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Red light bleeds through his windshield, turning the blood smears on his forearms and clothes black. Peter unclenches the steering wheel, ignoring the groan from the leather, and takes a deep breath. He reeks of blood, sweat, and something acrid and powdery. The right side of his shirt is barely holding together, exposing most of his shoulder and his skin is still tender from the coven’s spellwork.
Another night and shirt, lost to a terrible cause.
Scott McCall had only been back in town for a few weeks before chaos rose to greet him. A group of hunters chased a harried coven up from Fresno, not knowing the witches planned to use the remaining power of the nemeton to fuel their last stand. The ‘True Alpha’ attempted to talk things out between the groups, which resulted in Liam getting kidnapped and drugged by hunters, Malia getting tortured by witches, and Mason ending up in the hospital with a broken leg. Deaton, of course, was nowhere to be found. Somehow the man’s mentoring duties fell to Peter.
After three harrowing days of back-and-forth, numerous accidental civilian deaths, and one stunned newly-elected Sheriff Parrish, Peter finally got sick of letting the pup play nice. The hunters were easily removable but the witches proved to be more resilient, especially with the nemeton backing them. In the end, McCall--and his mysteriously re-appearing vet--managed to save the day.
They rapt Peter’s knuckles for taking the initiative and sent him on his way without so much as a ‘thank you’. Not that he had expected anything, but having to withstand a smug, self-righteous lecture while he skin knit itself back together was galling. Peter left halfway through, muttering a seething: ‘welcome back’ as he ducked into his car.
Too wired to head home and too angry to wander the streets, Peter drove aimlessly through the city as his body burned through the remains of adrenaline and magic. Which is how he ended up in an unknown part of the county, far from Beacon Hills’ city limits.
A long car horn startles him from his thoughts and urges him through the newly changed light. Peter bites back a growl and turns down the street into an unpaved parking lot. A disgruntled kid in a beat-up Volkswagen Golf speeds past him, waving a middle finger out his window. For a brief moment, Peter considers following the kid, running him off the road and teaching him some manners, but making a teenager piss himself is hardly worth the hassle and seems too petty, even for him.
Peter flicks his claws out a few times before taking in his surroundings. The outward street looks similar to downtown, a few updated storefronts competing with the outdating mom-and-pops. At the opposite end of the lot is a cluster of haphazardly parked cars and a concrete slab of a building. There are no windows, only a green door with a single light above it. The soft thudding of music filters through the thick walls, indicating this is a nightclub of some sort, and wasn’t that perfect? Peter could use a stiff drink right about now. With any luck, this place would have something strong enough to take the edge off this miserable night.
He sheds the remains of his shirt, taking a moment to scrub more of the noticeable stains on his hands, and pulls a spare from the duffle in his back seat. The long sleeves hide the crusted flecks and scalded flesh but he shrugs a jacket on just in case. He parks his Aston next to a glossy Jaguar and heads towards the door.
The air shimmers when he touches the brass handle and suddenly he’s inside staring at embellished neon letters: The Green Fairy. An arrow in the shape of vines directs him through a thick velvet curtain and down a concrete hall that empties out into a great room of smoke and noise.
The nature motif expands throughout the rest of the lounge. The cushions and booths are all plush green, and the tables are dark glossy wood with intricate raised vine work. Worn pattern rugs carpet the ground in alternating colors of red and purple, while ornate chandeliers flicker above with soft green and gold light. It reminds Peter of a hipster speakeasy he used to frequent in his college years, only that place couldn’t hold a candle to this level of detail.
He slips into an empty seat at the bar and glances over the other patrons near him. A few couples, some old timers riding seats like they’ve been there since opening. A woman sipping a gold-flecked martini catches him watching and winks. Peter responds in kind only to watch as she curls a forked tongue over the edge of her glass. Before Peter can process what he’s seeing, his entire body goes pleasantly fuzzy and he feels himself easing out of his chair, towards her side of the bar.
“You might want to start with a drink before you take on an ol’ pro like Delores.” A warm melodic voice interrupts, breaking the succubus’ hold.
She hisses in irritation, scaly patches surfacing around her now rigid, thorny brow.
“You’re no fun, Lysander! It’s been ages since I’ve had wolf, let alone old blood like him.” She pouts, slinking away with her drink.
The glamour around the patrons fizzles as the creature’s thrall fades. One of the old-timers is a massive, warty troll playing candy crush and sipping something caustic and black. The couple beside him is comprised of an elf and vampire. There’s a group of nymph by the pool tables, an old crone and her familiars, and a dwarven bachelor party.
The bartender, Lysander, looks around Peter’s age and outwardly human. His brown hair is haphazardly pulled into a small bun at the base of his neck. His face is slender and inviting, accented by a pronounced jawline and sharp nose. Meticulous vine work and old runes dance up his arms, painting his skin in green, black, and gold.
Lysander smiles warmly, drumming his knuckles against the hardwood.
“So, newcomer, what can I get you?”
“What is this place?” The question comes out unbidden. “I’ve lived here most of my life and I’ve never knew something like this existed.”
“Well, then I guess you never really needed to get drunk before now.” He chuckles, leaning back. “This place only shows up to those who really need it. In fact, it used to be called the Bar of Requirement, but I got into some litigation issues and...well, it was just easier to change the name.”
“You built a bar to show up to those with a great enough need for alcohol? How does that work?”
“Magic. Lots and lots of magic.” Lysander wiggles his fingers. Peter stares at him blandly and the man rolls his eyes. “You stumble across a magic bar and you’d rather discuss how it was made rather than ask for a drink? Do you want to hear about how many forms I had to fill out in triplicate too?”
Peter grins at the sass. “Oh no, start at the beginning, what made you decide to become a bartender?”
“Seemed like a sound trade, who doesn’t want to escape their lives for a bit and why not make it a safe place for folk like us?”
“Didn’t seem so safe when Dolores was trying to seduce me.”
Lysander shrugs. “You’re a werewolf, you would have woken up a little queasy and completely satisfied. If she was truly going to hurt you, she would have drawn you outside. No kills or grudges allowed in the bar.”
“But outside is fine?”
“Outside is not my problem. I only protect what’s mine, can’t do much about the rest of the world, would drive me mad if I tried. Now, if you’re done playing twenty questions how about you get what you came here for?” An empty tulip shaped glass appears between them, Lysander begins to fill it with something amber and sweet. “Since it’s your first time, the first drink is on the house.”
--
Peter’s entire body feels like one pulsing nerve. His mouth is welded shut with thick mucus; his tongue feels dry and swollen. The inside of his eyelids feel like sandpaper; it takes a moment to muster the energy to peel them open. When his vision clears of glittering spots, he realizes he’s on the floor of his living room. His wallet, cellphone, and shoes are placed neatly beside his head, along with a half-filled glass of water and two brown coated pills. He fumbles the pills into his mouth past the crusted seal of spit and vomit and swallows as much of the water as he can without choking.
He has no idea what time or day it is. He can’t even remember how many drinks he let Lysander pour into him. Six was the number he remembered before the dwarven bachelor party dragged him into a round of karaoke. Whatever spirits they were passing around, left him with a thicker thatch of chest hair. He vaguely remembers the bartender’s shining blue eyes and a too-wide smile, something about second chances?
The medication is surprisingly fast-acting, Peter feels his brain slowly shaking off the hypnotic throb and his limbs feel malleable enough to get him to the bathroom without stumbling. He washes his face twice and starts brushing the sour taste out of his mouth when he finally notices his world has been tinted red.
His toothbrush slips out of his mouth as he leans into the mirror. Peter flashes his eyes. Red. He pinches himself and does it again. Red. His stomach turns to ice as a hysterical disbelief begins to replace his hangover. He can feel it now, the steady hum of power. His wolf feels stronger, bigger somehow but stable. No half-formed monster, no madness or rage, no phantom pain or bloodlust.
Did he kill an Alpha in the bar’s parking lot? Did he somehow manage to drive back into the city and rectify his ‘True Alpha’ mistake? For the moment, he can’t bring himself to care. Red bleeds into blue again and Peter revels in the change. His wolf shakes sleepily and stretches, wriggling new life into their bones. He can practically taste the possibilities on his tongue. A new start, a second chance to start over, do things right this time.
He flicks his claws out, flexing his hands and notices another change. On the back of his left hand is a series of geometric shapes wrapped in a circle of roots. A strange emerald shard sits in the center of the innermost circle, dark and glittering.
“Ah, he lives after all.” A familiar voice croons from behind him.
The bartender is comfortably perched on the towel cabinet, looking entirely too smug for Peter’s liking. His wolf tries to find a scent or a heartbeat but finds neither. Lysander gives him a pitying look.
“Come now, did you think I would have survived this long if I were so easily detected?”
“I’m guessing by that shit-eating grin, I didn’t happen to get a lucky kill in the parking lot last night. So, what did you do to me?” He turns, leaning his back against the sink.
“First, it’s been at least three days, very biblical I know. Second, you technically did this to yourself.” Lysander points lazily. “You were on a depressing rant for hours, going on and on about some puppy face kid you bit. You said you could be a better Alpha than Scott McCall. So I told you to put your money where your mouth is. I offered you a second chance to do what Scott McCall can’t, stabilize Beacon Hills.”
“And if I don’t?” Peter said warily, eyeing the shard.
“Have a little faith in yourself, Peter! You were smart and cunning enough to cheat death, this should be a cakewalk.” He chides. “Think about it this way, either way, you’ll win.”
“That doesn’t make any sense, how can I win if I fail? That’s not how magic works.” He growls.
“Three days ago you had no idea a bar could be summoned by need and now you’re an expert about all things magic, now that’s what I call a quick study!”
“I deserve to know the parameters of our wager.”
“If you weren’t so drunk, you would remember I went over the guidelines and rules of our little bet multiple times with you. Strangely, you’re a lippy but paranoid drunk. I suppose there’s no harm in repeating it again.”
The bartender sighs.
“If you abandon the wager or try to wriggle out of our agreement, you will be swiftly punished. Our bond ensures you cannot die before our game is played out to either outcome, though it’ll still be just as painful. That’s pretty much the important stuff.” Lysander claps his hands and hops off the cabinet and begins to fade. “Good luck, Peter. I’m looking forward to seeing you play!”
--
Peter takes a few days to steady himself, relearn his body and new power in his veins. He and the wolf have always worked in tandem even before the first twisted rush of Alpha, but this was something more. His senses are heightened, he can isolate scent and sound at a level he never could before, making long-distance-day-old tracking easy. He’s twice a fast and lifting his car is manageable with a little strain.
On the fifth day, Peter decides a more comprehensive test drive is in order, and what better way to test new skills than to strike down a rival. Surely, having two warring Alphas can’t be good for the stability of the area. A single pack--his pack--had ruled over Beacon Hills since its founding. Even amidst the chaos of the past decade, a Hale had always remained within the territory. While a boy had been elevated--no manufactured as a placeholder, it was time for a real Alpha, a Hale to reclaim the land.
--
Unfortunately for Peter, Scott’s luck surpasses his own. Feeling justice had been served and the stars realigned, the boy had skipped out of Beacon Hills to enjoy the rest of his break with Malia, leaving his beta ‘in charge’. Liam mostly struggled through summer classes at the community college, tended to his best friend, and looked confused when the Sheriff pressed him for answers about possible supernatural activity.
Peter resigns himself to pursuing a secondary nuisance, the good doctor.
Deaton liked to be the enigmatic mentor, a dedicated teacher, and caretaker of balance, all the while playing his own game in the background. His double-speak and hands-off approach caused more chaos than it ever did order. The nemeton may have been restlessly sleeping before, but it wasn’t fully awakened until the darach; until Deaton convinced a bunch of terrified, desperate teenagers to die for their parents. Peter almost admired the man’s skill, had they not been the same ones that contributed to the death of his family.
Surely, removing such a rogue player would shift the precious balance back in order.
--
Rolling laughter filters through a crack in his skull.
Peter can faintly make out the hunched figure of a man hovering above him; arm wrapped around his stomach, one hand braced on his thigh as tears stream down his slender face. Lysander slips back, tumbling onto his ass and out of sight, laughter reaching into hysteric near-sobs. As Peter’s bones set and merge, he tries to get the foul scent of bitter herb and wolfsbane out of his nose.
“I can’t believe--I can’t--he fucking smoke bombed you like a ninja!” the fae struggles between fits of giggles. Peter silently hopes the asshole chokes to death on his own tongue. Universe willing, the man’s death would nullify their drunken wager as well as silence his obnoxious noises.
“I can’t remember the last time I’ve laughed that hard.” Lysander admits once he’s caught his breath. “While you’ve made an interesting choice in handling your task, it was a bit rushed. As lax as the man has been in his duties, he’s unfortunately the only druid attuned to the area, and thus necessary to the health and care of Beacon Hills.”
He struggles not to roll his eyes at the phrase ‘health and care’. Skipping over their most recent issues, two years ago sixty-three bodies were found in a sewer and twenty more around the nemeton. Six months before that mercenaries, hunters, and any nut-job with a gun descended on Beacon Hills to exterminate-for-pay. ‘Lax’ is too light of a descriptor. Perhaps, willful neglect would be better.
“Of course he is…another useless thorn in my side.” Peter grounds out, biting back a wave of nausea.
“You certainly are lively, Peter.” Lysander hums with amusement and pushes himself into a stand, dusting the dirt from his jeans. “Since you’ve made my evening, I’ll give you some advice. You need to adjust your worldview, you are no one’s second, Peter. Your current challenge cannot be solved by an unseen hand. In fact, it would be problematic for you to spill blood carelessly within these lands.”
--
Peter idly stirs cream into his coffee as he unpacks his earlier assassination attempt. Despite being utterly humiliated, his attack on Deaton was not a complete failure. He now knew three things: Deaton could be killed so long there was a successor, murder wasn’t frowned upon but--like the bar--had to take place elsewhere, Lysander--like most fae--enjoyed a certain kind of entertainment and would reward a good show. As much as, Peter hated being made a fool, he could suffer some bruised pride for an advantage.
While his attempt to rid himself of the vet was hasty, Peter isn’t wrong about the nemeton or its importance. At one point the stump was a massive tree, a guardian and caretaker, rooted deep in the preserve in heart of the territory, long before any wolf or human. Perhaps, influencing it directly might be a better option. He would have to delve into the vault to see if he could find anything useful about the history of the tree or any related rituals.
He takes a slow sip from his mug and basks in the smooth heat on his tongue. A stiff tingle in his left hand accompanies the first blush of dawn. He twists his palm down and examines the markings. The emerald shard looks fatter and the geometric lines pulse slowly as a dark ash color bleeds out over his skin and stains his fingers. A cracking ache follows and suddenly flesh gives way to swirling lines of a smooth bar and his knuckles become knotty and bloom small clumps of evergreen moss. The bark stops at his wrist, flesh melding over wood, waiting to expand one way or the other. The shard and its cluster of shapes are accented with deep grooves and a slight glittering light.
Coffee explodes against the kitchen tile as the cup tumbles out of his grasp. Gingerly, he cradles his wooden hand, feeling over the odd texture. The sensation of touch remains despite his new tree-flesh. He can flex his fingers, make a fist. The weight difference in his limbs is noticeable. He can feel the soft pads of his fingers and a whisper of body heat but the finer sensations are lost; the smoothness of his silk robe and the supple give of fine cotton are imperceivable.
Peter’s mind flashes back to that first meeting in his bathroom.
‘Think about it this way, either way, you’ll win.’
The fae’s words suddenly makes complete sense. Win or lose, Peter will fulfill the wager. The nemeton would get a successor, much the way he planned to replace Deaton. Beacon Hills would stabilize under the new, uncorrupted sapling, and Peter would have done more than Scott McCall could ever hope to.
--
Peter can’t remember who was in charge of maintaining the upkeep of the Hale vault but he’s cursing them anyways. There are exactly three rows of meticulous records, herbs, and relics, the rest is a nightmare of junk haphazardly crammed on a shelf with faded and incorrect duct tape labels. There’s also a number of boxes of straight junk, including two piles of vintage magazines and one taxidermied raccoon that has seen better days.
He spends the entire weekend sifting through junk and only turns up three useable books and a journal from when the nemeton was still an actual tree.
After four days of pouring over dusty tomes and rambling journal entries, Peter finally finds a possible solution. There’s ritual to bind the land, something that the Hales haven’t had to do in decades since the great tree was culled. The first half revokes any other claim attempts, while the second half offers up a new petition, a symbiotic partnership, and cleanses the territory.
Only...the second half of the binding ritual is missing, ripped out from the ancient spine, leaving nothing b a small lip and a tail of ink. The accompanying pages in the journal are also missing in the same fashion, because of course they are.
Peter puts his fist through a bookshelf and crawls into six bottles of whiskey.
--
It’s a little after sunset when the haze of alcohol finally fades and he feels a little less hopeless. He heads up to his study and digs out a worn black leather booklet. A relic of another time, back when Peter was in his prime and working every possible angle as Talia’s second. Each page is filled with contact information. Some names are crossed out in black, signifying they passed away, red for those he dispatched himself, purple for enemies and burned bridges. There was a time he took pride in maintaining these contacts, now he could hardly stand to look at the book. After the fire, coma, and hell that Beacon Hills descended into, not one ally had reached out. Even Satomi, the Alpha he admired most, sat back and waited for them to die so she could expand her territory. He clenches his jaw and thumbs over the pages to until he find a familiar name..
Sharon Zhang picks up on the third ring, with a rushed and grateful voice.
“Hello?”
“It sounds like you’re in a bit of trouble, professor.”
“Oh is that so? No, that--yes, you were right to call. Give me a moment, I’m headed out.”
Sharon offers a string of apologies over the clattering of dishes and disappointed murmurings. He can’t help the curl of his smile as he hears her breathing get a little heavier as she rushes out of the restaurant.
“Let it be said: Peter Hale still has impeccable timing--even if he promises to catch up and then doesn’t bother to call you when he’s out of his coma.”
“Phones work both ways, Sharon.”
“You say that as if someone didn’t disconnect your cell while you were imitating a vegetable. It’s not like you gave me other methods of contacting you.” She counters, pulling away to order a coffee. “I figured you’d call when you needed something, like an asshole, but since you just got me out of the worst blind date in history, I’ll forgive you.”
“I take it granny’s still waiting for great-grandchildren.”
“Yes! She’s determined to see each of us have kids, never mind the fact my cousins have three kids each but she’s going for a record or something. She’s a hoarder of children!” She says incredulously. “I thought coming out as bi would slow her down, but it’s only doubled her matchmaking efforts.”
A tiny wave of nostalgia ripples through him as he listens to Sharon’s disgruntled ramblings. Peter kept things strictly business between most of his contacts, but Sharon was the only one he considered friendly, which was part of the reason he hadn’t tried to contact her during Beacon’s hell-years. He couldn’t stand to let her see him so weak and dependent. It was sensible to believe she cut her losses and forgot about Peter Hale, just like everyone else.
Apparently, time had not been so unkind.
“Anyways, I can’t imagine you called to catch up, though you should. What can I do for the great Peter Hale?”
“It would be easier to show you…” He sighs, attaching a photo of his transformed hand as well as some excerpts from the ritual.
She whistles lowly, checking through his images. “Fell in with the fae, huh? I swear, you never do anything by halves, Peter. Is that moss?”
“Yes…”
“Huh, weird. Can you move it at all? On the scale of substitute hands is it more Luke Skywalker or Jamie Lannister?”
“I’m not even going to bother indulging that ridiculous question.” Peter rolls his eyes. “Yes, I can move it. I can’t really...feel much with it but I’m in control of everything.”
“Spoilsport.” She mutters. “Well, no surprise here but the spell work is too far out of my realm. The array is familiar but the connecting lines are actually tiny runes. I could probably study this for a whole year and I still wouldn’t be able to map its functions. If there’s a way around it, it’s far above my pay grade.”
Peter frowns, glancing over the back of his hand, trying to perceive those same details.
“Your ritual is another issue. This is very outdated and not what you think it is. In fact, this is probably the reason your nemeton was culled and put to sleep.”
Of course, it was. Fucking druids.
“Is there a way to perform a similar binding and cleansing ritual?”
“In theory.”
“Sharon…”
“I’m thinking! There aren’t a lot of case studies about nemeta and if even half the stories about Beacon Hills are true, you’d still need an army of practitioners and a few decades to put a dent in what’s been done. You’re asking for…” She pauses and then chuckles airly. “What you need is a miracle.”
“I am aware of that…” Peter begins pinching the bridge of his nose.
“No, you don’t get it. There’s this kid, some newcomer doing impossible things. They call him: Miracle Miłosław.” She explains excitedly. “He travels around a lot, annoying old masters into taking him on as an apprentice. I think he’s in Oregon at the moment, but I’ll have to check around. You’re not going to disappear again, are you? I’d hate to line up a job for the kid only to have you end up in another coma or something.”
“It’s a wonder why I ever missed you.”
--
Peter likes to consider himself a patient man. After all, he would not have survived this long otherwise. However, this silent limbo puts him on edge. It’s been a full week since his phone call with Sharon, and it’s been at least two since Lysander’s last appearance.
To take his mind off things, he spends his time going through the contacts in his book; a few of the numbers have been disconnected, one outright laughs in his face before hanging up. Frank, a former ally, doesn’t take his call but ships a few books from his private collection. The books are disappointing and provide nothing for his current situation, as they all relate to pack hierarchy and leadership. There are even a few modern books on manners and decorum. Peter sends the asshole, a gold embossed thank you card with a bottle of vinegar.
Deaton has been more...present recently, not that Peter blames him. They give each other wide berth, stalking each other from afar like cats. Peter knows it’s only a matter of time before the vet issues a counter attack. Hopefully, odds will have shifted more in Peter’s favor by then.
Despite this new development, the mark is dormant and there’s been no expansion to his tree-flesh, though the moss clusters have started to sprout vines. It’s a small win in a sea of misses, but he’ll take it.
--
Inactivity finally gets the better of him and Peter heads back into the Hale vault to see if he can find anything else of use.
He gets lucky and uncovers a few water damaged emissary journals. Despite moldy fused pages and ink smudges, the documentation is mostly intact. Before the nemeton was culled, the pack presented offerings twice a year during each solstice. Alphas, their successors, and their emissaries would start and end festivities. Fine liquor, harvests, and animal kills were spread across the nemeton’s roots. The emissary would renew the pack’s contract with the land by painting a spell along the trunk with the collected blood from the pack. There was an important note, underlined three times, blood offerings needed to be given freely and not spilled by violence.
In a later journal, the ceremonies were different in nature, no longer full of celebration and promise but a slow lullaby. At the start of winter, Alpha and emissary would coil the stump in woven ropes of lavender, rowan, and sage. They would light both ends and wait until dawn for it to turn to ash, thus ushering another year of slumber and staving off retribution.
Somewhere along the line the ceremonies vanished, perhaps willfully given up to the modern world or forgotten by years of peace. Either way, Sharon was right. This would not be an easy fix. Even if top-shelf liquor and some incense could turn the tide, there is no pack in Beacon Hills to tend the land or hold the bond; just a packless Alpha, a shitty druid, an absent child with a handful of confused pups. Hardly a stabilizing force.
Peter heads into the preserve to look at his nemesis face-to-stump.
He strolls into the dead clearing, distracted with history and half-formed ideas and doesn’t notice until it’s too late that he’s not alone.
There’s a haggard man crouching over the roots of the tree. His red beanie is worn and small dark tufts of hair stick out from torn holes. The bottom half of his face is hidden by a long, unkempt beard and a scarf. The man pulls off a pair of gloves and tucks them into his puffy overcoat before reaching out and touching one of the gnarled roots.
“I would suggest you step away from that.” Peter warns. “Bad things tend to happen around this tree.”
The man glances up, dark familiar eyes locking on to his and for a moment Peter remembers the warm glow of mischief and venom.
“Stiles?”
“Hey, Peter.” He grins, or at least Peter thinks he does because the beard shifts upward. “Wow, you look like shit.”
“That’s hilarious coming from a dirty mountain man. I didn’t even think you could grow facial hair let alone a disgusting rat’s nest.” Peter says with revulsion.
Stiles tips his head back and laughs, it’s a strange, free sound, intoxicating enough to put a smile on his own face. The few laughs Peter can remember, were always tinged with bitterness and anxiety. Stiles’ knees crack a little as he unfolds himself into a stand. He’s taller with wider hands and scars on his knuckles. He wears jeans now, still distractingly tight but made for utility rather than a hopeful night out.
“I was training in Iceland, you fuck. Had to do something to keep my face warm.” He runs his fingers through the unruly mess. “Your friend told me you needed a consultant ASAP, so I figured my presence was more important than presentation.”
“There’s always time for proper hygiene.” Peter glances over him again.
“Noted. The next time you’re cursed, I’ll take the time to get fitted for a suit.” He laughs again. “Well, let’s see it. I didn’t give up my spot with the Yeti just to see your creepy face.”
Peter grumbles, slipping off his glove. “Do try to act like a professional, Miłosław.”
“People are ridiculous. That’s not even my real name, it’s just a town I happened to be in when all this ‘miracle’ business started.” Stiles rolls his eyes.
Stiles’ touch is surprisingly warm but gentle as he examines the rune work and tree-flesh. He hums to himself, brow furrowing as he traces over the array of shapes. When his thumb connects over the shard, it flashes gold and sends a shock up Peter’s forearm. Stiles jolts back at the reaction and chuckles.
“Wow, this is a pretty piece of work!” He shakes his head, whistling lowly. “Damn, Peter, you really got yourself into a mess this time. Not even the devil himself could wriggle out of this.” He shakes his head.
“With observation skills like that, it’s no wonder you’re called a miracle worker.” Peter snatches back his hand, forcing it back into the glove.
“Hey, you tormented me and my friends for the better part of my youth, I’m allowed to bask in your suffering. It’s not like you wouldn’t do the same if our positions were switched.”
He growls, feeling both odd footed and vulnerable. Had their positions been switched, he would have done more than gloat. Payment would have been steep and the begging, oh how there would be begging. Stiles always had a cruel streak that rivaled his own, Peter steadies himself for the hours of mocking and the humiliation of bargaining.
“So if you can’t help with this, I’m hoping you’ll be more useful for that.” He gestures to the stump.
“I hadn’t heard anything too crazy over the last couple years, I thought things had settled down after I left.” Stiles looks down at it and sighs. “It’s a little hard to say, I need more information...and a shower.”
“On that, we agree.”
--
Stiles immediately makes himself at home. He ditches his boots by the door, unloads his backpack and duffle on the couch, and drapes his disgusting hobo jacket over Peter’s favorite chair. By the time Peter comes back with a hot mug of tea, Stiles is slipping five sweaters over his head at once. A flash of pale flesh derails Peter’s annoyance. While the show only lasts a second, it’s enough time for Peter to catalog the touch of ink along Stiles’ ribs and the wide scar bisecting the dark trail of hair along his stomach. The wolf licks its lips and Peter has to agree, time away from Beacon Hills looks good on the boy.
“See something you like?” Stiles grins knowingly, catching Peter’s distracted stare.
Peter takes the opportunity to openly leer. Stiles’ body is a reflection of his travels and training, he’s lean but built. His shoulders are wider and carry the extra weight of new muscle sinfully. More than that, Stiles seems completely comfortable and at rest. There’s no frenetic movement or nervous ticks. He still speaks with his hands but not with such wide gestures. He can’t scent any medication and for as grimy as he looks, he hardly can pick up a smell at all.
He places a hand up, covering Stiles face and nods begrudgingly.
“Nothing that a paper bag won’t fix.”
“Oh fuck off.” Stiles huffs, grabbing a wad of clothes from his duffle. “I expect to be fed when I get back. Lots and lots of food! No fish, I’m sick of it.”
--
Peter’s lived nearly two decades on his own, yet It’s disturbingly easy to accept Stiles into his home.
After some minor posturing, leaving his clothes all around the living room, and eating Peter’s kitchen bare, Stiles finally shaves off his beard and settles in like he’s always been there. They dance around each other in the early darkness of the morning. Peter knows how Stiles likes his eggs, and the boy often indulges Peter’s sweet tooth with recipes he’s picked up on his travels.
The afternoons and evenings are spent researching. Stiles has access to far more resources than Peter does. Beyond the work and people, he’s helped over the years, the boy’s disarming personality makes people want to help him. Tomes, scrolls, and herbs, show up to his door daily since Stiles’ first outreach. The living room is mostly printouts, yarn, and sticky notes.
On the weekends, Peter drives Stiles into the preserve to commune with the tree. Stiles goes into a trance for hours while Peter sits uselessly on the opposite side of the nemeton. The first few times are mind-numbingly boring but their more recent visits have sparked attention from an unseen pair of eyes. He’s almost positive it’s Deaton.
The Sunday after a particularly long meditation session, Stiles closes himself up in Peter’s office and spends the majority of the day arguing with one of his mentors. He doesn’t emerge for another two days.
--
The wolf alerts him to an intruder in the middle night. Peter is surprised to find Stiles perching on the side of the bed watching him. There’s a small dusting of patchy stubble around his jawline and puffy dark circles hang under his eyes, but his look is sharp and unyielding. Caution seeps coldly against the back of his neck, though he schools his features into something neutral.
“Trying to take my nickname for your own?”
Stiles is unphased. “What do you want out of this, Peter?”
Peter glances towards his plagued hand and Stiles rolls his eyes.
“More than your freedom. Let’s say it all works out in your favor. Nemeton is cleansed, you get to keep the red, you kill Deaton, then what?”
“Are you worried about your precious McCall?”
“You’re not going to kill Scott because you’re not stupid.” Stiles says matter-of-factly. “I want to know what kind of Alpha you’re going to be. Neglectful like Laura. Unbalanced like Derek. Self-serving and cruel like the first time? What’s the game plan, Alpha?”
The weight of Stiles’ questions is oppressive, he wants to offer up another joke, something to lighten the air in the room but he can’t look away from those golden eyes. He thinks back to the journals and the research plastering the walls of his home. Somehow this has become more than saving himself. His wager with Lysander may have been poorly made under the influence, but Peter no longer has the desire to dominate anymore. He doesn’t want power for the sake of it. He doesn’t want to rule over a kingdom of ash and suffering. Claiming his inheritance is more than just reclaiming land, it’s about caring for the territory and the people in it.
“Harmony.” The word slips out faster than he can think about it.
“I was an excellent second. Talia was the face, sweet politics and handshakes and I was her shadow, keeping us safe. I slipped past defenses, exploited weaknesses and ruthlessly disposed of threats. When I was Alpha, I wasn’t in my right mind. I wanted vengeance for my family, for my pain.
I made mistakes. Even after, I still didn’t understand what it meant to be a good Alpha, I only knew how I didn’t want to be. Not lulled into a false sense of security like Talia. Not a bleeding heart like Scott. I approached the role like a second: gather assets, strength, eliminate threats. But dominance, brute force, and unrelenting will won't make a pack strong and it’s not what Beacon Hills needs. I’m not going to make the same mistakes. I’ll find someone worthy, I won’t make another Scott.”
“Scott isn’t that bad.” Stiles huffs. “He’s got a good heart. He believes that people are generally good and can rise to the occasion to be more.”
“Funny how that morality and forgiveness only extends to a select few.” Peter growls. “Gerard gets a free pass to come and try to murder us again and again, yet he kicked you out so easily.”
Stiles blinks, a little stunned.
“Aw, did you miss me creeper?” He laughs airly. “Scott and I were already on a bad road before Theo started whispering in his ear. Neither of us wanted to admit that things haven’t been okay since...the whole fox thing. Kicking me out of his pack was more of a release than a punishment. I don’t think I would have left Beacon Hills so easily otherwise.”
“He’s a child playing at war.”
“Maybe, but you just said yourself, dominance and brute force are not the answer.”
“Neither is blind idealism.”
“Well, the good thing about harmony is you get the best of both.” Stiles pats Peter’s face gently and winks.
He curls his lip over his teeth, making Stiles grin wider as he continues to trace his fingers into Peter’s hair. His eyelids flutter shut at the lingering scratches. The wolf melts at the attention and Peter silently chides his other half for being so easy, even as he leans into the gentle touch. Stiles eventually shifts further onto the bed, slowly slotting against Peter’s side, never once halting his ministrations.
“So, did I pass?” He purrs, pulling Stiles closer and nosing at his neck.
“Just barely.”
--
Peter awakes the next day to an empty apartment. There’s a stack of folders on the coffee table and a neon blue sticky note on top.
‘Stay out of the preserve. Be back around six, order three large pizzas and Thai curry. -Your Miracle Worker’
He shakes his head and opens up the first folder on the stack. He’s not surprised that it’s a dossier. There’s a driver’s license photo of a young woman, along with her health information and supernatural status. The margins are filled with Stiles’ chicken scratch. The second candidate is a newly turned wolf and a recent UCLA graduate. ‘His resting bitch face can give Derek’s eyebrows a run for their money.’ Peter skims through a few more and finds that these aren’t just random people Stiles has selected, but people he’s encountered and helped in the past.
He freezes for a moment, hands clenching the files. Stiles is giving Peter people he personally trusts, not only that but he’s trusting Peter with his friends.
“Well, this was definitely not an outcome I could have predicted. Sparks are so unpredictable.” Lysander appears on the opposite couch. He leans forward and pulls one of the folders from the pile. “You know, for a wolf who supposedly values your freedom you sure like to get yourself into binding commitments: me, the nemeton, your little miracle worker.”
Peter snatches the folder back and snarls at the fae, who only smiles wider.
“No need to get touchy. Interesting things happen when a Spark decides to settle. We could use a breath of magic to liven this place up!”
“It’s felt pretty lively to me.”
A flickering warmth rises in his chest and for a brief moment, he can feel Stiles as if he were sharing the same couch. Something stretches between them, a beginning, soft and fragile but present and vibrating cheerfully. The boy is growing tired but remains focused on his task. Peter sends a pulse through the growing bond and receives a grateful push back. Under that string, there’s another connection reaching out towards him, ancient, wary, and hopeful. Peter and his wolf extend out, feeding promises of protection and goodwill into the forming bond before a violent stab of ice slices both cords and leaves him dizzy and raw.
His wolf howls as the markings on his hand flare to life, vines twist up, climbing higher along his forearm and expanding the tree-flesh halfway to his elbow.
“What the hell?” His eyes flicker towards Lysander.
“It appears someone tried to interrupt your boy.” The fae’s smile turns sharp.
Peter immediately stands, letting the files fall to the ground as he starts towards the door. An invisible force yanks him back onto the couch.
“No, need for heroics. The Spark more than capable of fending for himself without your interference.” Lysander chides.
“Then why is my hand like this? If Stiles is succeeding in cleansing the tree, then my skin should clear up.”
“Should it? I don’t think that was the wager.” Lysander drops his chin into his hand and taps a finger against his chin.
“Stabilize Beacon Hills…”
“There it is.” He nods smugly. “The nemeton is one step in the right direction but there’s still plenty of opportunities to succeed or fail. Ah, what’s that saying…” He squints. “Just enough rope to hang yourself?”
Peter clenches his jaw.
“Oh don’t look so distressed. You got what you wanted and more: Alphahood and immortality. Not bad for a drunken night out!”
“You. The journals…”
Lysander’s face grows dark and the first hint of Other rises around his eyes and mouth, glittering and dark. The room feels hot and thick, the light filtering in through the window somehow dims.
“The nemeton was my gift to Oliphia and her brother Josiah at the beginning of all. For awhile their families kept the old ways, honored our treaty, but over time they forgot. They began to shift and change with the times. The nemeton isn’t just a tree or a hub, it connects worlds. Neglect has made both our people suffer. But you, Peter Hale, understand now the importance of pack, land, and people. You’ve witnessed first-hand bloodshed and chaos, so who better to keep the ways?”
The fae takes a steadying breath, the room eases, light slowly filtering back in. “I wish you the best of luck, Peter. I’ll be seeing you.”