Chapter Text
Something is burning.
The smell hits Peter first. Smoke and burning wood. He turns around a corner and sees the sparks flying high above the shadows of trees, the night sky lightened up by blazing flames and the flashing lights of firetrucks. The roof of a house is on fire. Peter shivers and stares at the flames licking the wood hungrily. He's transfixed. His heart is pounding.
People - gazers - are standing on the street, whispering to each other.
Peter takes a few steps back, trying to disappear in the shadows. He feels his control slipping and fears someone might see his eyes gleaming. The memories are still too fresh. The memories of the fire that consumed his family years ago. He reaches up unconsciously, touching the side of his face where the scars still linger. They are fainter by now, but not yet completely gone.
Peter feels sick. And slightly angry. Is there any way he can go a day without being reminded of what happened? He just wanted to take a walk in peace, and now he basically stumbles over a fire. Well. Now he definitely has something to tell his therapist.
Peter sighs and wants to walk away, back to where he came from. But then, he hears the scream. It almost sounds like a pained howl. Peter freezes. He knows this noise. It’s the noise someone makes, when they are about to lose a loved one. He turns his head and sees someone stumbling towards the burning house, before a fireman reaches out, holding the man back.
The man makes that horrible noise again. He says something to the fireman, gripping the other man’s shoulders tightly. Peter focuses on his voice, wanting to hear. “Please, my son … My son is in there!” The man rambles. His face is contorted in desperation, his voice hoarse from the smoke he must have inhaled. “Please, you have to … Please … I have to go in there. I have to save him!”
“You can’t go in there, Sheriff. It’s too dangerous. We will get him out, I promise,” the fireman says, trying to sound calm. But his heartbeat and his scent tell Peter he doesn’t know if they will get the kid out of there.
The man - the father - makes a desperate noise and lowers his head. Sheriff … Oh. Peter recognizes him now and his stomach sinks. It’s Sheriff Stilinski. The one and only man that wanted to believe Peter, when he told him it wasn’t an accident but arson. The man who nodded and said he was going to reopen the case. The man who already convinced everyone else that there was no technical problem leading to the fire. The man who definitely belongs to the less insufferable humans Peter knows.
The man whose wife died in the same hospital Peter lay in. The man who has a son. Peter knows him. Stiles, the kid calls himself. Stiles. Because his real name is …
“It’s unspeakable. When people try to say it, it sounds like a curse in a foreign language. So I tell them to call me Stiles. That’s easier. Some people say it’s not a name but I like it,” the boy with the tousled hair rambled happily, kicking his feet into the air where he was sitting on a chair beside Peter’s bed, shifting restlessly. He was never still. He was always moving. Always talking. He filled Peter’s usually silent room with liveliness. Peter didn’t mind hearing something else than the steady beeping of the heart monitor or the noise of hasty footsteps walking past his room without faltering. He hasn’t had any visitors in years.
Stiles first came stumbling into his room weeks ago, wiping tears from his face with the sleeve of his too big shirt. He dropped in a chair and wept, rocking back and forth gently. If Peter could, he would have frowned and asked what the hell the brat was thinking. He was just coming out of his mind because the pain became bearable, but he couldn’t react to his surroundings, which apparently made everyone think he wasn’t alert. Peter wished they were right.
After a long while, Stiles stopped crying and sniffed. When he spoke, his voice was broken and small. “I’m sorry, Sir. I know I’m not supposed to go into the rooms, but … I needed a place to hide. My mom is dying. Well. They tell me she’s still fighting, but I know they’re lying. She’s going to die soon and everyone looks at me like … like ... I hate the looks they give me. I hate how they talk to me. I just … I needed to see something else. I hope you’re not terribly angry at me. I’m leaving soon. Sorry.” He stopped talking, maybe waiting for an answer. When none came, the kid asked, “Sir? Can you hear me?”
Perfectly. Peter just couldn’t react. Or tell Stiles to talk a little bit quieter.
The boy was silent for a moment. Then, he hopped from the chair and carefully approached the bed. His tear-stained face appeared above Peter’s, and the kid gasped, his eyes widening. “Shit,” he said matter of factly, and then quickly added, “Sorry. That’s a bad word. I am not supposed to use it. Uh. You look like Two-Face. Oh sorry. I guess it’s not polite to say that to someone. Ah. Uhm.” His face disappeared and a moment later, there was the noise of papers being flipped. Peter guessed the boy was going through the file attached to his bed. “Oh shit,” the kid murmured again, immediately mumbling another apology that didn’t sound like he meant it. “You’re Peter Hale! You survived that big fire years ago.”
He did. Unfortunately.
Stiles' face appeared again. “I’m sorry you lost your family. Uh. I’m also sorry I disturbed you. I mean, I don’t know if you even hear me, but if you do, yeah, I’m sorry. Uh... Bye.” The kid left abruptly, and Peter almost wished he would have stayed.
Stiles came back the next day, putting a flower on the window sill. It smelled nice. At least it was something else than disinfectant and the too sweet perfume of his current nurse. The kid told Peter he brought his mother the same flowers and since Peter's room was so empty, he thought he would bring him one too. Then he left again. As sudden as he came.
Stiles’ visits became regular. One day, he appeared in the room, munching a chocolate bar. The smell was heavenly. Peter hasn't eaten properly in years. He’s fed through a tube. “A very rude nurse told me you won’t wake up ever again, you know. Well, to be honest I wouldn’t want to wake up to a world without my family either,” Stiles told him, sitting in his chair again, his feet dangling above the floor. “I can understand being scared of being alone.” The kid was silent for a while. Then he whispered, “I don’t want my mother to die, Peter. I really don’t want her to die. I wish, there was a way to save her. A miracle.” Stiles sniffed and shrugged and told Peter more about his family. About his brave sheriff father who always tried his best to solve every crime and do everyone justice. About his mother who took Stiles to McDonalds on "good days" and dressed up as Superheroes with him. She sounded nice. Peter wondered if the bite could save her, but he never saw someone that sick get bitten.
He started to feel bad for the boy.
When Stiles came into his room someday, sobbing and clutching at his chest, basically falling on his bed face-forward, Peter knew what happened, before the kid stumbled out, “She’s … she’s gone. My mother. She’s really gone. She’s … It hurts, Peter. It hurts so much. I don’t know what to do.”
Peter wished he could wrap his arm around the kid. But he still couldn’t move more than a finger. So he had to lay there and listen to the kid’s sobs slowly fading away.
Stiles wasn’t the same after this. He was quieter and smelled differently. He still came to visit Peter though. And Peter started to really like him. His wolf purred happily when Stiles' scent flooded the room. Stiles noticed little things no one else would think about. He came in and turned Peter’s wheelchair so he wasn’t looking at a wall but out the window, at the trees and the sky. He came in and closed the curtains when the sun was shining on Peter’s skin too bright and warm. He came in and started to read to Peter. Only children’s books, of course. But it was something. While listening to Stiles’ voice, Peter started to feel calmer. More settled.
The visits went on for a long time and Peter guessed Stiles’ father approved of it. There was no way Stiles could come into his room secretly for so many weeks and months. Stiles was there, when Peter moved his hand for the first time. He didn’t notice, too busy with reading the third part of Harry Potter.
God. Snape really was a dick.
Peter is ripped out of his memories, when there’s a loud crack and a part of the burning roof collapses. The firemen are running around and yell. Some of them are apparently preparing to go in. But they are slow. Way too slow. Why are humans always so slow?!
The sheriff is sitting in the grass, numbly staring at his burning house, a hand clutching at his heart.
Peter grits his teeth. His eyes flicker from the Sheriff, to the firemen to the burning house. His wolf recoils. But Peter doesn't, because … Stiles is human. Stiles is human and small and weak. Even if the firemen get him out of the burning house, he could still die of smoke inhalation. Peter shivers. Oh God. He’s really going to do it right? Right. He's going to play hero of the day.
Peter closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. The smell makes him feel sick to his stomach. Everything inside him yells at him to turn around and run. But he can’t. Stiles doesn’t deserve to die today. He has to live. Peter doesn’t want the kid to suffer the same fate his family did.
He can’t always run away. That’s what his therapist told him too. Sometimes, you have to face things. Because running away changes little to nothing. The demons don’t stay behind. They follow you.
Peter growls and walks towards the burning house, ignoring everyone around him. He ignores the fireman telling him to stop, he ignores the burning piece of wood dropping into the grass right in front of him. He just jumps over it, running into the house.
Inside, the heat is almost unbearable. The house is filled with smoke and everything is blurry. From above, Peter can hear threatening cracking noises. He squints, pulling his shirt up to cover his nose. “Stiles?” He asks. No answer.
Peter walks further in, although everything inside of him wants to flee. The smell and the noises threaten to wake up memories he tried to bury in his mind.
He focuses and relief fills him when he can hear a rapid heartbeat. It comes from upstairs. Where the smoke floats thicker. Peter swallows and coughs, hurrying up the stairs. In the hallway above, he sees the first flames. Fire licks at the walls, the ceiling is ripped apart at some places. The roof aches and he knows he doesn’t have much time left. He focuses on the heartbeat and opens a door, to reveal what is clearly a children’s room, filled with toys and posters of sport and music stars. There are a lot of books. Heaps of them, even on the floor.
“Stiles!” Peter croaks, feeling his lungs getting dry and his mind foggy. The smoke is getting to him. When he listens closely, he can hear the echoes of screams. The screams of his dying family ... He growls and focuses on his task. Finding Stiles. “Stiles, where are you?”
He hears a whimper. It comes from under the bed. And there is the kid, curled up into himself and hugging his knees to his chest. He’s whimpering between coughs. His eyes are glassy and he’s breathing frantically. He looks like he’s in a lot of panic and probably frozen in place.
Peter reaches out a hand. “Stiles. Come out. We have to hurry.”
Stiles blinks. His mouth opens, forming an surprised o. “What … what are you doing here?” He asks. Peter realises it had been months since Stiles had seen him the last time. As soon as he could move his useless body, Peter left the hospital and for a moment, he feels surprisingly bad, imagining Stiles coming into his room, being sad and disappointed when it was empty. He shoves these thoughts away. Not now …
“I’m saving you, obviously. Now come out.” Peter looks up worriedly, the ceiling has a lot of cracks and he doesn’t know how much longer it’s going to hold.
“I can’t. I can’t move,” Stiles whispers, coughing.
“Yes you can. It’s just the fear, it makes you freeze. You have to move, Stiles."
Stiles whimpers, but he finally moves, shuffling forward until Peter can reach him. He picks the boy up and Stiles immediately wraps his thin arms around Peter’s neck, crying into his shirt. “It’s going to be alright,” Peter mumbles, pressing Stiles close. “I’ve got you.”
The ceiling creaks and the house actually moves. Peter sways and curses, knowing they really don’t have much time left. He can hear more heartbeats that tell him the firemen finally entered the house. Idiots. Peter looks to the only window in the room. That’s the fastest way out, he decides.
“I’m scared, Peter,” Stiles says, his voice muffled. For a moment, Peter wants to say me too. God, me too. But he just presses Stiles closer to him, opening the window. There are thick clouds of smoke outside. Peter looks down. It's high, but he'll manage. This time, there's a way out. This time, he'll save someone. “It’s going to be ok, Stiles. I promise. Just don’t look. Close your eyes and hold your breath.”
Stiles does as he’s told. Peter prepares to jump. He partly shifts and takes care his claws don't graze the kid's skin. He jumps and just a moment before a large piece of the ceiling collapses right were they stood, he’s out, landing on his feet heavily, Stiles still clinging to him.
“Is it over?” The kid asks weakly.
Peter nods. “It is.”
The next moment, there’s a loud scream. “Stiles!”
The sheriff comes running, a fireman next to him. Peter tells Stiles to let go and hands him to his father, who presses him to his own chest, gasping and crying.
“Dad!” Stiles coughs and reaches for his father. “Dad …”
“Stiles! Oh God … Stiles!” The Sheriff sinks into the grass, hugging his son close, crying and laughing at the same time.
Peter watches them with a strange feeling in his chest. He decides it’s time to leave. They don’t need him anymore. But when he takes a step back, the sheriff looks up at him, his eyes wide. “You saved my son’s life,” he says in wonder. “I saw you jumping with him. How …” You should be hurt, is what he doesn’t say. But it lingers between them. Too loud.
“He’s a good kid. Take care of him,” Peter murmurs to break the uncomfortable silence and looks away.
“I will,” the sheriff says quietly, burying his nose in Stiles’ hair and closing his eyes. Someone comes to check on the kid and provide him with an oxygen mask. They try to give one to Peter too, but he shakes his head.
He still watches Stiles and his father, but his eyes flicker back to the fire, and he suddenly feels very cold. “How did that happen,” he murmurs.
The sheriff looks at him. “There’s a lot of dry wood up there,” he says calmly. But he reeks of suspicion. “Could have been an accident.”
Peter doesn’t think so. He thinks the sheriff was supposed to pay for trying to find out who set the Hale house on fire many years ago, for daring to ask unwelcome questions, and he shivers in barely suppressed rage. I’m going to find out who did this. I’m going to find out, he promises to himself. He’s not really sure, what he’s going to do if he actually finds out the truth. In the last few months he tried hard to work on his control, on his damaged sanity, because he hates to not be in control, but sometimes, his wolf just wants to dig his claws into flesh, wants to tear apart whoever’s responsible for everything that happened. Sometimes, his wolf remembers the unbearable pain of snapped pack bonds and burned skin. Sometimes, hate is the only feeling that doesn't hurt.
That side of him was quieter, when Stiles was around. He looks at the tired, heavy breathing kid. His wolf softens and Peter wonders if he has just found himself a new anchor.