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It would kill his Grandma Babcia to hear him say this, but Stiles isn't a religious person.

Though, he supposes, it's only one more thing to add to the long, long list of things she hates that come out of his mouth; the very first one of which being that he never grew out of calling her Grandma Babcia. Not his fault his undiagnosed ADHD childhood brain decided that calling her essentially "Grandma Grandma" was the easiest way to learn the polish word.

But, no, Stiles was not one to worship any type of deity. He and his parents never went to church even when he was a child - John Stilinski always being on the clock with a hectic schedule as a sheriff-destined deputy and Claudia Stilinski not having the energy to even try getting her spastic son to sit down for two hours straight in a crowded pew filled with noisy, pokey busy bodies - but his mother believed in a God. He assumes the Christian one since that's the one Grandma Babcia still prays to despite it not saving her daughter. Maybe Stiles could have been religious in some sense if his life had gone just a bit differently - he has a curious enough nature to have possibly converted once he'd done expansive research and found something that stuck.

That's no longer in the cards, though. After stumbling his way into the supernatural world and having to survive neverending hoards of bloodthirsty, self-righteous, unfeeling monsters, humans, and sick fucks that are a bit of both, Stiles thinks that if there were any cosmic power out there wordlessly watching all this unfold then they don't deserve to be worshipped.

These are exactly his thoughts as he wanders the Beacon Hills preserve at three in the god-forsaken morning with nothing but a bat, his phone, and a Banshee by his side.

Does it make sense to have Lydia and Stiles, two out of the only three pack members without claws or fangs, pair up? No. Did they any way because it was the only method to get Scott to pair up with Kira? Yes. Yes, they did.

In all fairness, Stiles would prefer to have Lydia be his partner than anyone else in the pack with the exception of Malia. No offense to most of them, but the others have invested interests elsewhere in varying directions.

A vibration in the back pocket of his jeans pocket pulls him back into his drearily dim existence in the middle of the dark, dreaded woods. The only light besides the looming, waning moon high in the midnight cloudless sky is Stiles' screen waking in his hands. What he finds there is disappointing but expected.

"Scott says that we should all go home and sleep," he sums up the text message to the pack group chat so Lydia doesn't have to fish around her purse to read the same message. "He thinks the omega is gone. Doesn't say why he believes that, but says we can go now."

Lydia, the brains that she is, also sighs at this brainless order. With four people already dead, leaving now isn't the best idea. Especially with how the moon is getting closer and closer to spherical by the day. Delaying this any further is going to rack up the body count. "I honestly do not even have the energy to fight his stupidity at this point. Let's just go back to the jeep and wait for the others."

Stiles isn't about to argue with her, so they head back in the direction they dispersed from. Stiles fills the trek back with complaints of lack of reasonable sleep in accordance with all the papers and exams they still have left to do. Half his days he thinks it might just be more efficient to just drop out and get his GED independently. Lydia doesn't seem as appalled by the notion as he would have expected her to be.

Melissa's car, which Scott borrowed for the night, is gone by the time the two of them wander back to the roadside they all converged at before separating. Their noble Alpha probably left first to get his girlfriend home. Hell, he might have ended the search because the Kitsune made a comment about being tired or just simply yawned, and the gentleman Werewolf suitor could not stand for that. Scott's always had a tendency for puppy love.

Mason's hand-me-down Subaru from his mother is also nowhere in sight. The only other human in their Supernatural club probably hightailed out of here with Liam the moment they got the go-ahead to leave. And Stiles can't blame them nearly as much as he does their Alpha. Stiles remembers being new to this whole unknown world too. How desperately he wanted to be involved but was terrified of having involvement. So, no, he can't blame the kids for running when given permission.

Peter's ride is also among the missing, but that's only because the snob refuses to leave any of his fancy sports cars on the side of the road so he had walked or ran or flown using his demon wings that Stiles is still convinced he has. Stiles may not believe in a god, but Hell is most definitely real and Stiles has met many of its occupants.

Since Stiles played chauffeur to both a Scream Queen and a Wild Child, that leaves only the old soul, Roscoe, still standing in the ditch. Which means that he and Lydia have to wait for their third.

"Should we try to go look for them?" Stiles asks. Malia isn't great with using her phone yet and Peter isn't part of the larger Pack group chat, so it stands to reason that the paired father-daughter duo don't know about the hunt being called off.

Lydia does that judgemental noise that's a cross between a scoff and a huff that she's really too good at. "And what type of reinforcement do you think we can provide?"

Stiles doesn't answer. Mostly because she's right. Even with a killer voice and a sparky ability to move ash, they aren't the best people to go on a rescue mission. Especially for those like Malia and Peter who are fighters. It's a hard pill they've had to swallow, but a recent lesson learned is that Team Human is devastatingly mortal.

They settle themselves for the wait, Lydia popping the passenger door open so she can rest on the seat while Stiles leans on the cool, slightly dewy metal of the jeep's hood. It thankfully only takes about seven minutes before a familiar silhouette approaches. Both human packmates are too tired to really look at the coyote when Malia finally gets back to them, only taking note that she slowly treks up to the jeep and is still in one piece. It takes a moment, but Stiles does take notice that she shows up alone.

"Where's Paw of the Living Dead?"

"You didn't even try for that one."

Stiles shoots the redhead a dirty look which she does not see because she rudely will not even glance in his direction when insulting him, but he is sure she can feel. "I'm running on four hours of sleep from yesterday, so I'm sorry if my puns aren't up to your standards right now."

Whatever scathing remark Lydia is certainly about to respond with to penalize Stiles for his humor dies when Malia talks for the first time since wandering out of the woods.

"Peter's still in the preserve," she speaks so quietly that it's jarring. If there was one person in the pack known for being loud and boisterous (other than Stiles, thank you very much) it's Malia.

Regardless of whether it was her intent to get their attention this way or not, she has it. Stiles and Lydia fall silent and watch the coyote for more. Their concern skyrockets when nothing else is said, the girl swaying slightly on her feet and glaring down between her shoes remains eerily muted.

Realizing Malia isn't going to explain further on her own, Stiles prompts, "Why? Is he still hunting the Omega?"

Tentatively, Malia shakes her head and at first Stiles assumes this to mean that Peter wasn't still sniffing out in Preserve, or at least not scenting for the rogue Wolf in the territory, but then she goes on. "It wasn't an Omega."

"What do you mean?" Lydia jumps in now, clearly concerned about wherever this unknown conversation is going. Lydia hates being unprepared.

"It was a feral Alpha," Malia corrected herself and their previous assumptions about the Wolf stomping around their town. Which she shouldn't know if the rest of them didn't, not unless she actually encountered it herself. And Lydia must have the same thoughts as Stiles because in unison they both reach out to touch Malia. Soothe their shaken packmate. Stiles holds onto her shoulder as Lydia grabs onto the girl's other hand. The gesture seems to be appreciated if the relaxing of said shoulders is anything to go by, but there is still more than enough tension under the werecoyotes' skin to be alarming.

"It attacked me."

"The Alpha?" Stiles asks and his heart sinks into his ribcage when the girl solemnly nods. "Jesus, Malia. Are you okay? What happened? Why didn't you call for anyone?"

"Because Peter killed it."

Stiles' heart stops altogether.

He hears Lydia take a sharp breath beside him.

Malia continues the story regardless.

"The Alpha attacked me, it caught me off guard and pinned me to the ground, slashing at my legs so I couldn't run." Now, after having been told, Stiles sees that there are rips in the back of her leggings. He curses himself for missing the cuts and slashes the moment she walked up to them by assuming that since there was nothing bleeding or bodily missing she was fine; he should know better than that. The flesh visible looks pink and raw but, for the most part, has healed. Meaning this all must have happened at least an hour ago.

"It had me pinned. My claws were doing nothing to it, barely even it slowed down. I was scared." Hearing someone like Malia whimper is unnerving and heartbreaking. She's normally the person with bravo that can back it up; the one they can rely on to never back down. The coyote squeezes at Lydia's hand hard enough to make the Banshee flinch but not complain. Stiles squeezes the brunette's shoulder in exchange hoping to keep her grounded. "Then Peter managed to get it off me. I don't know how, he shouldn't have been stronger than a feral Alpha. It tried to lunge at me again but Peter kept provoking it. Like he was making sure it went after him next. I could hear them fighting, but they kept getting further and further from me. By the time I was able to stand again and find them, Peter was looming over a corpse."

Malia chokes on something in her throat - her voice, her emotions, her heart - and that stops her from explaining any further. Not that there is much more of the story to be told. Lydia and Stiles huddle in closer to her as she attempts to swallow it all down again.

They stand there in quiet like that for probably far too long. Together they don't make a sound, none of them giving away their thoughts on the situation, but it's never silent in the forest. The preserve likes to speak a language of its own and now it does all the talking while the teens readjust their realities. The music of hollowed trees, the singing of a changing wind, and the plea of leaves still held on branches wanting to fall away and start again.

"Was he feral?" Lydia finally asks in a whisper. It's the question Stiles knows she's needed to ask even before Malia started explaining. "Was Peter feral when he got the Alpha power?"

Malia begins to shake her head, but then with another second of consideration, she shrugs instead. "I - I couldn't really tell. I'm not the best person to know the difference. He just growled at me then ran without saying anything."

She leaves it at that for a moment. Let's them digest the information while she no doubt replays the event in her head again for herself. Thinking about how all of it went so wrong in a matter of hours, minutes. But that was their life, wasn't it? An ongoing series of 'how it all went wrong.'

Stiles clears his throat first.

"So, we could leave him out there," he states more than asks. Both girls turn to him with searching gazes. "Peter goes feral and we have no choice but to put him down, this time for sure." And that's the real kick in the balls, isn't it? Scott preaches saving others no matter what. Sparing wolves no matter how feral. But if that wolf happened to be Peter? There is no doubt in the human's mind that the Alpha would bend his steadfast rules in that case. Stiles doesn't mind gray-scale morals, but Scott could at least admit to his bias.

But still, this is a way to get Peter out of their hair. Scott will condone it. This is how they close the chapter in their nightmare storybook labeled Peter Hale.

"We don't have to do anything," Stiles stresses. It's unclear whose benefit he's doing it for. "We don't have to."

Despite the slight nod and firm "right" Malia responds with, it doesn't feel like an agreement.

Lydia doesn't even bother with responding. She's staring down unemotionally at the designer heels that she put back on after they rallied at the loft. He hates how haunted she looks already.

Stiles wonders if she'll scream for him. Maybe that's what she's wondering too. Will she be the one to find his lifeless body? Will she have to feel Peter die? Does she want to? Will that be justice to her? Will that quell her nightmares? Will that end this saga in their lives?

He lets go of his grip on the Were' to run a hand through his hair instead, trying to ease the headache he already feels coming as he allows his mind to drift since the three of them seem determined to just stand around aimlessly. Was this them mourning early?

Are they going to be the only ones to mourn Peter Hale? Maybe. Maybe not. The asshole disappears for months at a time, so Stiles has to imagine that the werewolf has connections of some sort.

Where will they, whoever it is, find him? Close to the roadside where anyone can find him or deep into the preserve where no one will? Or maybe by the still-standing remains of the Hale house with the rest of his family. How long will it take? Will Peter fight like he always does? Or is it over already?

Will Peter die alone?

The hand he has in his own hair starts to dig blunt nailing into his scalp; pulling at the locks in a combination of anger and disbelief at his own thoughts and feelings. Traitorous, traitorous feelings.

Fuck.

FUCK.

He takes out his mounting frustration on Rosco's tires (he'll apologize to her later with an oil change), kicking at the rims as if that offers him any type of solace. It does not. "Fuck, just . . . why? This shouldn't be hard! It's Peter of all people!" Stiles vents, adding in a few more kicks to get his point across. Any and all Gods that are out there somewhere better be laughing it up right now while they can, because Stiles is ready to whoop some divine ass when he gets to them.

Stiles doesn't want Peter to die.

And that's probably one of the most fucked up thoughts he's ever had, but it's true. Three and a half years of sarcastic banter, witty retorts, shit-eating grins, cocky eyebrows, casual support, blasé betrayal, and now Stiles somehow finds himself caring about Peter fucking Hale. After everything, despite everything, Stiles doesn't want Peter to die again.

Absolutely fuck his life.

"Alright," Stiles announces to garner the girls' attention after he's done pounding on poor, innocent Roscoe and finished fighting fate. "Who's gonna help me save the Big Bad Wolf?"

It's ass o'clock in the morning by the time they find Peter.

The sun is slowly rising across the horizon, changing the pitch-black sky to a mirage of blues and purples. The golden rays help them search, erasing the darker corners of the forest. Around the time they should all be getting up to get ready for school, Malia spots him.

Or some version of him. The thing crouched in the brush before them is not fully the man they thought they knew him to be now, but he's also not the complete monster they initially thought him to be. No, the thing staring back at them is a hulking mess of half lost man and half-broken beast. A Wolf dressed in grief's clothing.

He spots them back. He probably has long before this, watching them approach without a sound. It's unnerving. The unsilent quiet. The burning light of those accessing, burning ruby eyes. Determining if they are prey, predator, or something in-between.

"Peter?" Lydia addresses the creature tentatively as she takes another foot forward.

The warning growl received back was decidedly not very Peter-esque.

The trio stop their advance on the wild Alpha. Great. Back to Sophomore year. Well, it's fantastic that Stiles didn't have any common sense in Sophomore year or else he'd turn around and walk all the way home to crawl into his bed and never leave it again.

Instead, Stiles tries next.

"Peter," the boy calls out. He's always been the talker, so maybe he can talk this Peter-thing into being bipedal and cognizant again. Wilder things have happened. "Your anchor was your pack." Another, louder, warning growl rips its way out of the snarling beast. "I know your anchor was your pack. And I know how fucking badly it must have hurt when you lost them. That pain, you didn't deserve that. The suffering, the loneliness, the fear. None of it was fair. I'm sorry that you had to live through it.

"That's why you were feral when you were an Alpha the first time. You were in so much pain that it had to be easier to let the animal be in control." Admittedly Stiles this is all just assumptions that he's made from some deductive reasoning, but he's never been keen on asking the older man for an actual confirmation. Stiles may not have self-preservation skills but he's not suicidal. Raising his hands in a sign that he means no harm, Stiles puts that serve lack of self-preservation skills to work by shuffling slowly forward. "We can't take away all that hurt that has to still be there, but we can make sure you don't go through it alone this time." Alpha Peter allows his closeness even if he looks a bit confused about it himself. The early morning sun shines through the branches of the trees. If Stiles didn't know better he'd say there was a bit of fear in those eyes. "You have Pack now, Peter. You have Pack again. I know we're not the one you wanted, but we're still here. We're here."

He doesn't know what he said wrong, but suddenly Peter-thing raises a larger-than-human-smaller-than-wolf claw through the air and in Stiles' direction. The human's ungraceful nature works to his advantage at this moment as he stumbles a couple of steps back. It's just enough to only earn him a to his raised arm meant to protect his face, which it kind of did. The red lines popping out of the skin of his forearm only sting for right now, being neither too deep nor detrimental, but Stiles thinks it's gonna hurt a lot more later when he doesn't have adrenaline pipelined into his bloodstream.

"Dad!" Malia calls out, taking the attention and heat off her human packmate. Stiles and Lydia turn to see what she does as well, curious as to how Peter-thing will react to another were'. The parental name sounds strange on Malia's lips and from the looks of it, it felt even stranger to be there. "I wanted to say . . . thank you for saving me. You killed the Alpha to protect me. Not for power, not solely at least. It was to keep me safe. Dad, thank you."

The Peter-thing looks curiously at her, not in complete understanding of everything his daughter is saying but also not as ferally thoughtless as moments ago.

"Peter, you better not bite me again," Lydia warns. The Alpha in front of them actually huffs at that, which is a good sign - Peter being sassy is a great sign - so she goes on. "Do you even know how much that dress cost me? Of course not. Which is why I have absolutely no reason to be here. I have no reason to help you."

Then the strangest thing happens.

The Peter-thing whines.

Animalistic and lost, Peter-thing sounds hurt by her words. He even bows his head slightly at the accusations.

All of this leads to the second strangest thing to happen. Lydia looks remorseful.

The confused and startled hurt that appears on the Banshee's face is clear even to Stiles who has horribly human vision. Stiles doesn't know when or how she stopped hating the eldest werewolf of their pack, hell he doubts she does either, but that one look of knowing she has harmed him with her words confirms that hatches have long since been buried under blood, grave dirt, and ash.

She dares a few steps closer to the Peter-thing, even when it backpedals from her. "Except that you know my coffee order by memory," she speaks slowly and thoughtfully. "And you bring me one every research night even when I am cold to you. You also always check on me after a fight, not necessarily first, but you do always come to eventually sniff me over. You bought me and Stiles those ridiculously expensive sneakers so that we could actually run with you wolves. I wish I could say that I still hate you, but you'd know I'd be lying."

"You're a good packmate, Peter," Stiles affirms her point. "A much better one than Scott. So who's to say you won't make a better Alpha this time around? So, please," he pleads. He's done advancing on the Wolf. He's not a predator. He doesn't want to be Peter's prey. He wants to be the man's equal. So the human boy kneels down on the dirt and dead wood littering the forest floor. He sits with Peter. "We're here. You're not alone. Your pack is here for you. "

Stiles hears the crunch of the wilderness around him to know that the girls have followed his lead. They are staying, planting themselves down to the earth as a final act of commitment. The Preserve speaks alone again after that. Chirping of birds, branches rustling, echoes of life waking again. The night is over and the dawn of a new day is on the horizon as they all wait to see what reality now looks like.

It's a slow thing, almost to the point that Stiles and the rest of them don't notice it, but in the glow of daybreak, Peter-thing slowly shifts back into Peter. The subtle receding in his muscle mass, the automatic reduction of hair.

The man is panting in exertion and may be pain by the time the sun is to the treetops. Those red, red eyes flicker dazed over the trio still with him before they fade to a natural blue. There's only a second for him to breathe a sigh before Peter collapses none too gracefully onto the ground immediately afterward. But his shoulders rise and fall in a steady-ish pattern. He's okay.

Stiles closes his eyes in near tears to take in the moment of relief as the Preserve chatters away and the morning sun warms his skin.

There are both much worse and much better things a father can catch his son doing at five in the morning. However, Stiles doesn't think there's a protocol for a father walking in on his son and his werecyote ex-girlfriend struggling to drag her unconscious long-lost father onto the couch while a Banshee stood to the side, watching like the dictator she was meant to be. All of them looking like they've gone toe-to-toe with Mother Nature herself and got their collective asses handed to them. Said long-lost father being wrapped in nothing but an extra blanket Stiles had hidden away in the back of the jeep probably doesn't help either.

They all gape apprehensively as the Sherif takes in what he's witnessing.

"Anyone want coffee?"

Stiles really, truly loves his dad.

"No, but thank you," Lydia politely rejects, watching on the side as they lower the passed out, but fully human again Peter Hale onto the cushions. She flips her tangled, muddy hair behind her shoulder seemingly content in having completed their mini mission of relocating the new Alpha. "I need a shower. Then a chat with my mother about a couple of things. I'll be back at noon," she announces rather than asks, which is just simply so Lydia that Stiles has to shake his head fondly at the goddess. His father doesn't even look that confused about it. And maybe a bit of understanding. Stiles did get his detective skills from somewhere after all.

"I want a nap," Malia states then turns to Stiles. "I'm using your bed."

"Can I convince you to take a shower before rolling around in my clean sheets?" The boy asks back.

The girl pulls a face at the request but with one sniff at herself, she nods in agreement. Both Stilinskis watch as the coyote makes her way up the stairs without any more fanfare and through their house like she belongs there, though if either of them has a say then she does. No matter their relationship status, Malia will always mean something to Stiles and vice-versa. She and Lydia are a welcome part of the Stilinski clan.

With the girls gone and Peter still incapacitated, the sheriff and Stiles turn to each other. Stiles knows at least one of them should be ranting at the other. Stiles stumbling to explain himself or his dad going on a tirade about how his son has been missing for hours only to come back like this. But they don't. Instead, the two take a moment to look at each other. Really look. Stare at all the difference three years makes. The worry formed wrinkles and subtle scars and soul-tired eyes. With a sigh, Stiles states what they both already know.

"We need to talk."

"I swear I'll believe you if you come out this time," his dad jokes and after a beat or two, they both joylessly laugh at it. One last confirming nod and a firm clap on Stiles' shoulder, the sheriff accepts that this fateful day has finally come. "Alright, let's talk kid."

Laura has no business being in his garden, not since she turned fifteen and suddenly became too cool to help him tend the tomatoes. But Peter doesn't send her away when he senses her presence behind him because maybe the tomatoes miss her company.

His niece probably just returned home from school but showered first before coming out back to bother him since she does not reek of tell-tale teenage hormones. It's early May so the newfound heat after a chilled winter makes the pubescent sweat and pheromones much worse. But she only appears to smell as she naturally does. Sandalwood with a hint of vanilla and youth.

The girl simply looms around as he continues to work at the soil for the watermelons, having just planted the seeds weeks ago. Kneeling on the dirt and molding the earth under his hands without mind to her. He doesn't bother acknowledging her, she knows he knows she's there, and she can talk whenever she wants to. However, this dragged silence is beginning to irritate him and the tomatoes might have to suffer without her if this keeps up much longer.

"I like him, you know," she says at long last. Though he has absolutely no idea whatever it is she's talking about.

Without lifting his gaze from his ground work, he says smoothly, "I don't know when I may have given you this impression, but let me assure you, sweet niece, I do not care for whatever boy toy you are drooling over at recess. I - "

"No," she stops him. There's something off about her tone that causes Peter to pause. It's enough to get him to lift his face to where she's leaning against the backyard porch railing. He is even more alarmed when he gets a look at her. Despite how she's wearing that same blankly yellow t-shirt that's fit her since she was twelve with a familiar pair of ripped jeans - some part of the design, some made through teenagehood - and even donnes the seasonally inappropriate old leather jacket she got from her father as a Christmas present around her waist, there's something older about her. Something in her eyes.

"I like the little fox you found," Laura goes on. She turns her face away from him and looks out into the empty Preserve just past their house. "He's clever, but still funny. Loyal like a Wolf and bright like a Spark. Plus, he's able to put you in your place. That alone makes the kid God's work, I swear."

Peter gets up from his position on the ground. He needs a better stance for whatever it is that is happening. Because something is certainly happening. He doesn't know what she's talking about, but his chest swells with each word.

Laura bites her lip with a shake of her head and a smile. Still staring off into the woods, watching something that he can't see play out. "And the redhead," she huffs, "she's great. Albeit a little bit terrifying, but all the best women are. Stubborn, and strategic, and someone good for you. How anyone says no to that girl is beyond me.

"My cousin is fucking insane but considering who spawned her, I guess that tracks. She seems cool though, in that wildstyle type of way." She meets his eyes for the briefest of moments before she stares back down at the garden he's attempting to grow. "Truthfully, I fear the day that she and Cora collide. I can't wait for it.

"I wish I would have gotten to meet them, but that's okay." Her head tilts slightly then and for the briefest of moments, Peter knows that this isn't right. That she shouldn't be here. Or he shouldn't be. They don't belong in the same place. Laura must hear his heart rate spike or see his thoughts or smell his fear or feel his decay because she looks back up at him with those old eyes that never got to be old. "Uncle Peter, it's okay," she whispers.

It's so soft and gentle unlike how she died.

"No, no, no. Don't do that bullshit. Don't. Uncle Peter, look at me. Please, just look at me," she commands. And he does as much as he doesn't want to. Because he owes her that much. He owes her so much.

Her eyes are filled with more than just tears. Through all that sorrow and despair, there are still golden flecks in her eye that keep them alight. Something he wished he could have held onto along the way. He doesn't understand how she was still able to keep that flicker of light alive. It's overwhelming but he still listens to her over his own thudding heart.

"It's okay," she repeats it like it's true. He hates how her heart doesn't even hesitate. "It wasn't fair to any of us. I forgive you like you forgave me for running. For Derek's mistake in who to trust." He wants to protest that he doesn't blame them for their choices, no matter how much pain they brought him or the family. They were just scared kids. He realizes that will just further her point. "None of us meant for what happened to happen. But it did, and that's not fair but it's okay. It's not fair, but it's okay."

She takes a step forward and he takes a step back. The action makes the seal of tears start to trickle down her cheeks and he can't be responsible for any more of her pain so he stays put when she takes her next steps. Takes exactly four steps to place herself in his bubble so he can scent her salty tears and traces of vanilla. She grabs onto his forearms and lightly rubs her thumbs in circles on the skin there. Scenting him as Pack this one last time. Despite it all, she still accepted him as her Pack. "Just promise me one thing?"

"Anything," he promises through the tears he knows are unfairly escaping him.

The only cancellation he has over his weeping, that isn't really a cancellation at all, is that Laura is crying with those eyes now too.

A moment too late he realizes Stiles has the same golden flickers in his irises.

"Stop being afraid to have a life again."

Peter Hale would have assumed he has died again if not for the overall ache in all his bones. Pain, although an old friend, wrecks its way through his nervous system with every minor move he makes. The Alpha that tried to kill him obviously didn't succeed but he almost wishes it did. It takes him much longer than he finds acceptable to anchor himself again and push past the agony.

He'll use the excuse of pain for why it also took him an uncomfortable amount of time to realize he is not in his own apartment. A quick inhale tells him that he is in the Stilinski's rainfall-scented home. And while that fact alone calms his now juiced-up Wolf, the added factor of him being on their couch, unclothed, does concern him.

Sitting up in place is extra effort, his muscles screaming at him for it, but he's not the type to lay in wait or in need. Making sure that the blanket covering his lower half stays where it should. A handful of blinking and one good eye rub later he can focus on his surroundings properly, the most important of which is the pile of John Stilinski's clothes stacked neatly on the coffee table in front of the couch. Peter wastes no time throwing on the t-shirt and loose pair of sweatpants.

After psyching himself up enough to endure the monumental task of standing, Peter takes a few breaths for himself. He could play some amnesia card and claim that last night was all an animalistic blur. But he knows what occurred. Knows that he is beholden to teenagers that do not owe him a scrap of decorum. What he does not know is what they want now in return. What he is now to owe them. But he is better now, better than he was before, so he marches forward to where the most noise in the household is coming from.

Pushing open the already partially open kitchen door, he's greeted by the peanut gallery of Stiles, the good sheriff, dear miss Lydia Martin, a Natalie Martin, and his own daughter. An odd line-up if you asked him but he reasons he's witnessed odder things in the past 24 hours, let alone lifetime. The group appears to be having a nice little brunch; a layout of what smells like fake bacon, some scrambled eggs, and toast, and an assortment of fruit is scattered across the table with several plates varying in fullness in front of each party member. Peter knows that he should be hungry, with all that has occurred his body needs the protein and energy, but something in the pit of his stomach keeps that need at bay.

That pit grows unexplainably larger when all table discussion ceases once they notice his presence in the room.

"Huh."

That one blatant syllable from his daughter does nothing to quell him. She and Stiles are the only ones not dressed for the day, modeling baggier clothes more fit for sleepwear than midday meetings. Peter chooses not to dwell on the bandage wrapped around Stiles' arm. It's not an easy choice. Natalie's work blouse and skirt match Lydia's more put-together style of a simple yellow sundress. John sports his uniform but the front buttons are undone to reveal his black t-shirt underneath, a very good look on him.

"I told you he's still alive," Lydia says back to the single syllable. Peter thinks he should be offended at this point.

Stiles and John both snort at the comment. The teenage boy goes on to reply, "I'm more convinced he's a Wereroach instead of a Werewolf. Dude is going to somehow outlive us all at this rate."

Peter knows he should be offended at this point.

He certainly feels like a spectacle at this moment in time. A feeling he would normally encourage under a different context. A context that involves less murder. Examining the table one last time, person by person, Peter finds his voice. "Am I interrupting something?"

"Nothing that you are not already a part of," Natalie answers cooly. The well-dressed woman, who probably left the school early to be present here by the looks of it, takes a moment to munch down on a piece of cantaloupe. "It would be better if you took a seat for this. We were just finishing the details on some plans."

"Oh, really?" Peter questions, but does as instructed. Lydia inherited her authority from somewhere and Peter has no plans on testing that right now. Even if his Wolf is howling to move and scent mark and huddle the children close to him. The need does not fully settle even when he takes the open seat between Stiles and Malia. Nevertheless, he tries to make his voice light and playful. Attempt the banter he is more accustomed to with most of the population present. "And how might I fit into this roundtable planning?"

It truly is an Arthurian roundtable. Lydia beside Malia, Natalie next to her daughter, John next to Natalie, Stiles with his father, and circles back to the eldest remaining Hale. To Peter the oddest and most troubling part, however, is that they left room for him.

"Well, since you so typically, self-centeredly asked," Stiles says. His stupid boy only grins back when he flashes his eyes in caution. Only this boy, his boy, would find it amusing to poke fun at a new Alpha. "Not matter how we slice it, this all will go one way. Scott may not be the sharpest fang in the mouth, but he will sniff out an unaccounted-for Alpha in his territory sooner or later."

"And he's gonna be pissed when he figures out that it's you," Malia continues for him, talking around her meat substitute.

"So you're going to have to leave and find your own territory," Lydia rounds off the topic.

Peter merely nods along with the described plan. He doesn't have much to add or rebuke.

This is just about the conversation he expected to have. A 'Please Vacate The Premises Or Else' type of talk. One that is par for the course for him while in Beacon, though this time he thinks there is merit to the point. Of course, it makes all too much sense that Lydia and Stiles are the ones raising the point when it makes the most sense. It's nice that they at least made breakfast before they evicted him. Assuming he's allowed to have some. He still hasn't made a move to gather a plate.

His idea of what this conversation is gets derailed when the Banshee adds on: "And we're going with you."

With a quick assessment of how no one else at the table flinches at this new information, Peter tilts his head in unconvinced curiosity. "We?" Peter says the word dubiously.

"Yes, we," Stiles cuts back in, pointing an accusatory piece of faux bacon at the elder man. The way he's leaned back into the kitchen chair is relaxed and nonchalant. The same way he, along with the others, is handling this topic. "We, as in the people who just risked our necks in turning the beast back into a mildly psychopathic prince charming. The ones your Alpha ass has already accepted as Pack, jackass."

"Language," John chastises but vocalizes no other protest to anything his son says. Stiles just shrugs back as an apology and takes a bite out of his food he no longer needs as a pointer. Instead, he takes this time to stare down the new Alpha. Challenging him already yet claiming he's accepting the man as Pack, and therefore his Alpha.

But someone clever but loyal has to keep Peter in his place. Even as Alpha. Especially as Alpha.

And during this impromptu staring contest Peter begins to feel where his place is. The bonds are new, different from when McCall was Alpha, so it may take some time for them to thrum with life. They were only just born. But if Peter concentrates hard enough he can discern them, keeping his Wolf anchored and appeased. A Pack.

A Spark.

A Banshee.

A Were'.

His Betas.

Malia, whose bond is the strongest due to blood connections, pulls his attention back to the matter at hand. "Lydia and Stiles have a couple of others willing to join too."

Peter has Betas. His Betas are getting him more Betas. This feels almost as unreal as the dream he just woke from.

"Who?"

"Cora said, and I quote, God fuck, fine, I'll be there. She's packing her things for now and will be on the first available flight to wherever we settle," Lydia says, pulling out her phone to read the quote from his niece directly. She places it back down next to her empty plate and crosses her arms, daring him to question her efficiency.

But Peter isn't able to get far enough into this fever dream to question her that deeply. Not able to process the rest of that statement, unable to understand why his niece would agree to follow after him after all that has happened, Peter asks: "You keep in contact with Cora?"

"Please, that's not even the shocking one." Lydia waves away his disbelief as though it was irrational. "But yes. We keep tabs to make sure everyone is still alive. Someone had to keep her in the loop and since you Hales seem incapable of healthy communication, of course, the responsibility landed with me."

"And they want to bone," Malia, his dear child, butts in. The sheriff chokes a little on his coffee while Mrs. Martin looks thoughtful for a beat then nods along as though that information checks out and Stiles just snickers inconspicuously behind his hand. Lydia, for her part, colors a little around the cheeks and her sweeter vanilla scent spices a little with cinnamon embarrassment, but otherwise keeps the perfect poker face.

"I texted Jackson," Stiles jumps in, clearly trying to take some of the scrutiny off of the redhead. "He, Danny, and Ethan are in on whatever the fuck we do as long as we don't end up in Florida."

This definitely does take more than some attention off the girl.

"You keep in contact with Jackson?" Peter hears himself asking a similar question to the past twenty seconds with a raised voice without thinking about it, feeling his eyes bug a little at the notion. He's never been one to keep track of all the drama that the hormonal teens he surrounds himself with produce to make everyone's lives harder, but the feud between Stiles and Jackson had been somewhat hard for anyone to overlook. He blatantly ignores the sing-song I Told You So from the Banshee.

"They also want to bone," Malia interrupts again. The poor sheriff doesn't even choke on anything this time around but choke he does. Natalie now has to hide her own smile behind a hand as Malia just cackles at her chaotic handy-work (dear god, she is Peter's child) and Lydia winks at the gaping, offended-looking boy.

Stiles' pale skin gives way to a brighter blush than Lydia's but he gives a half-hearted shrug as he tries to rush out an explanation. "It's more like mutual cyberbullying. I send him pictures of iguanas and komodo dragons, he sends me pictures of foxes. Equivalent exchange."

Peter falls back into his own chair, but can't relax like the others, as some mild discourse ensues. Lydia offers advice to Stiles on how to court one Jackson Whittemore. The adults share an equally fond but put-upon look. Malia takes to cackling at the entire thing. His ears are tuned into their heartbeats with nothing being a lie thus far. He continues to nudge at the bonds he can clearly feel forming, and now that he has something else to focus on other than the pain of his healing body he feels two more bonds at the edges. Two more human bonds nearby. He shivers each time one of them nudges back.

Peter laughs short and humorlessly, interrupting the moment. It earns him a couple of frowns and glares, but he does not care.

This was a tactless joke.

They cannot be promising this to him. Life has never been this generous to him.

"And your parents have allowed you to not only join a pack with me as your leader, but for me to steal you away from our quaint little abomination of a town?"

Mark him surprised when both the adults cut in simultaneously saying, "Yes."

"Anything to keep her safe," the woman agrees easily and with an air of professionalism that is the very essence of a Martin. "I have seen my girl strangled, manipulated, bitten," Peter attempts not to react to that one but is unable to tell if he is successful, "imprisoned, and much more since this has all started. Part of it was because of me and my lack of understanding. I am sure there are many things John wishes he could do over if he had the chance."

"Bet your ass I do, Nat," John agrees. Stiles rubs a hand up his dad's back in comfort, but small comforts do little to relieve large regrets. Peter knows this well. "But we can make this decision now, knowing all the information there is. And the most informed, competent decision I have is to leave. Enough is enough; it's time to find somewhere without ghosts. The next election is in eight months, when that time comes I will endorse Parrish and take my leave so I can follow wherever you land."

"I'll leave at the same time to make certain all the paperwork and business involved is settled," Natalie adds. "Stiles and Lydia can test out of school at this point in time without an issue. They have enough credits and are at the top of their classes. And although Malia doesn't have that same option due to the circumstances and timing she entered the school, I can arrange for her to enter a curricular appropriate program when you know where you will be."

Peter doesn't give away his poker face quite yet. He's still waiting for the other shoe to come land on him. Not to mention that there is still a parent missing in this equation. Peter turns to look at Malia in inquiry about where her adoptive father is for this conversation.

Malia understands nearly instantly what is being asked of her, but the coyote shrugs in the same way that Stiles had done earlier. Noncommital and contrite. "My dad doesn't know what to do with me. Half the nights I spend either back in my old den or here with Stiles rather than home." There's a waft of citrus hurt on her but she doesn't let it show, and it makes Peter want to wrap her up in something. Despite only having influence in each other's lives only recently, Peter can't help but notice the remarkable similarities between himself and his daughter. Neither of them has much family left and the ones that are alive can’t bear them. Unintentionally killing the people they loved. She never truly got to be a child and he never had the chance to be a father. He wonders if tragedy can run in a bloodline.

A voice in the back of his head whispers: "It's not fair."

He pushes that away for now. Even if Malia had her youth robbed from her, Peter is the one responsible for ending the other two kids' childhood far sooner and harsher than they deserved.

"And what of your big dreams?" He questions Lydia and Stiles. Malia has been human for a little over a year and a half, and Peter wouldn't exactly expect a two-year-old to know what to do with themselves for the rest of their lives. Developmentally, she's not there yet and no one blames her for that. But the other two had things they wanted. Things bigger than Beacon and beyond being held down in one territory.

The duo of brainiacs share a look with each other, long and intimate, and Peter can feel the weight of whatever wordless conversation they are having. When hazel eyes that reflect evergreen forests turn to him, pinning him to his spot and demanding his attention, there's a lacking heat there he's not used to.

"I . . ." Lydia starts to say but uncharacteristically fumbles over herself. "I . . . I don't know what I want anymore. That was always the dream, but it's hard to have dreams when you aren't able to sleep. This town has taken the life out of me. I think I need something littler, something less bold and demanding. At least for now. Maybe it will change again later, but right now I just want somewhere to rest."

Before Peter can think of a proper response to that admission, Stiles turns to him next, apparently having his own words on the matter. The Werewolf should have guessed the boy had something to say, he always does.

"We've wasted years on a war that just can't be won, only prolonged. We never win this, Peter. Maybe Beacon Hills is savable, but all I know is that it's not us that can save it. All that comes from our efforts are more causalities of our loved ones and ourselves." Those amber eyes dart away to look at his companions, his Packmates, then stare down at the table in front of them instead. "We've all buried one or two versions of ourselves in order to keep going," he whispers gently.

The speech gives Peter a sense of deja-vu, only furthered when the Boy-Who-Runs-With-Wolves raises his head more confidently desperate this time and those golden flecks shine just the tiniest bit brighter as he says:

"I deserve a life, one that's not based on surviving whatever next nightmare comes rolling through and upending our lives. I want to bury this one already and move on. Even after all we've been through, by choice or by fate, I need to believe we deserve better than this. We deserve actual lives, Peter."

And that's it. That's the finishing blow that Peter can take. Too overwhelmed by how he's not alone despite how he knows he should be. Too full of acquainted ache and dreadful hope. Too engrossed in how, against all probabilities, perhaps he's allowed to be okay now.

It doesn't matter how many witnesses there were in the room that day, Peter will swear on his own grave that he did not break down crying in the Stilinski kitchen.

And even if he did, he had his pack there to support him.