Chapter Text
It happens gradually, naturally, instinctually.
They’re the smart ones. The left-behind-ones. The ones who are willing to get their hands dirty and then condemned for it.
Peter wants a pack. His wolf whines for it. He made his mistake, picking Scott in his madness, but in the end, he found something much better.
Stiles.
When Peter comes back from the dead, back to himself, he has plans. Schemes, cold and calculated. Integrate himself into the pack. Prove himself useful.
Pack is protection, and omega wolves don’t last long.
And Stiles - clever, mouthy, pretty Stiles - seemed to be the only one to accept him as a real pack mate. Banter with him, unafraid, even in the face of something that could rip his throat out with ease.
Stiles keeps up with him. Listens to him. Doesn’t trust him, of course, but Peter understands that. Peter doesn’t trust anyone, either.
Plans change. Stiles has a way of creating chaos in his wake, an ever-evolving variable.
When Stiles looks at him with whiskey-colored eyes, curious or determined or vicious (the last look is Peter’s favorite, the way Stiles straightens up, sets his jaw, choosing violence over mercy) - Peter is loathe to admit it, but he’d do absolutely anything for him. Anything. Kill, maim, or even restrain from killing or maiming.
After all Stiles has been through, all he’s survived, all he’s done - to protect himself, to protect the pack. He’s the only one Peter respects. Not just smart and brave but loyal, too. The only one Peter would deign to listen to.
Peter knows not to underestimate Stiles. Peter is protective, but Stiles doesn’t really need protection. He’s learned to protect himself. Still, it itches under his skin. Stiles can’t heal like them. Stiles hurts and has been hurt so much.
Peter would gladly eviscerate any incoming threat - to himself, to Stiles, to the pack - but the last time he tried, Stiles shoved him to the side and beat it to death.
They hid that one from Scott.
Peter had to ask, then -
“Why do you care what Scott thinks?”
Hesitation, and then, “I can't always tell what's right. Scott seems to have that figured out. I rely on him to tell me. If he leaves, I don’t want to become-,” Stiles stops, bites his lip.
“Like me,” Peter finishes for him. It only stings a little. “Would that be so bad?”
Stiles looks at the ground, looks at the grave they’ve dug. Sighs. “I don’t know anymore.”
“Sometimes killing is necessary,” Peter reminds.
“I know that!” A huff, a flail of limbs and a cloud of dirt. “Like I said, I just can’t always tell when it’s necessary. Or when there’s-,” Stiles scoffs, “-a better way.”
Sometimes Peter wishes he bit Stiles, instead. Mostly he thinks that his wolf, even in its madness, identified Stiles as a predator, not prey. Not a beta, but an equal, in his own unique way.
“Me neither,” Peter concedes, “but if it’s a threat, and it’s trying to kill me or my pack, it dies.”
Stiles looks at him closely. Too closely. Whiskey eyes looking more like amber in the moonlight. Peter feels pinned. Knows - not feels - that Stiles could kill him (and he almost did it once already, didn’t he?).
Stiles can kill Peter but Peter wouldn’t kill Stiles. Couldn’t.
The power imbalance, upon realization, is less terrifying than he thought it might be.
“Yeah,” Stiles mutters, snapping Peter back into the moment. “I get it. Sometimes we have to be the bad guys, to stop the badder guys.”
Peter drives Stiles home in unusual silence - or, rather, drives him within 3 blocks of home so that his father doesn’t question the unfamiliar black Camaro that his son climbs out of.
Peter sits there, after Stiles clambers out of the car, and tries to collect his thoughts.
Peter still isn’t sure what Stiles would become if bitten. A wolf, or something else? All he knows is that Stiles would survive, because that’s what he does. It’s what they both do. Survive, against all odds. Survive things that would drive others mad because they’re both already a bit mad. Survive even death.
There’s a viciousness in Stiles that Peter sees, understands, but then there’s - other things. Strange things that make his heart do strange things, too. Peter is used to being the outsider, has learned to navigate life without relying on anyone else. He’s not used to -
A warm presence against his side while they research the latest threat, not an inkling of fear-
A huff of a laugh when Peter is being particularly snarky and clever-
A firm grip on his arm when he’s fallen-
An, “are you okay?”, said with a tone promising horror and salted earth if the answer is anything other than yes.
A command that he’s compelled to follow, “help me.”
The feeling of not just being needed, but maybe - just maybe - being wanted. Something worth protecting. Something that isn’t just left behind when it’s no longer useful.
It’s not something Peter has felt since he lost his family.
It's not something he's felt ever, really.
The pack scatters after graduation. Of course they do. They were barely a pack to begin with.
Peter stays in Beacon Hills.
He should leave, but he doesn’t.
When his family was -
fire, ash, screaming, hurt hurt hurt -
- alive, not in the dirt, not burned beyond recognition, and great, now he’s ruined his coffee table with inch-deep claw scores, get a fucking hold of yourself, Peter -
Deep breath.
Before the fire, Peter was always the one to leave. Leave for college, leave for his job, visit for holidays only, provide advice when needed from halfway across the globe.
Now he’s the one left behind.
He doesn’t need anyone, Peter lies to himself. He’s fine alone.
Then, a text.
Stiles.
Peter begrudges the leap in his heart.
hey, it's Stiles. you know, the annoying smart one who’s your favorite. you worked with the fbi and never told me? asshole. anyways i need your help.
And Peter answers, predictably, compulsively:
What do you need?