” Derek asks.
“Yeah,” Stiles says. “I am.”
Derek helps him to his feet and hands him a shovel. Stiles begins to shovel dirt in over Peter’s bones. After a few minutes, Derek starts to help. The other pack members drift out and take turns shoveling dirt back into the grave. It doesn’t take long to finish, with so many helping hands. Isaac and Derek tamp the dirt down, and then Isaac tosses a handful of grass seed onto it. The sky rumbles uneasily; they’re due for rain.
“Come on,” Derek says, extending a hand to Stiles. “Let’s go in.”
~ ~ ~ ~
They order pizza and watch another movie. Stiles can barely keep his eyes open through it, and decides to turn in afterwards, even though it’s barely eight PM. The trip through Faerie was exhausting. Derek decides to come with him. He stays in his human form, and they leave the light in the corner on so he can prop himself against a few cushions and read. Stiles curls up with his head in Derek’s lap, and falls asleep almost immediately.
In the dream, he’s walking through the forest, and he comes on where the Hale house was supposed to be. But instead of the burned out shell, instead of the mansion that had once stood there, there’s a grove of birch trees, and a memorial plaque dedicated to the people who had died there. He thinks back to things that Lydia has said about plants and symbolism and dreams. Birches are new beginnings, renewal, letting go of the past.
Sitting in the grove of trees, with his back leaning against one, is a young man. He looks whole and healthy, dressed in the same white V-neck and black pants and bare feet, and he looks up when Stiles approaches.
“Well,” Peter says, “that was an adventure.”
Stiles nearly chokes. “What are you doing here?” he demands. “Aren’t you supposed to be off being one-with-everything by now?”
“I didn’t really expect this myself,” Peter agrees, studying his hands. “Perhaps a chunk of my consciousness got stuck in your psyche as a result of all the magic, of our connection. This might just be a shadow, or an imprint of the former Peter Hale, so to speak. Or maybe I really am who you and I think I am, and the universe has decided that I’ll have a different form of Purgatory, to aid you and help protect your pack.” He gives an elegant shrug. “Or perhaps you really have lost your marbles once and for all.”
“Oh my God!” Stiles flails. “Why is this my life?!”
Peter gives him a toothy grin. “I’m glad to see you too, Stiles.”
Stiles sits down with him underneath the tree. “You’re a jerk,” he says.
“Guilty,” Peter agrees easily.
They sit in silence for several long minutes.
“You want to help me with a puzzle I’ve been trying to solve?” Stiles finally asks.
That same wolfish smile touches Peter’s face. “I would be delighted,” he says.
Stiles tells him everything about the events of the last few years. He tells him about the Conclave and the hunters he met there, the conflict between the Elders and some of the people who really ran the show, like Mikael and Julien. He tells him about Oregon and the sorcerer werewolf who had somehow teamed up with Ruben Gutierrez to try to kill him. He tells him about the hunter prisons and Cora and Liliana Santos. He tells him about the quiet, ongoing civil war that’s breaking out all over the hunter world.
“And the thing is,” he finally says, “I just feel like this all fits together. Like there’s something big that I’m missing.”
“You’re not looking for a something, though, are you?” Peter asks. “You’re looking for a someone.”
Stile deflates with relief. “I’m not crazy?”
“Well, that’s a matter of some debate,” Peter says, and Stiles rolls his eyes. “But no. I do see what you mean. It does seem like someone is very deliberately targeting you. There are questions about everything that’s happened that are very difficult to answer. How did the hunters know that you and the alpha pack were actually that close, that you would go help them? How did someone as dense as Ruben Gutierrez come up with such a decent plan?” He starts to count things off on his fingers. “Who arranged for Ruben and Gabriel Khan to hook up in the first place? How did Max Loesch, a mediocre hunter who had just gotten out of prison, wind up in the prestigious alpha pack hunters? Did someone arrange for him to be there specifically so you could be framed?
“Furthermore,” he continues, “even events that are unrelated on the surface might be connected. Why did Deucalion suddenly decide to come after you, when you’d been alpha here for three years? Who knew that Cora was in the prison in Arizona, and was her release intentional? How did anybody know that I had a daughter, and a vulnerable one at that? Was there a reason that Agent McCall was so intensely convinced that I was still alive? Was he really that much of a dick, or had someone fed him false information to try to upset the stability here?
“I’m not saying that all these things are connected,” Peter says. “When you start conspiracy theorizing, you start weaving in threads that aren’t really there, jumping at shadows. But, I do agree that there does seem to be something very systematic about what’s been happening here. And whoever is behind it, almost certainly has to be a hunter.”
“See, the thing is,” Stiles says, “it reminds me of something I said about Sebastian Stone. About the messages he sent to Deaton. That they weren’t saying ‘don’t try to stop me’ or ‘don’t forget you owe me’. They said ‘come and get me’. I feel like I’m being poked with a sharp stick, like someone is just . . . trying to play games with me, and I don’t even know who they are.”
“Mm.” Peter’s face creases thoughtfully. “So what happened to the lovely Gutierrez family?”
Stiles lets out a breath. “After the hunters found out about what happened with Liliana, apparently a bunch of them went down to Arizona to demand some sort of, of accountability from the Gutierrez family,” he says. “I heard all of this from Chris afterwards. One of the brothers, Hector, disappeared, so the family immediately blamed it on him and said he was acting without instruction and Francisco only lied to the police to cover for him afterwards. Which is still a shitty thing to do, but not as shitty as actively conspiring to kill her and frame her husband. So things settled down a bit. A lot of people are really unhappy with them, and they’ve been sort of blacklisted. Nobody wants to work with them anymore, so they’re sticking to their own territory. Which is better than nothing, I guess.”
“And the prisons?”
“Julien and Chris are trying to get some oversight on them,” Stiles says. “You know, make sure conditions are humane, et cetera. The Stoddard family actually agreed and let Julien go take a look at theirs. He says there are no kids there, and to the best of his ability to ascertain, everyone there deserves to be executed under the Code and is dead within six months anyway. So it isn’t great, what they’re doing, but it’s a hell of a lot better than it could be. The Gutierrez family and the Nazario family both refused the inspection. I’ve located the Gutierrez facility by using Google earth, but I can’t find the Nazario facility. Not yet, anyway.”
“Slow progress,” Peter says, and Stiles nods wearily. “But back to our conspiracy theorizing. This is the first time you’ve spoken to someone about this. You haven’t told Derek. Why not?”
Stiles lets out a breath. “I have PTSD,” he says. “Pretty bad. It’s better now than it used to be, but there was a long time after . . . what happened . . . that I jumped at every shadow. Hypervigilance, it’s called. I’m afraid that if I try to bring this up, they’ll just pat me on the head and tell me that I’m seeing things that aren’t there.”
“Ah,” Peter says, and thankfully doesn’t offer his opinion on Stiles’ struggles with his mental health. “And now that you’ve run it by a neutral third party?”
“I should tell them,” Stiles says. “But I don’t want to scare them.”
“You should know better than to keep secrets from your lupa,” Peter says. “Olivia was the one person that I could, and did, tell everything.”
“I’ll think about it,” Stiles says.
“Fair enough.” Peter stares out into space for a minute, “I’m going to need some time to think about this, Stiles. And you should get some real sleep.” He stands up and walks away, vanishing into the trees. Moments later, the dream fades and fragments.
When he wakes up, it’s mid-morning. Half the pack is still lounging in bed, and he’s surprised to find that he actually feels rested. Whether Peter isn’t actually inhabiting his mind, or if he’s not a drain on Stiles’ energy now that they’re not constantly arguing, or whether his earlier exhaustion was sheer emotional stress, he’s not sure. But he feels okay, and he can’t complain about that.
~ ~ ~ ~
Stiles devotes the rest of his spring break to being as relaxed as possible. He bakes a ton of cookies, sends some to the hospital as thanks for everything they’ve done for him (and a pre-emptive apology for the next time he’ll wind up there). He sends a care package to Justin and the alpha pack and boxes to his pack’s various families. Boyd, Erica, and Mac all have younger siblings who love his cookies.
They have a barbecue and play Ultimate Frisbee. They have a pool party at Lydia’s and eat a truly astonishing amount of pizza. He helps his father fix some things around the house and chips in with the yard work at the McCall house. It’s maybe not the most exciting spring break in the world, but he has no problem with taking it easy.
He doesn’t see or hear from Peter at all during this time, and he doesn’t mention it to anybody because he wants to have a few days to test a theory and make sure he really understands what’s happening. On Saturday night, he’s spending the night at his father’s house along with Derek. All the pack members are with their individual families, since it’s the last night of their break.
He’s lying in bed with Derek curled up at his side, the dim lamp in the corner there to ward away nightmares. He closes his eyes and draws himself inward, pictures the birch grove in his mind, and says, Peter?
Almost immediately, Peter emerges from the trees. “You called?”
“I guess I was just wondering if you were still here,” Stiles says. “Since I hadn’t heard from you.”
Peter gives a little shrug. “I’ll try to stay out of your way as much as possible.”
“Okay,” Stiles says. “But like . . . where are you?”
“I’m not really anywhere,” Peter says, like he did at the beginning.
“Are you bored?” Stiles asks. “I mean, just hanging out in the ether until I call for you?”
“It doesn’t really work that way,” Peter replies. “Hanging out in the ether, as you put it, is more like ‘experiencing the universe’. It’s difficult to describe. In any case, don’t worry about me.”
Stiles hesitates. “But. I feel bad. Keeping you from your mate and your family. I could try to, you know, get you sent on. If you wanted.”
Peter shakes his head. “No, thank you. I’m quite content as I am. All things have a purpose, remember? If I had been meant to return to my family, that’s where I would be. If the universe would rather I be available to help you if you need me, I can endure a little separation as penance for my crimes.”
After a moment, Stiles nods. “Okay. If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.” Peter smiles at him. “I’ve been thinking about everything you said. And so far I have two questions, or lines of inquiry might be a better way to put it. Firstly, what happened to the three elders after they were deposed? They are, to my mind, prime suspects. Agnes particularly must hate you and would have good reason to seek revenge.”
“Yeah.” Stiles frowns. “I don’t know. I can ask Chris.”
“Secondly, where did Liliana Santos come from? She wasn’t with the Gutierrez family before – you said that it was her husband who had worked with them before and gotten her a position at the prison. So who was she working for before that, and did they know about her plans, did they encourage her, would they be a potential ally?”
“I don’t know the answer to that, either,” Stiles admits. He had thought about the elders before, but never about Liliana Santos’ hunting origins. He had researched her childhood a little, for the purpose of stirring up the hunter community, but not the other hunters she had worked with.
“As I said. Lines of inquiry. Find the answers, and we’ll have still more pieces to the puzzle.”
Stiles nods. “Okay. And thank you.”
“No thanks needed,” Peter replies, and then smiles again, showing teeth. “Now tell me a story.”
“Fuck you, no. I need to get some sleep.”
Peter laughs and then vanishes, and for the first time, his laugh doesn’t send chills up Stiles’ spine. He rolls over and goes to sleep.
When he wakes up the next morning, he calls Deaton. “So, Peter’s still hanging out in my head,” he says, and as usual, the veterinarian shows no surprise whatsoever. “Blah, blah, metaphysical connection, blah, blah, penance for his crimes. Anyway. We’ve talked it out and I’ve decided I’m okay with it. There are worse things than having a really intelligent dude with tons of experience with the supernatural available at my beck and call. And he leaves me alone when I don’t need anything.”
“All right,” Deaton says, waiting for the question.
“The thing is, I was worried at first that it would make me super tired again, but it hasn’t, and I’m not sure why. Like if I should still be worried about it or not.”
“Don’t borrow trouble, Stiles,” Deaton says. “There are a lot of possibilities. Like I said, the act of being a conduit for a shade is so rare that nobody really knows how it works. It’s possible that it was having a negative effect on you because you were an unwilling host, or because Peter was fighting to get free of you. Now that you two have agreed to live in peace, so to speak, it doesn’t affect you the same way. I really just don’t know, but as long as it’s not a problem for you, I don’t see why you two can’t co-exist.”
“Okay,” Stiles says. “Thanks.”
He heads down to the kitchen to make breakfast. Derek was stirring when he got up, so he’ll be down soon, and his father is already up and puttering, and given another half hour he’ll start finding unhealthy things to eat. So Stiles makes cornmeal pancakes and scrambled eggs with ham. Derek shambles downstairs just as he’s finishing up and catches him around the waist in a hug from behind, burying his face in the crook of Stiles’ shoulder and nuzzling contentedly. There’s tea for Derek and coffee for Stiles and his father, and they all sit around and stuff their faces.
“How’s Malia doing?” Stiles asks as he starts on his second plate.
“Well, physically, she’s okay,” Tom says. “Undernourished, obviously, but that’s all. Mentally, emotionally . . .” He makes a seesaw gesture with his hand. “I think it could be a lot worse. She spent a long time locked into that form as a coyote, and so there’s a lot that’s confusing for her. But she’s obviously happy to be reunited with her father, and he says she’s talking a little, asking questions. I took the liberty of recommending Gwen, but Malia’s father says he can’t afford to drive to Fresno every week. Gwen’s going to get me the name of somebody local that she thinks can help.”
“That’s good,” Stiles says. He can’t imagine what it’s been like for Malia, but at least she’s back with people who care about her.
“What time are you heading out today?” Tom asks, dishing himself up another helping of eggs.
“Around three, probably,” Stiles says. “We’re not in a rush, but I want to get in before the dinner hour.”
Tom nods and says, “Good, you’ll have time to tell me all the details of what you’ve been hiding from me before you go.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles says, making a face. He had never figured he was going to get out of town without this little interrogation. So he starts after Chris’ visit with the Falcon, talking about trying to figure out what she was after. “So, since Peter needed to be there, his shade was talking about this spell that could temporarily resurrect him.”
Tom gives a snort and says, “Oh, right, like we’d ever do that.”
Stiles purses his lips and looks at the ceiling.
“Oh my God,” Tom says, just like Stiles does, and Derek lets out a quiet snicker. “Oh my God. You didn’t.” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “What is wrong with you? Tell me – Derek, tell me honestly. Have I failed as a father?”
“Hardly,” Derek says dryly, reaching for the syrup.
“Sooooo,” Stiles says, and continues with the story. Tom looks like he has an enormous headache, which encourages Stiles to skip some of the details, like exactly how many faerie princesses that Peter was sleeping with. He thinks about skipping the pretend double-cross, but then decides to include it. It’s important that his father knows that Peter had the chance to betray him, and didn’t. It wasn’t as if he would have known the difference; he had no idea that the promise Peter had made him could have been considered binding.
“So then we got Malia, you took her home, I made Peter gingersnaps, and then he literally crawled back into his grave and dissolved back into bones,” Stiles says.
“So he’s really gone?” Tom asks. “Permanently?”
Stiles huffs out a breath. “Well. That’s the part I needed to talk to you both about. He’s still a shade, and he can still talk to me.”
Derek frowns. “What? Since when?”
“Since right after it happened. We both figured he would, you know, go back to being all dead, but he didn’t. But he isn’t bothering me. Like, literally, the only time he’s talked to me since then was when I called to see if he was even still there.”
“That can’t be good for you,” Tom says.
“Well, it isn’t making me super tired anymore,” Stiles says, “so that’s a good thing.” He gives a little shrug. “I know it sounds kind of crazy, but as long as he isn’t bugging me, you know, I’m okay with it. He’s . . . like me, in a lot of ways. I like having him to talk to.”
Derek and Tom exchange a look. Tom throws his hands in the air and says, “I think I’m going to leave this between you, God, and your therapist.”
“Agreed,” Derek says. “As long as you promise to tell Gwen.”
“Yeah, I promise,” Stiles says. “Sometimes I think that when she finishes her sessions with me, she probably has a few shots of whiskey.”
“God knows I would,” Tom mutters.
~ ~ ~ ~
A few weeks later, they’re back in Beacon Hills for their usual weekend trip. Everyone is off with their respective families, so it’s only Derek and Stiles that are standing outside the shell of the old Hale house, watching the demolition crew as they get things ready.
Stiles reaches out and squeezes Derek’s hand. He doesn’t need to ask ‘are you sure about this’ because he has already, a dozen times, and Derek himself made all of the arrangements, talked to Cora about it over Skype, made sure everything was taken care of. He just wants Derek to know that he’s there.
“I want to plant some trees when they’re done,” Derek says, watching the men in their hard hats and construction gear. “You know, make a memorial. That’s what we’ve always done. Returned to the earth. I think the house should do the same.”
Stiles rubs his thumb over the back of Derek’s hand. “How about birch trees?” he suggests.
Derek nods. “Yeah, okay,” he says. “Birch trees sound good.”
~ ~ ~ ~