Chapter Text
He told them eventually, really told them.
He just… needed to say it out loud, directly, for lots of reasons.
Pheelan and Jackson both meant the world and more to him, were his strongest points of connection, even more than his father sometimes just because of their very nature. It had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done, to force himself to say it - I’ve got frontotemporal dementia - and even harder still to listen to the silence that followed, but then there was a hand on each of his shoulders, squeezing tight enough to bruise before they let go and nothing more needed to be said. They had his back, whatever he needed that to mean, and all three of them knew it.
For them it was enough.
But there was another reason he’d told them straight out - he didn’t want them spreading it around. They were on the way to the Hale House for the full moon, and he was half-panicked that one of them would accidently let something slip, or otherwise drop some kind of hint that one of the rest would catch. He’d had nightmares for the last two days that involved Scott or Derek or Erica pouncing on him, burying their faces in his neck and breathing in the smell of sickness, of dying. When he’d asked Pheelan had told him in choked whispers that it was there, small, whispering tendrils wrapped through his natural scent, but so faint he could only find it because he was looking for it, because he knew it was there.
It hadn’t been much comfort to either of them.
So he’d asked them both to keep it quiet that morning when they met at the Sheriff’s house and started packing up the Jeep. Stiles had been unable to stop himself from whipping up a few batches of snacks, the routine still so familiar after all this time that it had put a lump in his throat until Phee had pressed in close behind him and started helping. After loading the Tupperware into the back and wrestling his old lacrosse gear inside on a whim, they’d piled in and pulled out, the wolves twitchy and buzzing with more than just the bad news. The moon was affecting them as well, bolts of lightning in their blood, and Stiles could feel it humming in them as strongly as it bubbled in the pit of his own belly. There was anxiety there, caution, but there was joy and excitement too, eagerness for the ecstasy to come.
Stiles was willing to take whatever excuse was presented to him, lighting up a smoke for himself and his own spark for the wolves under the guise of settling them all on the drive over, but with the hidden benefits of potentially making them forget.
Forget that the last two days had been an emotional nightmare, forget that one of them was dying…
He might’ve overdone it.
Pheelan and Jackson practically fell out of the Jeep when they parked in front of the house, stumbling and leaning heavily on each other as they snickered and snorted at nothing, tripping up the drive toward the front door with arms slung around each other’s shoulders.
“What happened to you two?” Erica asked with wide eyes as they staggered up the steps, Pheelan dropping Jackson in a tangle of limbs onto the porch.
“Stilinski hot-boxed us,” Jackson sang with a huge, stupid grin, rolling over onto his back, head lolling against the hardwood. Beside him Pheelan giggled and he flung a hand out to smack him in the ribs, but the larger werewolf just rocked with the motion, laughing.
The pack raised their eyebrows, looked between themselves and then down to the Jeep where Stiles was watching with careful eyes and an affected smirk, pulling Tupperware out of the back seat. Erica shifted on her feet, staring around at the rest of them, and Stiles could feel the distress coming off her even with the distance, but then she was huffing and jumping over the porch railing, dancing down the drive towards him.
“Need some help?” she asked tentatively as she approached, eyes wide and already damp, like she was ready to cry on command if he said no.
Instead of answering her he leaned back into the Jeep, grabbed his dad’s crockpot and handed it off.
“Plug this in for me?” he asked, taking the plastic containers down off the roof where he’d stacked them. “It needs to stay…”
“Lydiaaaaaa!”
“Shit!” Stiles cursed.
He’d been afraid of this.
Jackson was lying flat on his back on the porch, still high on the effects of Stiles’ glow, and he’d sung Lydia’s name like a hallelujah, making grabby hands at the Banshee as she stepped out the front door and nearly stumbled over his prone form. He had no idea where the hell Jackson stood on the subject of his highschool sweetheart, but given the painful way he’d reacted that very first day back in the Hale kitchen, he suspected he wasn’t so casual about the thing as he liked to let on. Now Lydia was staring down at him with something almost like pale fright on her face and Pheelan had come bolt upright, ready to take on the challenge that Peter had snarled in Jackson’s face as he reacted to the surge of distress that shot through the redhead beside him. For his part the dumbass who’d started it just laughed, opened his mouth to say god knows what and ok, now was probably a good time to diffuse this mess…
“Hey!” he shouted, short and sharp and loud, so much so that Erica startled next to him, rattling the glass lid of the pot in her arms.
Every wolf present snapped to attention, hell Allison and Lydia too, but Stiles was only worried about Jackson and he knew that asshole’s weakness. Moving slowly, he let a wicked smirk spread across his face as he projected his movements, slipping his hand into the pocket of his jacket and coming up with a bright yellow tennis ball. Jackson rolled upright so fast Stiles’ almost missed it, the wolf’s eyes locked on the ball with all the focused intent of a predator, and Stiles bit down a laugh as he tossed it into the air, keeping his eyes on his friend even as it came back down and he caught it again.
A low rumble was coming from Jackson’s chest and he got to his feet slowly, movements all smooth silk and grace, controlled power. Stiles tossed the ball again, his heart picking up in his chest as the other man began to toe off his sneakers, tugged his hoodie over his head and dropped it to the ground. Sure, Jackson was his friend and he trusted him, with his life and more, but he was still a werewolf, giddy on a Touchstone’s light and halfway to moon drunk already, and now he was shoving down his shorts and shifting as he went, stalking toward him on silent paws with eyes gleaming gold and teeth showing white and sharp between parted jaws.
Shifting his feet, Stiles turned, cocked his arm to pitch the ball and Jackson snarled, leaping forward like he was going for the throat, but as soon as Stiles let the ball go the wolf turned so fast to go after the thing that he tripped over his own feet, somersaulting ass over teakettle before scrambling up again and lunging after it with a joyful yip. Rolling his eyes, Stiles turned back to the porch, intent on checking in with Lydia, but he was blown back a few steps as Pheelan went rocketing by, a massive blur of blonde fluff the size of a small pony. Jackson had already retrieved his tennis ball and was zipping around like a toddler on crack, Phee bounding along beside him like an antelope, putting most of his momentum into taking his body up and down instead of forward.
Yeah, he’d definitely over done it.
“Dorks,” he muttered, settling his Tupperware more securely against his chest. “Lydia I brought cookies! Oatmeal chocolate chip, peanut butter, and pistachio shortbread ok?”
As far as secret codes went it was pretty pathetic, but he didn’t want to bring any more attention to the situation that was absolutely necessary, and when she met him at the bottom of the porch steps that color hadn’t so much returned to her face as it had pooled high on her cheekbones, an ashamed blush that didn’t belong on queen Lydia Martin’s face.
“That’s fine Stiles,” she replied, squeezing his hand as she took the top container. “I’ll take them out to the picnic tables. Allison, help me carry these?”
Frowning, Stiles let the two women take most of the Tupperware from him, watched Erica trail after them with the crockpot while casting anxious looks back over her shoulder. He would’ve like a minute alone with Lydia - to apologize to her, to hug her, to ask if she would just…
But she had already disappeared around the side of the house and the rest of the pack on the porch was shifting uncomfortably and staring, at least until Peter stepped up behind him and curled a hand firmly around the nape of his neck.
“Peter,” he acknowledged, turning in the man’s grip and allowing him to lean in and rub his jaw along Stiles’ throat. “Come pour me a drink yeah?”
Ignoring the startled looks he led the way into the house, into the kitchen where Peter actually did take down a bottle of scotch from a cabinet. Dropping his container of reserve cookies onto the counter, he jumped up to sit beside them, letting his feet swing. He could feel the pack moving outside, circling around the house instead of coming through it, and he wondered what kind of vibes he’d been putting off that had made it so obvious he wanted a private moment with the older Hale.
Pouring them a finger of alcohol each into two short glasses, Peter handed one over and clinked his own against it before throwing it back, pouring himself a second even as Stiles cocked an eyebrow in his direction. There was an irritable little rumble tickling around in the back of his throat and his eyes were flickering blue around the pupils, but more than that Stiles could feel his distress, felt the need to reach out and soothe. Instead he sipped his drink, smooth and fiery, waiting for the wolf to speak.
He didn’t have to wait long.
“I won’t stop protecting her,” Peter warned, his claws clicking against the side of his glass as he hissed the promise under his breath. “Not even against lizard-boy out there.”
“I’m not asking you too,” Stiles answered back calmly. “I don’t know a hundred percent what’s between you guys but I’m happy she’s got you Peter. You’re good for each other, though I doubt either of you would admit it.”
“Then why are we here?” the werewolf snarled, gesturing harshly at the space between them.
Sighing, Stiles scrubbed one hand over his face, took another swig, faster this time.
“Look I get it okay?” he tried again, “I’m just asking you to remember that she’s not the only one hurting here. Trust me.”
Peter sneered, showed his teeth.
“Fine.”
“Goody. You take care of her, I’ll take care of him… maybe between the two of us we can convince them to get their shit straightened out.”
Considering a moment, Stiles made a face.
“Not that we’ve got a great track record with that…”
Peter snorted, picked up the scotch bottle and refilled both their glasses.
“You turned out just fine,” he pointed out, toasting Stiles as he hopped down off the counter. “And my nephew isn’t nearly the walking disaster he used to be. This, you coming around… it helps. I suppose I should thank you for that.”
Stiles scoffed, arched an eyebrow and waited pointedly.
“Thank you.”
“Ugh,” he shuddered, rolling his shoulders to shake off the shiver. “I think that was as painful for me as it was for you.”
“Definitely. Let’s never do it again.”
“Agreed,” he said, cracking the lid on the cookie container and shoving one into Peter’s mouth. “So here, cookie, and off we go to socialize.”
Darting away as Peter swiped playfully in his direction, Stiles chuckled and stepped out onto the back patio into the sunshine. The backyard was set up much as it had been for the last barbecue Stiles had dropped in on - tables and grills filled with food, a little armada of coolers filled with drinks and raw meat. There was no alcohol this time as the wolves certainly didn’t need it, and he was glad that he’d stopped off for a drink with Peter before braving the little party. Wasn’t a great coping method he knew, but he would take what he could get. Allison and Lydia were perched on the porch swing talking quietly, Erica and the twins were starting a game of horseshoes, and Scott was busy setting up lawn chairs while Derek and Isaac used spray paint to mark the lawn.
“What are they doing?” Stiles asked, turning back to Peter who was looking Lydia over with a critical eye.
“Marking a sparring ring,” he replied absently, rolling his eyes and sipping his drink. “Once Derek and I came to our… understanding, I was able to make some polite suggestions as to how completely useless his training methods were. Now they like to have little sparring matches - all in fun of course, and where’s the fun in that? But they’re all much improved; I think you’ll be impressed.”
“Interesting,” Stiles murmured, a grin spreading across his face. “Can anyone play?”
Finally turning to give Stiles his full attention, Peter mirrored his shark-like grin, a spark of excitement and interest flaring up against Stiles’ light, even a little bit of lust and Stiles laughed, shoved the wolf roughly.
“Cut that shit out,” he chuckled. “You gonna participate?”
“Not bloody enough for me,” Peter shrugged. “I prefer to critique.”
Humming, Stiles startled when Pheelan and Jackson joined them, both back in human form and clothed only in the shorts they’d left scattered on the front lawn. Their eyes were flickering gold, hair a little shaggier than usual, and Jackson had dirt on his face and caked underneath sharpened fingernails.
Oh that ass, he’d buried it hadn’t he?
“You guys wanna do some sparring?” he asked, already sure of the answer. Their wolves were too close to the surface to turn down that offer, and Stiles could feel sparklers crackling under his own skin.
“Oh bloody hell, yes!” Jackson agreed vehemently, already starting forward toward the ring. “Let’s do it.”
“You heard the man,” Pheelan rumbled behind him, ducking down low and scooping Stiles up onto his shoulder without warning. “Let’s rumble.”