Work Text:
I tried so hard
And got so far
But in the end
It doesn't even matter
I had to fall
To lose it all
But in the end
It doesn't even matter
“In the End” – Linkin Park
++
The bell hanging over the shop’s entrance tinkled cheerily as the door pushed open, doubling as a last warning that the shop now had a visitor; the first barrier of defense—though few rarely realized it—came in the form of a set of wards set up twenty feet from all sides of the building: the moment that anyone--anything--crossed that line and had even the very faintest connection to the supernatural, an alert went up to the shop owner and any of the assistants who were on call that day.
From the moment that Peter Hale crossed those outlying wards, Stiles knew. From the moment that Peter Hale brushed against the intention ward, Stiles knew. Stiles knew—had known for months, if he were to be honest with himself—that it had been a daydream, unrealistic and full of the lack of potential, in thinking that he’d be able to hide forever from Scott and his pack.
And, like clockwork, they had sent the only person Stiles hadn’t left Beacon Hills absolutely pissed at.
Still, as the bell gave off a fairy-note chime softly above his head, the nineteen year-old didn’t bother turning around: his attention remained focus on stocking the shelf full of evil eye charms, checking each one for potency with the briefest flicker of his Spark before either putting up or discarding each one. The presence of the visitor was heavy in the shop, Peter’s razor-sharp attention settling like Atlas’ burden upon his shoulders: but Stiles had grown and had learned a thing or two in his time away from Beacon Hills, and very little fazed him anymore. Not much concerned him nowadays, either.
“Hello, Stiles,” Peter began, quiet and careful as the ‘wolf took in the changes that had happened over the course of the missing year.
The young man had once again hit another growth spurt, now at least three inches taller than the older man, and had grown out his hair again to match a style similar to the one that Stiles had sported in junior year of high school. The boy still favored his too-big jeans, his plaid overshirts, and his geeky t-shirts—the one that Stiles was currently wearing featured Captain Marvel across its torso. Perhaps, however, the biggest difference between the Stiles-from-before and the Stiles-at-present came in the form of tattoos that covered most of the teen’s arms from wrist to shoulder, designs disappearing beneath the sleeves of the amber-eyed man’s shirt.
So, too:
Stiles tossed a look over a shoulder, offering Peter a quick, dismissive glance before returning his attention to his work. “Frog spleens are on sale—half a pound for fifteen dollars. You can find them over by the counter. Other sale items are over on that table along the back wall. Feel free to browse; I’ll ring you up when you’re ready.”
“Stiles,” the ‘wolf began again, this time with a hint of warning edging into the tone of his voice.
“No.”
“Stiles, you’re needed—“
“I said no!” The lights flickered, there and gone again, at Stiles’ scream, shelving rattling warning as it echoed the heavy panting that forced the teen’s chest to rise and fall quickly, racing just as quickly as the tittering-pace of the beating of the Spark’s heart. He had circled ‘round to face Peter at the last response, amber eyes blazing with hot, metallic light, and it was only at seeing the rage barely held back in the teen’s gaze that the blue-eyed werewolf finally inclined his head to give in to the younger man’s stance.
Slowly—but steadily—Stiles’ breathing calmed and slowed, as did the racing of his heart, and he stared at Peter who silently, patiently stared back.
Eventually, the magic user took a deep breath, recentering himself as the foundation’s wards reached out to him, poking at the teen tentatively to see if he was all right; the organic concern that this building had for him, his new home, was finally the last piece necessary for Stiles to close his eyes, breathe deep, and finally—shift the expectations and weight from his shoulders, steadier now than he had ever been in Beacon Hills.
Grounded once more, the Spark’s lashes lifted to pin the werewolf with a sharp, predator gaze: nothing kind nor gentle lingering within it; the rage hadn’t left—was just pushed to the shadows—and Peter knew well enough to tread lightly. The boy had already been dangerous back home; now, though… Stiles was a finely-honed weapon, fully aware of the power he held within his body.
Deaton had been a fool to refuse to train him.
Scott, too, for stabbing Stiles in the back.
“After everything that happened, I thought you would have known better than to come looking for me, Peter,” Stiles began, words carefully chosen and tone measured, waiting and expectant for the moment needed to strike. Peter, after all, never did anything unless there was some benefit to himself; any altruism had died in the fire, burnt to ashes with his original Pack—and certainly nothing Scott had ever done had inspired the same sort of loyalty in the one-time Left Hand.
“True enough,” the older man agreed, knowing better than to try to attempt to lie to the other at the moment. “However, I’m not here for me—or for Scott, really. Melissa was attacked and she’s dying. Deaton doesn’t have enough power to save her—wouldn’t interfere even if he did—and no other magic practitioner will go within fifty miles of Beacon Hills. That just leaves… you.”
It was tempting to say no—more than Stiles safely wanted to admit to himself. It was tempting—so very, very tempting—to tell Scott to go fuck himself, to have him watch his mother die the same way that Stiles had to watch his father: so very, very tempting to stand back and do nothing to same way that Scott had. At least if Stiles did that, he’d still have relatively clean hands. Scott? Not so much. Not after his actions had directly led to the Sheriff’s death.
But…
Melissa had been a mother to Stiles when his own mother couldn’t even bear to look at his face, turning away and muttering about how he wanted to kill her; had seen to each and every one of the bruises and cuts that Stiles had gotten from bullies and lacrosse alike, had attended every single one of Stiles’ games—even the ones that Scott had had to stay home from because of a particularly bad asthma attack. Melissa had been the one to help Stiles learn how to cook, had praised his failures no matter how spectacular they had been. Had been the one to stay by his side in the hospital after the nogitsune’s possession, had been gentle and understanding and supportive in a way that the Pack had lacked.
Melissa was the only one who had sent Stiles a birthday card this year, included a letter that had left the teen sobbing and empty, curled up on the floor of his small apartment—had sent a richly detailed quilt along with it, one of the ones that took her years to make during her few and far between days off and that Stiles knew she had been saving to sell at one of the conventions she rarely got to attend due to her heavy work schedule.
Stiles knew, instinctive and marrow-deep, as well:
Scott’s sins were not his mother’s to carry.
The teen shuddered, dislike and trepidation and rage—an ocean’s worth of rage, deep and expansive and hiding creatures lurking in the darkest depths, a nightmare worthy of a Lovecraftian tale—rocked through him. And yet the reminder of Melissa’s presence in his life, good and kind and stern the way only a mother could truly be, could not be easily forgotten. Stiles didn’t know if he wanted it gone, as bittersweet a testament it now represented.
There were so many things that the magic user had left behind as Beacon Hills faded into obscurity in his rearview mirror. Some of those things he had willingly let go—others had been pried from his tightly-clenched fingers, roots ripped out and let bleeding on the pavement of the road that led him away from his one-time home. Even now, with time and distance separating him from the immediacy of what had happened… Stiles still didn’t know what category Melissa had fallen into.
Stiles breathed—
Again—
And again—
And again--
And then finally resettled his brightly burning gaze upon Peter’s surprisingly silent form; something shifted within the teen’s eyes: quieter than just moments before, but so much more dangerous because of it. The normally expressive features that had made the boy so incredibly easy to read in high school—until Stiles had grown harder, had known better than to give himself away so readily—were equally still: the marble features of a Renaissance statue, cool and remote and terrifying for the fact that the boy was untouchable, unknowable.
Eddies circled just beneath the surface, ready to drown any unsuspecting swimmer.
“Then lead the way, zombiewolf.”
++
The engine of Peter’s car—not one of the Cobras, surprisingly enough—roared as the older man drove along PCH, grey-blue ocean on one side and dried-out, brown brush on the other; the farther north the two headed, the faster the chaparral began to fade away, blending almost seamlessly into sprawling vineyards, metal and concrete cities, and then the deep green of redwoods. It should have felt like coming home, especially the farther away Los Angeles became, but… this was not home. Hadn’t been since his father’s death.
Stiles shifted just enough to rest his forehead against the clear glass of the passenger side window, watching the scenery blur away before him: the world became painted in blues and greens and browns, earth-tones that touched nothing of the orange-red ember that burned within him.
Perhaps Stiles’ silence eventually unnerved Peter—especially considering the fact that the teen used to be full of movement and words, an endless stream of both that sometimes entertained but mostly annoyed others—because the older man eventually broke it when they were four hours out from Beacon Hills.
“I recognize some of the runes hidden within your tattoos. Already a journeyman, sweetheart?”
The teen snorted at the familiar endearment but decided to let it go. “You did find me in a magic shop, Peter,” the Spark pointed out, tone dry though he never glanced the ‘wolf’s way, dismissive in both tone and body language.
Peter hummed softly at that, agreeing without words, though he didn’t let the conversation die there, as the teen had originally intended to do with his abruptly curt response; instead, the arctic-eyed man glanced sidelong at his companion as he offered up another comment, waiting to see if it opened up a new conversational thread… or if Stiles tried to let this one die, as well. “Surprisingly enough, it was rather easy to track you down, Stiles—once you learned what type of questions to ask, anyway. You’ve gained quite the reputation in the supernatural world now.”
Stiles’ answering smile was both sharp and bitter. “No point in sticking to the high road when my moral compass no longer points due North under Scott’s oh-so wise supervision as the True Alpha. I was always the more pragmatic one out of the two of us--just finally get to show it now.”
--an understatement, if anything: any member of the supernatural community knew well enough by now to behave themselves if they went into the Los Angeles territory. Unnecessary death or behavior that brought the attention of the police department would, without fail, make the city’s Spark lose his temper and retaliate with prejudice. Stories were told, whispered in the shadows, of the first—and only—time that that had been necessary. The teen had become a rather effective judge, jury, and executioner if the rumors were true. And, if Peter was honest with himself, he believed them—had known that the teen had a hidden, well-honed brutal edge that lay hidden and patiently waiting in the boy’s soul.
(Truly, Deaton’s disregard of Stiles had been a mistake of epic proportions.)
Knowing that the elephant in the room would eventually need to be addressed, especially the closer they came to Beacon Hills, Peter took a quick, quiet breath for fortitude and began, slowly stepping around his words and feeling out the edges that were still bloody and raw for the young magic user: “…Stiles. I wanted to say just how very sorr—“
“Don’t, Peter,” the teen interrupted, cutting the older man off from finishing his carefully drafted condolences. Stiles’ voice suddenly sounded so much more exhausted than before, worn down and… tired, soul-weary—lonely, too. Like something within him had broken that day, and there was nothing in this world that would be able to piece it back together. Knowing that feeling, intimately well, the ‘wolf fell silent in respect of the amber-eyed boy’s request, and continued driving every northward. The blue-eyed man had learned, long ago, that all of the apologies in the world—all of the offered condolences or the mindless, desperate quest for vengeance—would do nothing to return loved ones back to those who had been left behind.
The sign that said Welcome to Beacon Hills appeared sooner than Stiles had hoped it would.
++
Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital’s corridors was surprisingly empty, the entire building giving off an almost abandoned air no matter the fact that Stiles could hear nurses and doctors hustling and bustling to and fro in various other wards. It just seemed that those very same employees had given up on the patients in the long term care ward and, because of that, had set aside these people for the barest minimum of care and maintenance. The inattention brought forth a pointed sort of echo that bled out from the very walls, low murmurs that paired with a distant sort of haunting that raised the hairs on the back of Stiles’ arms.
It had been a thought that had oftentimes occurred to the Spark when his mother had been a resident here. From the tense line of Peter’s shoulders, Stiles could only guess that the ‘wolf agreed, as well.
Things weren’t quite derelict, but… they were overlooked. Uncared for. Attended to last.
Perhaps Stiles should be grateful for that willful ignorance—it certainly made traversing the hallways that much easier—but it instead made him sad… angry, with a budding sort of rage that had become his constant companion from the moment his father had taken his last breath. Here and now, there was frustration at the callousness that he had noticed years before was still firmly entrenched in the hospital staff: wondered, too, at how many people slipped away in the night, dead in the morning or taken by things much more sinister that went bump in the dark.
Melissa’s room was at the far end of the corridor, door only partially cracked open though light gleamed its welcome from the sliver of a crack. With Peter as his current fang-baring shadow, Stiles pushed the door open a smallest bit more before slipping through the opening and into the room; beige, dull and lifeless and terrifyingly familiar from his own visits as a pre-teen, greeted him in answer, paired with the stuttering pulse of a heart monitor that betrayed the fact that the woman lying in the room’s sole bed was dying in increments, no matter what miracles her fellow colleagues tried for each and every day.
The McCall matriarch’s hair was lank upon the pillow, framing a face that had gone grey from illness, cheeks sunken to match a skull’s rictus expression: morbid and obviously sickly, and yet Stiles’ mother-that-never-was fought hard for each and every breath she took. She was drifting away, inch by inch, but it was obvious that those inches were hard-won by the reaper—Melissa was not willing to go gently into the dark night.
Something quietly broke within the teen at that realization, and he headed towards the woman’s bedside with silent, cat-light steps; Peter remained near the doorway, watching with a carefully neutral expression, though his eyes glowed faintly neon blue in the twilight shades the lighting painted the room in.
Gently, Stiles reached out and smoothed a hand over the crown of Melissa’s head, petting the greasy hair away from her face even as his fingers gently tucked a still-unruly strand behind the shell of her ear.
Closer now, the Spark was able to sense the curse that had been laid on the woman: it was a nasty bit of spellwork, structured in such a way that Melissa’s health would wane over the course of months before the decline quickened to weeks and then days—before transitioning, finally, into hours at the spell’s very peak. Portions had clicked into place long ago, grinding away with well-oiled and malevolent gears, and it seemed as if the McCall matriarch had now reached the ‘days’ portion of the spell; without Stiles’ interference, she would most likely be dead by the end of the week. Next week for sure if he walked away right this moment and did nothing to help her.
Faced now with Melissa’s suffering… there was no temptation to leave Scott to his own self-inflicted fate. The woman who had tried so hard to be a mother to Stiles while still respecting the boundaries he had imposed between the both of them—afraid of replacing the memory of Claudia Stilinski before the illness had taken her mind from her—and yet… despite all initial efforts he had reached for in the very beginning, Stiles loved Melissa as voraciously as he had loved—still loved—his father.
A snap of the Spark’s fingers had the curse lighting up in the space just above Melissa’s heart: complicated and delicate work to unravel, a literal spider’s web weaving of filaments and threads, knots upon knots—and Stiles would be lying if he didn’t feel at least the smallest bit of dismay at finally catching sight of the curse, but… remembered, too, the coveted quilt that the nurse had sent to him in the mail for his birthday.
I love you and you will forever be my own - touch-sense layered with devotion and concern and care echoing each and every time Stiles’ fingertips brushed against the blanket’s fabric.
(Still burrowed beneath it on particularly bad nights.)
So, memory girding him as a type of spiritual armor, Stiles reached out and carefully tugged at the knot found at the heart of the curse, untwisting ropes and picking apart snarls with a patient, unrelenting sort of attention—hyper-focused and zeroed in upon his task—methodical to the point that the teen didn’t stop until dawn eventually kissed the edges of the hospital room’s window and the last bit of web dissolved in the rose-kissed light. Stiles leaned against the edge of Melissa’s bed, trembling and exhausted but so very, very elated because he had done it.
Melissa’s lashes fluttered against her cheeks, movement so slight that most would have missed it if they hadn’t been paying close attention to any shift or change—instead, Stiles sharply inhaled and Peter took a step forward, breath held in hidden hope for the nurse that he remembered actually trying to care for him during his coma before she was moved to a different ward of the hospital. Slowly, lashes quivering, Melissa’s eyes opened to stare up at the ceiling above her.
And it made Stiles smile.
She blinked, once twice thrice, confusion shading her gaze and turning it blurry as Melissa tried to obviously place herself—trying to find a reason as to why she was currently in her place of employment—before her attention shifted to the side, catching sight of Stiles. Stiles, who she hadn’t seen in over a year. The expression on her face turned brilliant, and Melissa lifted a shaky arm to cup a hand over the lightly stubbled edge of Stiles’ jawline. “Mijo,” she whispered hoarsely—and Stiles cried, ugly and broken and mirroring all of the razor-sharp edges that had taken up residence in his soul.
++
“Stiles?! Oh, my God… Stiles! Stiles, wait up!”
Perhaps Stiles had been hoping for too much in wishing for the chance to be in and out of Beacon Hills—to heal Melissa and then disappear with the sun, never to darken the town’s doorstep ever again. But no: of course that had been too much to ask.
The teen stilled for a moment, eyes closing as he took a deep, steadying breath. Surprisingly enough, Peter’s presence at his shoulder was a steadying one, offering strength that Stiles greedily took, drinking it in and trying to find some semblance of solid ground before he turned around to face his one-time best friend.
Scott grinned at the sight, smile wide and ecstatic as he bounded towards Stiles with wide-open arms. He didn’t get very far, however: the amber-eyed teen made a quick, razor-edged gesture and one of the runes on his arms lit up, brighter than a supernova, and the True Alpha was frozen in place, unable to take any further steps.
Confusion flickered across Scott’s face, expression there and gone again before annoyance took precedence. “Stiles, let me go—what the hell…?”
“No,” the Spark answered, tone amiable except for the fury that was once more flickering to life within his honeyed gaze. “I have no intention of letting you go. Not until I’ve crossed the county line and am well on my way in heading back home like a bat outta hell.”
“But…” the other boy began, attention darting towards the hospital for a long moment before settling back on Stiles’ tension-stiff form. “But what about my mom?”
“Healed.”
Hope and gratitude settled across Scott’s face, and the smile he shot towards Stiles was beaming, sun-bright and blinding. “Really? Oh, my God, dude, thank you! Thank you so much, Stiles, you have no idea—“
Stiles again interrupted, tone curt: “I didn’t do it for you.”
“…what?” the True Alpha asked, gleeful rambling stumbling to a halt as Scott gaped in shock at Stiles.
“I didn’t do it for you—fuck, I’d never do it for you,” Stiles continued, expression remote and wrathful for all of that artificial distance he tried to place between himself and the situation at large. “I came back to help Melissa. I helped her and now I’m leaving.”
“But…” Scott began, floundering and confused. “I thought that we could maybe catch up…?”
It was finally that particular phrase that was the straw that broke the camel’s back: the rage and pain and grief came slamming back into Stiles, flooding the air around him with the intensity of his emotions—enough to make Peter flinch and Scott stumble back and away from the Spark at their strength. “Catch up…? Why the fuck would I want to play catch up with you? If that had been in you in that hospital bed, I would have happily let you waste away until you were dead, McCall.”
Anger brought a snarl to Scott’s mouth even as he attempted to once more take a step closer towards Stiles yet again. “That’s a lie; why would you ever say that, Stiles, come on, please—“
Once more, Stiles interrupted Scott’s clumsy attempts at making things water under the bridge, too far gone in his rage and grudge to let bygones be bygones--ever, if he had a choice in things. “It’s not a lie and you know it, McCall. You’re enough of a wolf that you would have heard that my heart didn’t stutter—not once. I would have left you to rot, the victim of your own choices and consequences: just like you made my dad the victim of yours.”
“Th-that’s not true! I—I didn’t—“
Stiles’ eyes blazed at that denial. “Oh? Oh, really? You didn’t know, McCall? Didn’t know that the hunters were happily targeting humans who were sympathetic towards werewolves? Didn’t know that they were batshit crazy and made Kate look like a fucking Disney princess? Didn’t think that they would actually go after my dad even with a history showing that they would, in fact, do so? Didn’t wait until I was touring Berkley and therefore out of town before making the suggestion that he should meet with them to talk about treaties?”
The Spark’s eyes blazed with an internal firestorm, lighting up the night with a hellfire glow. Any words that Scott was about to speak fell dead and silent in his throat, even as Stiles continued on with his wrath-tinged, mockingly offered accusations:
“Didn’t think that, as True Alpha, maybe you should have gone instead because, hey, leader, right? Didn’t think that maybe you should have sent one of the Betas with him, too, just in case things went south? Never once looked around you, glancing over your Betas, and thought that they looked like cannon fodder the same way that my dad did, right? Because he wasn’t Pack and, therefore, he was expendable. And then I came home and my dad was already five hours dead and you never once called, you hypocritical, two-faced motherfucker.”
“Stiles—Stiles, please. Please, okay? I’m so sorry, it was an accident, really, I didn’t expect it to happen, you have to believe me, please—“
And Stiles… Stiles was tired of listening to the lies, sick of hearing the words stutter out, the excuses falling end over end as Scott tried to come up with any and every reason possible to still make himself look good in this particular situation. But, as before, the words rang false and the Spark had still been aware enough of Beacon Hills to pick up on all of the rumors that slipped through the cracks and trickled south: how Scott McCall, True Alpha, was recruiting—how he was looking for as many Betas as possible, filling his Pack and making himself that much stronger with every member added.
Remembered, too, the way that Scott had screamed at Stiles to leave, to not come back to Beacon Hills, to his territory, when the amber-eyed teen had challenged his then-best friend on the choice the other had made, calling Scott on his bullshit as Stiles had done so, so many times before. This time, however… Scott had pushed back, had denied and eventually snapped the faint bonds that had tied Stiles to both the Pack and the person he would have claimed as family without hesitation even as the ‘wolf’s backhand connected solidly with the plane of the Spark’s cheek. Scott’s own version of a Judas kiss (”I’m the Alpha! You have no right to challenge me, Stiles!”).
So Stiles had sold the house that he had grown up in, packed up the things that he wanted to take with him, and… left, ghosting away in the middle of the night, never once looking back.
And now Scott was trying to deny that bloody, still raw and weeping wound that had been festering between the both of them for months? It was—too much, not enough, and Stiles’ anger touched kindling and ignited into a forest fire, burning hot and fast and intent on destroying everything within its path.
This man before him:
Backstabbing best friend.
Would-be brother.
Heretical True Alpha—
Scott didn’t deserve the power, didn’t know how to use it—never even wanted it, truth be told. And with his fury burning bright, righteous and uncaring of this particular destruction that Stiles wrought, the Spark reached out and wrapped his fingers around the ember that gifted Scott with an Alpha’s status and power, and yanked.
The power was forcibly ripped from Scott’s chest, bleeding crimson within Stiles’ grasp, and the magic-user turned on his heel to instead slam the palm of his hand against Peter’s torso, shoving the ember as deep as it would go, encouraging it to bury its roots within the very foundation of the older man’s soul, and something vindictive and dark and cruel purred in satisfaction at seeing Scott falling to his knees as he sobbed for breath.
“You may have been an Alpha, but you were never mine. Go and find out how many people will still happily follow you when you don’t have the title of True Alpha to fall back on, you hypocritical bastard,” Stiles snarled as he wrapped the thrumming, ever present magic of the ley lines around himself and then—was gone.
++
Two weeks later, Stiles tried to feel at least some sort of surprise or shock at finding Peter back at his magic shop once more: perhaps, then, he could at least generate the smallest bit of dismay at seeing that the now-Alpha was currently moving between the various aisles, boxes stacked easily in one arm as he used the other to stock the shelves with this particular week’s collection of sale items.
The teen leaned against the door’s frame, eyebrow lifting in inquiry as the ‘wolf paused momentarily, turning to face off against the Spark—though neither’s body language shifted into aggression or wariness, nevermind the fact that the regular, constant flicker of interest and want went there-and-gone-again across Peter’s face: an ignored, unacknowledged reaction ever since the first time the blue-eyed man had set his gaze upon the teen.
“…what are you doing here, Peter?” Stiles eventually ventured.
“Darling boy,” the ‘wolf began, familiar, smug curl to his mouth, “I’m filthy rich. It’s standard practice nowadays that billionaires pick up eccentric side hobbies—or jobs, in this particular case—to keep themselves busy as they coast on by in life. It’s pretty much a rite of passage in this day and age.”
If anything, Stiles’ eyebrow lifted that much higher, sardonic and silently snarky. “And so you decided to come here for your rite of passage?”
Carefully, Peter set the boxes down and took a step towards the younger man. Seeing that Stiles made no effort to stop him in his tracks—something that the Spark was fully capable of doing and willing, too, should the need arise—the Alpha took another step forward, then another and another, until they stood chest to chest and breathing in each other’s air, scenting subtle on Peter’s end for all that his eyes began to burn crimson and bloody.
“I found myself desiring a new locale. And what better place to locate to than a city where a Spark rules with a fair but strong hand; somewhere where no true Pack has stayed long enough to put down roots, no Alpha to look after them all; somewhere where I can start fresh and new—and perhaps court someone that I’ve had my eye on for quite some time.”
Stiles’ eyes narrowed in idle thought, remaining silent for a moment or two before turning that assessing gaze Peter’s way. “…do you honestly think that it’d be worth it?” he asked lightly enough, though amber eyes remained shrewd in a way that Peter had always thrilled at.
“Sweet boy,” the Alpha began and lightly tapped Stiles’ chest with a wrapped package of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. “I’ve thought that it was worth it from the very start. You were just able to now safeguard the fact that each and every promise I intend to make to you, I have the power to fulfill.”
Peter’s grin became toothy, fang-filled and sharp, and Stiles finally reached out to hook a finger over the edge of the apron wrapped snugly around the older man’s waist, tugging him closer still until they were both genuinely pressed chest to chest—and then kissed the Alpha ‘wolf, predatory and hungry and burning hotter than a wildfire with Peter fanning the flames higher still all the while.
++
Epilogue.
Stiles felt the dip of the mattress beneath both him and Peter, felt the older man roll away to reach for the nightstand situated on his side of the bed. It was too early to head out to the shop—the sky outside the bedroom’s window still pitch-black with the remnants of midnight—and the amber-eyed magic user slowly lifted his lashes to half-mast to stare at the wall opposite him.
“Mmm…?” he hummed lightly in inquiry, too tired and feeling lazy enough to make his questions non-verbal even as Stiles felt (and heard) Peter finish his unexpected search to now return to his previous position. The Alpha ‘wolf settled against the pale line of Stiles’ back, his own presence a solid weight against the Spark even as Peter hooked an arm around Stiles’ waist to pull him close enough to press his nose against the curve of the younger man’s throat.
“I was going to ask you in the morning since you were tired tonight, but I can’t fall asleep—the thoughts go ‘round my mind, circling endlessly and with no end in sight.”
Exhaustion was a heavy weight upon Stiles’ body, but curiosity was a bright enough distraction to help slough off the tiredness that clung to him in spidersilk strands, strong despite their apparent delicacy. The Master trials had taken three days and three nights to finish, tested beyond what most could endure—but that was the reason, also, why many magic users remained journeymen until the day that they died. The title of Master was a difficult one to reach towards… but worth it if a person was able to grab at the title.
Stiles had managed to finish his earlier that night.
Needless to say, Peter’s interruption of the boy’s (well-earned, by this point in time) sleep better have been a good one or the Spark would ensure that the ‘wolf would feel the full measure of his wrath after sleeping another eight hours. At minimum.
Prompting Peter to continue, Stiles poked at the solid band snugged possessively around his waist while the grunt that accompanied the gesture easily translated to, Well, hurry up and get to the point, then. I’m fucking tired, zombiewolf.
The arm around Stiles’ waist tightened for just a moment before lifting; the fingers that had been curled in a loose fist slowly spread open and a necklace chain and its accompanying pendant fell through the air, only stopping when it reached its end length. The metal glinted coolly in the faint light coming in from the window, and from the sight alone, Stiles figured that it must have been made from either silver or white gold. Considering Peter’s dislike of all things Argent… it wouldn’t take a genius to lay his money on the white gold choice.
Dangling from the chain was a pendant, also done in what looked like a similar metal. It had been twisted to form loops and arches, delicate curves that bled off into fine branches and their accompanying leaves—the end result being that the metalsmith had designed an artistically rendered triskele. The center contained a large chunk of amber, rich and golden in hue, echoing with age and the flickering remnants of life from millions of years ago as Stiles looked over the many inclusions within the gemstone.
“You passed your Mastery exam,” the Alpha began, ignoring both the eyeroll that Stiles gave in turn and the grunt that couldn’t be any clearer in saying Duh.. “I wanted you to become the Emissary to my Pack, sweet boy.”
Stiles stared at the pendant for a long, long while, remaining silent even as he felt Peter slowly begin to grow tense against the expanse of his body. Eventually, the mole-kissed magic user sighed, shaking his head in wry amusement—though still plucking the delicately rendered necklace from the other’s hold to cup it against the palm of his own hand. Knowing that he’d have to make at least clear since it was obvious that the ‘wolf hadn’t somehow picked up on it, the Spark wriggled about until he had purchased enough open space to roll over completely to meet the older man’s crimson gaze.
“You’re an idiot,” Stiles informed the ‘wolf, tone solemn even as he poked the other man on his impressive chest for emphasis. “I already am your Emissary and have been since you began actively building a Pack.” Peter blinked at that particular statement, obviously taken aback and slightly bewildered by the younger man’s words. “This is my territory and has been long before you came here, Peter. There’s no way I would have ever let an Alpha settle here who I didn’t consider worthy of it.”
Finally, body going boneless in unspoken relief, Peter reached up to gently cup the curve of Stiles’ cheek against the palm of his hand. “You… are certainly full of surprises. And a marvel, besides.”
“And you’re mine, Alpha,” Stiles murmured in response, smile going wide and crooked and wicked as Peter’s eyes flared crimson in response to the claim.
His fingers clutched tight to the pendant Peter had gifted him with, pale fingers tangling with the thread of the necklace’s chain even as the Spark shifted up and against the older man to scrape his teeth over the ‘wolf’s throat, releasing the careful hold he’d kept on their Pack bond to let it finally starburst to life, a supernova’s worth of power and claim and mine/yours/ours.
::fin::