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Four final exams, two final papers, RA duties involving mediating an argument that started between two of his freshmen, and a small fire in his dorm building later, and Stiles is about ready to collapse into a coma for a week. Maybe two. Hell, he has the whole summer break, so why not the whole three months? He trudges back to his room bleary-eyed, nearly dropping his huge 68-ounce thermos thrice as he unlocks the door. He drops his bag, keys, and thermos on the floor, deciding to leave it up to fate if the lid comes undone, and falls face-down onto his bed. His pillow is heavenly.
Two beats of vibration coming from his phone are not.
Stiles convinces himself that he doesn’t need to answer it until the text message is followed up with the unending vibration of a call.
He hopes it’s Peter; with all the chaos of the end of his junior year, he hasn’t had the time to do more than stress-ramble at Peter over the phone and send angry emojis at Peter’s pictures of himself lounging on his deck of his beach house.
It’s not Peter.
With a sound of soul-deep pain, Stiles answers the call. “What’s up?”
Scott’s contact picture on his phone hasn’t been updated in five years. It’s one of him and several dogs at the clinic, taken back when Alan Deaton had only been Scott’s boss. Through the phone’s speaker Scott says, “Stiles! Hey, where have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you all week.”
Stiles turns over and stares up at the tiled ceiling. Earlier this year, one of the ceiling tiles caved in, also around finals time. Maybe he’s cursed. “Finals, remember? I texted that I’d be done by the eighth. Which is tomorrow, by the way.”
“But you’re free to talk now?”
“Yeah, fine.” Stiles tries to summon some enthusiasm.
Distance and busy schedules ensure that he and Scott don’t speak much anymore outside of pack business, while pack business itself has grown less frequent. With the original pack all across the States—and some across the world, in the case of Derek, Malia, and Cora out there backpacking through Asia—and the younger members either soon starting college or doing their own thing, there isn’t much of a Beacon Hills pack anymore. The pack is only tied together in name and the friendships they made under threat of working together or dying in the mess that was Beacon Hills.
Geographically, Stiles is closer to Peter, who’d also wound up in Southern California, though not in Stanford like Stiles. But as an alpha with a pack of his own, Peter is no longer a member of the McCall pack, if he ever was.
Stiles tries to recall what Scott’s last text message had been about. It’s been a long week. All he remembers is checking that there hadn’t been imminent danger and then asking Scott to wait a week. “Is this about the Williams pack? When are you meeting with them?”
Scott is suspiciously quiet for a moment. “Three days ago?”
“Scottie, I said not to do anything until I could be on the line.” Stiles sighs. Scott’s a big alpha. He can do this without Stiles, as he’s said many times in the past. Whatever Scott’s land deal or protection treaty decided on, it wouldn’t affect Stiles much. Ever since starting college, he’s returned to Beacon Hills less and less. He and Scott have been growing apart, and his dad accepted a promotion that led them to sell the house during Stiles’ freshman year. It was for the best; Stiles had been disquieted by the thought of leaving his dad in Beacon Hills with only Scott and his young pack for protection.
“It was fine,” Scott says with emphasis. “They invited me into their territory—”
“Oh fuck,” Stiles groans. “They did, didn’t they. Did you at least bring backup?”
“I asked Deaton to come.”
“You did.” Stiles breathes through his nose. Not his problem. Deaton is capable at what he does. Stiles doesn’t have to go back to Beacon Hills ever again if Scott accidentally bartered away the territory that has Stiles’ favorite coffee shop. “What did they want?”
“To make the area safe for anyone who isn’t human again. We’ve had all sorts of issues with hunters in the past and the Williams pack wants to create an inter-pack alliance, a coalition, to bring us together.”
“Led by their pack, of course,” Stiles says, wryly. As much as he tries not to give a shit about what goes on back home, the Williams pack irritates him on a molecular level. They’re power-hungry assholes, which he’s not against on principle, having a friendly relationship with prime manipulator Peter Hale’s pack, but they’re dicks about it. “They barely leave their own land. Who would put them in charge of an alliance?”
“They’ll prove themselves. Our pack is too small to lead unless you guys move back, so it has to be theirs.”
“So what do they want out of this?”
“Well...” Scott hedges. “Look, they’re good guys, and I had a good time on my visit. Their pack home is beautiful, it’s up in the mountains, and they have a large pack.” With every word, Stiles grows tense, because Scott should not be sounding that stiff while expounding on the virtues of the Williams pack. Especially since Scott has always told him to lay off when Stiles called the pack a werewolf cult. Scott went on to talk about the pack’s wise elders, adorable children, and, “Lots of singles.”
“Sign them up for the Bachelor: Werewolf Edition,” Stiles says, uncaring.
“That’s the thing: they brought up the idea of our packs intermingling through marriage, since many modern packs lean toward being made up of younger members. It’s hard to date someone who’s not in the know and I thought... it would be a good idea.”
Stiles rubs his forehead, trying to understand what Scott is getting at. He hasn’t had nearly enough sleep this week to have a functional brain. “Good for you. I hope you meet someone you like.”
“You, too,” Scott says, automatically.
“I’m not available.”
“...I might have told them you were,” Scott blurts out.
Auditory hallucinations are a side effect of lack of sleep. It feels as though a vice grips Stiles’ lungs as he works out what Scott is trying to say. “What exactly did you tell them?”
“They were talking about marriage, and the future of werewolf kind, and unity, and—”
“I don’t care what they said. What did you say?”
“That you would marry into their pack if the coalition succeeds. It won’t be that different than what you’re doing now, I know you don’t want to come back to Beacon Hills, and this means you can live with them! It’s good there. I said that the coalition has to have been successful for at least a year for the proceedings to go through, so there’s time for you to finish your degree. I even met most of their single pack members. They’re nice, friendly. I think you’ll like Casey. She’s about our age, very pretty. She’s been a werewolf for three years and...”
Stiles tunes him out for a long moment. He reaches down from the bed to grab the thermos. He’s going to need more caffeine to fix this. His hands aren’t steady, and not only because of the coffee jitters. After taking a swig, Stiles says, “And what does Deaton think about this?”
“Um.”
“He approves of it,” Stiles gathers. “Can’t wait to get rid of me.”
“Stiles! He’s not like that. You know he’s not. Deaton has been here for us all along. He thinks this would be a great opportunity for you. Not like where you are now.”
“Where I am now,” Stiles repeats, each word clipped.
“You know what you’ve been doing. You do more for Peter Hale and those people he’s conned into joining his pack than mine. People are saying his wards are the strongest in the state and how do you think that makes me look. I’m the true alpha. I’m your alpha. And you said you weren’t even coming home this summer. How do you think that looks to the other packs?”
“Is that what this is about? You’re jealous of Peter? Scott, we’ve been best friends all our lives. I went through hell with you, for you, back in Beacon Hills when it got as bad as it ever did. Everything I did was for the old pack, to keep us all alive. I’m happy at Stanford. Do you know how many times I nearly got killed this year? None. The one time I went into a fight, it was just to mediate the dispute after Peter had already kicked their asses. And you’re right, he’s not my alpha, but neither are you if this is the kind of shit you’re going to do. Email me a copy of whatever you signed. I don’t care what arrangements you already made, there will be a way out of it. I’ll pave the fucking way if I have to.”
By the end of his speech, Stiles’ tone is cold enough to cut. He hits the end call button, sets the phone aside, and covers his face with his pillow. Maybe this is all one long hallucination. Maybe he can go to sleep and wake up to find that Scott’s developed a deranged sense of humor. Stiles closes his eyes for just a moment, giving into his exhaustion.
He must pass out because the next thing he knows, he’s waking up.
Stiles blinks several times to focus his vision and reaches for his phone. There are several photographs of a document sent from Scott, as well as an apology followed up by the assurance that this will be a great thing for both their pack and the Williams pack. Stiles ignores the assurances in favor of reading the document. If looks could kill, every single person who signed would be dead twice over.
Technically speaking, werewolf law isn’t binding in say, the United States court system. The Williams pack can’t take him to court for not fulfilling a contracted signed by someone who bears no relation to Stiles. Even if he did, Stiles is over the age of majority. It wouldn’t matter. It’s the twenty-first century; they don’t do arranged marriages like that anymore here.
More relevantly to Stiles’ situation, the supernatural population doesn’t subscribe to something as petty as their country’s legal system. Werewolf society, spread out as it is, is based on power, loyalty, and tradition. The Williams pack and several others that Stiles has encountered take it to cultish extremes. There is loyalty to one’s alpha, and then there’s slavish devotion while mostly cut off from the outside world.
All he has to do is invalidate the contract or find a way to ensure that the Williams pack loses interest in him.
As in all things, power talks.
Stiles thinks about the issue until his head aches, then he calls Malia to bitch about it. Traveling with Derek and Cora, she’s out of the loop on both the various McCall pack drama and from Peter’s pack, which she’s a part of. She’s been gone all year and Stiles has missed her. One of the better parts of working with Peter’s pack is working alongside Malia, who’s only grown closer to him after their failed attempt at dating back in high school.
It’s either late or early where she is. Malia answers the call with a deep, rumbling growl, and Stiles smiles despite himself at the knowledge that she’d probably slept in her beta shift. She hadn’t let go of that habit even after all these years.
The menace of her growl is less effective from across the planet, and Stiles tells her so. To make up for it, he says, “You want to hear about something stupid?”
“Make it quick. I was sleeping.” Despite her words, she hears him out as Stiles gives a blow by blow account of his conversation with Scott. By the time Stiles finishes, she’s growled twice, and not at Stiles this time. “What the fuck,” Malia says, and doesn’t stop cursing for a while. Derek’s voice echoes in the background and Malia explains to him that, “Scott’s being an idiot,” before continuing. After a while, she says, “Well, it’s clear what you have to do.”
Stiles nods glumly. “Kill Scott?”
“No. I mean, yes, but first you should marry my dad.”
“What.”
Malia doesn’t seem to see the issue. “What? You need to make sure they can’t get your claws into you and they wouldn’t dare fuck with another alpha.”
Stiles gapes wordlessly for a moment. “I’m not a— a— maiden in need of someone protecting my honor.”
“Peter’s not interested in protecting your honor,” Malia says.
Stiles can hear her smirk from across the ocean. “No, thank you.”
“Just because I can’t hear your heartbeat from here doesn’t mean I don’t know you want him.”
On Malia’s end, Cora yells, “Go to sleep! And tell him to just fuck him already, I’m sick of hearing about—”
The sound of a door shutting muffles the rest of Cora’s words just as they were getting interesting. It’s too much to hope for that Peter may have talked about him. It’s more likely that Malia has relayed how much Stiles talks about Peter, and how much time Stiles spends with Peter, and how much Stiles not so secretly wants to fuck Peter. Now that marriage may or may not be on the table, Stiles flushes at the realization that he wouldn’t mind that, either.
But Stiles’ reasons stay the same, as they have for years. “There’s no such thing as no strings attached when it comes to alphas. I can’t fuck him without things going complicated, fast, and neither can I just marry him without being brought into his pack.”
“What’s wrong with joining his pack?”
“The small fact that I’m already part of one.”
Malia is silent for a moment, long enough for Stiles’ words to hover between them. After everything she’s been through, everything they all have, Malia’s always told him to do exactly as he likes. She’s never liked Scott, but she’s never tried to convince him to cut ties like she and Cora had. Derek hadn’t done the same, although Stiles doubts they’re in frequent contact.
“Do you really still want to be part of his pack?”
Stiles swallows. “He’s my best friend.”
“He used you as a bargaining chip.”
“That doesn’t make him bad. Just... inept at some things.”
“Don’t you want an alpha who’s more than just inept?”
Stiles closes his eyes, breathes deeply. “I could just cut ties with all alphas. Be a strong, confident spark who doesn’t need an alpha.”
“Or you could join us here. The Williams pack wouldn’t search all of Kazakhstan to find you.”
“They might,” Stiles groans.
The Williams’ pack’s alpha has been weird about Stiles for years. The McCall and Williams packs had first met back during Stiles’ senior year of high school when a wendigo had run from the Williams pack’s land toward Beacon Hills. They’d worked together to find and kill him before he could kill another human. Each day the cooperative effort stretched was a day too long in Stiles’ opinion. Jake, the alpha, had been creepily invested in Stiles’ abilities from the moment they met. Stiles had said goodbye to him not knowing whether the man wanted to fuck him or own him more. When Jake reached out to him about a wards issue he was having, Stiles directed him to Deaton and washed his hands of him. Or so he’d thought.
Jake had reached out a few times over the years, always with an undercurrent of something Stiles couldn’t quite put his finger on, but was put off by each time. Maybe it’s just the way the Williams pack treats their alpha—with cultish adoration, opening every door for him and making sure he always has a drink on hand—or the way Jake takes it all as his due. Stiles doesn’t intend to get caught up in that.
He takes a day to think about it, needing a full night’s rest to put his brain back to rights and a full day to research his problem. He gets Derek’s opinion, seeing as Derek knows werewolf culture better than he does, and then Lydia’s, and lets Lydia spread the news to the rest of their pack and former pack. If Scott tried to barter off Stiles, then he might do the same with the others.
Inevitably, Stiles goes to see Peter.
He could have started with Peter. Being older and wilier, he’s an even better resource for the ins and outs of werewolf culture, but Stiles hadn’t wanted Peter to charge in on his behalf. He knows without a doubt that Peter would. It’s flattering, how much Peter wants him in his pack, how much he always has, even if Stiles has always tried so hard to not be flattered.
Instead of heading into the city, he turns his trusty jeep toward the beach.
It’s still early in the season, but Peter’s summer schedule has already begun. During the week, he’ll be in his San Francisco apartment, high up in a luxury building whose price Stiles had to redact in his mind so as not to boggle each time he remembered. On the weekends, and into the workweek as the summer grows longer, Peter stays in his even more ridiculous beach house. Stiles makes fun of him for his commitment to materialism almost as often as he secretly revels in sipping mixed drinks on the beach and staying in one of Peter’s guest bedrooms. The house has an honest to god library; Stiles would hate Peter if he could.
He parks in the driveway at almost the same time as a few of Peter’s other pack members, who arrive in an SUV and greet him warmly. Maggie and Mila and their kids are the only family unit within the Hale pack, which leans toward young professionals. Peter has several lawyers and paralegals, all of whom he denies mentoring despite helping them with their careers, and doesn’t deny the possibility of one day setting up an all-supernatural law office.
“I would have joined the pack just for the beach house,” Maggie sighs as the kids run off into the house. “Are you here for the weekend?”
“Maybe,” Stiles hedges. “Depends on how things go with Peter.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Gonna let us eavesdrop?”
“No, but if you get me drunk enough, I’ll tell you what my former alpha tried to do,” Stiles says.
He grimaces, but calling Scott his former alpha doesn’t hurt as much as he thought it would have. Once upon a time, Stiles would have rejected the very thought of leaving Scott behind. He’d been unsure about going even as far as to Stanford for college. Scott had been a factor in Stiles deciding to stay within the state. With most of the older members of the pack gone or making plans to leave, Stiles wanted to be there for him. And he was, time and again. Friendship isn’t based on a system of quid pro quo. Scott doesn’t owe him anything. But hell, Stiles had expected more than this from his best friend.
Maggie’s eyebrows raise at the emphasis on former. “Wow. Good for you, I’ll hold you to it.”
She snags one of her kids by the arm before he can slip out of the car unseen and brandishes a bottle of sunscreen towards him.
Stiles takes the steps up to the beach house, then steps inside. It feels like home. It always has. Part of it is the fact that he’d carved and painted protection into the whole house. The rest is just that it is a home. It’s where Peter holds his monthly pack meetings and where everyone tramples through each summer. Stiles has his own key, but it’s rarely necessary to use. Two of Peter’s betas live here at the moment and the doors are usually open.
And maybe some of it is that Stiles knows Peter’s pack about as well as you can know anyone. He’d vetted all of them before they’d joined Peter’s pack. Early in his first year of college, Peter had asked Stiles to be his first pack member now that he was an alpha again. Stiles had declined. That hadn’t stopped him from helping Peter in everything else.
Maybe it’s Stiles’ fault that his and Scott’s friendship had fallen apart. It had felt so good to be eighteen and free from Beacon Hills, working with an alpha who openly valued Stiles’ opinions and took Stiles’ recommendations to heart. Two and a half years later, Stiles wants to say he regrets it. He can’t.
Stiles takes a moment to say hello to the kids and exclaim over their newest interests—Yu-Gi-Oh is making a comeback, who knew?—and heads for Peter’s favorite room. Incidentally, it’s also Stiles’. At two floors and thousands of books, the library is obnoxiously, amazingly large, with texts on the supernatural as well as many that are there just because. At least twice a year, Stiles sneaks new YA novels onto Peter’s shelves. So far, Peter has only drawn the line at Twilight, and that had been more of a joke anyway.
Peter’s sprawled out on one of the couches. As Stiles approaches, Peter sets aside his book and provides Stiles with his full attention.
The second Stiles sees him, he knows he’s been betrayed. Stiles points at him, aghast. “Malia told you.”
Peter looks at him like the wolf who caught the canary. “There’s a reason why she’s my favorite pack member. She was worried you would do something stupid—like take on the entire Williams pack yourself.”
“Or that I’d agree to get hitched?”
Peter shoots him a look. “You wouldn’t be that stupid.”
“Maybe I’ve already fallen in love with my future spouse,” Stiles says for the sake of the argument, plopping down in the armchair across from Peter. “You don’t know my heart.”
“Mm. How is our dear friend Jake doing? Still on various cult watchlists?”
Stiles huffs, loudly, all the air going out of him. “Fuck him and his creepy obsession with controlling his pack. And fuck Scott, too. I didn’t expect this from him. He’s always said that I would like Jake if I got to know him—fat chance—but I thought he’d at least understood the fact that I’m not some piece of property to be bartered in an alliance. What the hell does the Williams pack need protection from? They live in the middle of nowhere! Even hunters keep away from them because they don’t want to deal with their whackadoodle ways.”
“Can I read the agreement?”
“Sure,” Stiles says. He’d printed it out for this very reason.
Peter makes a face at the wrinkles on the paper from having been folded into Stiles’ pocket. He accepts it anyway, reading in silence for a few minutes while Stiles makes himself comfortable. He should have grabbed a snack from the kitchen on his way in. He’s too comfortable to move now. On the Stiles hierarchy of needs, not much beats being comfortable and surrounded by books and something to snack on. Oh, and personal freedom, because apparently that isn’t a given to some people.
“I can see Deaton’s handiwork,” Peter eventually says.
Stiles glances over. Peter’s on the third page. “The part about me not being able to serve as their official emissary even after I marry in? Yeah, he’s still on about me refusing to take the druid vows. Creepy asshole even tried to con me into taking them when I was eighteen.”
Peter looks up at that, a black look in his eyes. “You never told me that.”
Stiles shrugs, looking toward his favorite bookshelf instead of directly Peter’s way. “I didn’t know any better at the time. It was the summer after I graduated from high school. There wasn’t anyone to tell me that sparks weren’t a danger to society. You and Chris had already left town—I had no idea that I’d see you again a month after moving into the dorms—and everyone was busy with their own shit. I was thrilled that Deaton had agreed to give me some training until I realized it came at a price and everything he was teaching me made me out to be wrong just for existing. Scott kept telling me I should trust him, that if I did it then one day I might be the pack’s emissary. I stepped back to clear my head, thought about what was going on, and filed for early move-in to Stanford.”
“I should have known something was wrong when you rampaged my library about information on human magic users. Deaton had no right to do that. Do you want me to take care of him for you?”
“No, no murder. I’ll figure out what to do about him and Scott when I’m free from that crap,” Stiles says, nodding toward the contract. “I already made sure the rest of the pack knows about what Scott might try to do, not that I think he’d do it to the others. The Williams pack doesn’t want them as much—and Deaton doesn’t want to get rid of them.” He scowls. “As if I’d ever want to be a druid. Upholding the balance is bullshit when it means not being able to take a side. It’s not in my nature to sit back and let things happen.”
“And whose side have you decided to join?” Peter asks. He leans in, and Stiles can almost see the alpha red behind the blues of his eyes.
Stiles raises an eyebrow. “Are you trying to poach me?”
“For years, yes.”
“You’ve never put it out in the open.”
“But you’ve known it was an option.”
Stiles swallows. He can’t deny it. “Yeah. I have.”
“I didn’t want to force your hand or cause you to choose between myself and Scott. Not only because I didn’t know if you would choose me, but because I was the catalyst to what Scott has become. I bit him and started him down this path.”
“Do you feel guilty about it?” Stiles asks, honestly curious. Peter has a well-hidden meditation, yoga-type side, and he’s spoken more than once about staying in the present. Stiles has never commented on it; if that’s the way Peter wants to deal with the fire and the loss of his first pack, then Stiles will buy him a meditation candle if needed.
“Thoughtful, perhaps,” Peter says, a wry tug to his lips. “Scott’s decisions are his own, no matter what I did five years ago.” He places the papers on top of the table next to his seat. “If you’re not a part of Scott’s pack, they won’t be able to enforce the agreement. You should look into joining another pack, one that can provide you with backup in case the Williams pack retaliates. Mine has a position open, if you will.”
“What about when you find an actual emissary? I know there are a few druids in the area.” Stiles tries not to think about that possibility. Stiles has been Peter’s acting emissary for a while, filling the gaps until Peter finally finds whoever he’s looking for, and it would hurt to step back.
“Ones you’ve already introduced me to with decreasing subtlety. Druids aren’t necessary to a pack.” Peter gives Stiles a slow, evaluating look, and adds, “In case I haven’t made it clear—I want you in my pack, Stiles, as my emissary, and as my second in command. The position has been yours unofficially since I became an alpha and even if you don’t accept now, the offer will stay on the table.” With a smile, but with the same sincerity, he adds, “You can even marry me if you’d like. It would keep you from needing to worry about the Williams pack snatching you up to marry you off.”
“I’d only marry you for money, not because the Williams pack forced my hand.”
“Who says you can’t do that? I’ve always wanted a trophy husband.” Peter’s smile widens, and he looks so entertained by the idea. There’s still something calculating about his expression, but it says join me, play with me, let’s see what we can do. It promises the two of them on the same side, standing tall against everything the world throws at them.
Stiles breathes deeply, honestly, and admits to himself that he’s wanted this for so fucking long. When he stands, it’s only to take a step forward, to grasp Peter’s outstretched hand, to be pulled in physically as he already has in every other way. It feels like a dream to kiss Peter, like every dream Stiles has ever had, half-remembered and left wanting more.
“There’s nothing wrong with you or your magic,” Peter murmurs in between kisses. “I can prove it to you if you’d like.”
“I believe you,” Stiles says, simply. “But you can still help me plot my revenge.”
“It would be my honor.”
Later, Stiles will announce to Peter’s pack that he’s decided to join it (to variations on the word “finally” in response), and he will find his promised drink and kick back on the beach, and build a sandcastle or two with the kids. But for now, there’s just the two of them in the silence of the library, alpha and emissary, wolf and his chosen mate.