Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“What the fuck?”

Stiles does his best to blink to rain out of his eyes and stops himself from wiping it away with his hands at the last moment.  The red under his nails draws his attention even as the pouring rain tries to wash it away.

“What the fuck?” he repeats, glaring at the man in front of him.

The man who is glaring right back at him and clenching his jaw in a way that is totally not healthy in the long run but Stiles is too distracted by watching the rain cutting through the splashes of red on the man’s face to tell him so.  Splashes of red that are — he glances down — yep.  That’s his blood on this random man’s face.  Great.  Wonderful.

His dad’s gonna kill him if the assholes chasing him don’t manage to do it first.

Rain rolls into his eye and he blinks furiously at the burn.  Between one blink and the next the man wipes the blood from his face with his sleeve, smearing it in a way that makes him look absolutely unhinged in the best ways possible — Stiles is putting ‘concussion’ on his mental list of things to get checked out later because wow — and Stiles feels his knees lock up as his body sways.

“What the fuck?”  He thinks it bears repeating.  Even if the man beside him raises his eyebrows and gives Stiles the most unimpressed look he’s gotten since he was sixteen and asked Lydia Martin to prom.

There’s a snap-crack of wood behind them and they spin — a move his head and knees and entire body in general protests and yeah he thinks that concussion might be the least of his problems when he makes it out of this situation — just in time to see a group of assholes breaking through the trees and brush on the side of the highway.

The odds are definitely not in their favor.

They’re outnumbered two to one.  They’re outgunned, not that Stiles ever has much more on him for weapons other than his bat.  Judging by the amount of red on both of them they were both pretty severely injured before they crashed into each other moments ago.  They’re in the middle of nowhere, empty highway stretching out north and south and woods spreading east and west.  

He has no idea where the man beside him came from and Stiles can only assume he’s being chased by these dumbasses masquerading at hunters too.  But that doesn’t mean a whole hell of a lot.  These idiots would chase a rabbit if they thought it looked at them funny, then claim it was possessed by great evil when confronted about it later.  So this guy could be a legitimate threat or he might just be some poor schmuck who walked out of his house at the wrong time.

The hunters tip their heads back in laughter that he can’t hear over the rain pounding against him and the anger boiling under his skin.  He’s going to make them regret every moment of their lives, good and bad, by the time he’s done with them.  He’s going to make sure they understand in explicitly clear details why splintering his bat and tossing it aside didn’t do a damn thing other than piss him off even more than he already was.

He’s never needed anything more than himself to be the stuff nightmares are made of after all.  He tilts his head and cracks his neck, eyes darting along the trees as he weighs his options.

“I’ll take the three on the left,” the man beside him murmurs.  “You get the right.  Whoever finishes first can start on the backup hiding about half a mile into the trees.”

Stiles turns and meets ice-cold electric blue eyes that don’t flinch away from the white hot lightning flaring in his own eyes and he grins.

A pissed off beta werewolf who is apparently no stranger to killing.  He can already hear his dad’s lecture on the amount of chaos they’re about to cause.  

This is going to be so much fun.

—

When he woke up that morning Peter hadn’t expected to end the day with some stranger’s fingers digging into his skin trying to hold his sternum still so his body could snap everything back into the right places.  Then again he also hadn’t expected to be kidnapped, drugged, and tossed into the woods to be hunted like a common deer or something equally bland.

“I swear to Christ if you die I’m gonna be so pissed,” the man he’s spent the last half hour or so spilling blood with grits out, eyes focused on the way Peter’s body is doing it’s best to heal.  “I did not ruin my favorite shirt just to let you die on me.”

Peter lets his gaze drift down to the shirt in question.  In his opinion the thing was ruined the moment it was made.  He tries to roll his eyes to show just how he feels about it and gets a splitting pain shooting through his head for his efforts.  He has a new sympathy for the humans in his pack and the headaches they get because he feels like if he tilts his head enough his brains will surely drip out his ears.

“It’ll take more than this to kill me,” he manages.  He’s shooting for confident.  Maybe even a little suave.

He’s pretty sure he’s nowhere close to that given the way the man looks at him like he’s speaking some sort of ancient language or something.

“I’ll hold you to that.”  The man takes a deep breath, presses down on Peter’s chest so hard he thinks he might black out for a breath or two, and then everything snaps so hard that Peter feels his wolf writhe deep inside him.  He takes a gasping breath as the man above him pales.  “Is it supposed to do that?”

Peter shudders.  He can feel his healing kicking into overdrive now that everything is back in the right place and all his muscles and tendons and bones are connected properly.  It’s the strangest feeling.  Like sand under his skin and metal shavings being ground into his joints.  But it’s comforting too.  A feeling he’s gotten used to over the years.  It means that he’s still alive, despite all the odds.

“Well you’re never going to be a doctor, dear.  But you make a decent field medic.”  

It takes him a few minutes of laying on his back with the rain falling onto his face before he has the strength to sit up.  The man next to him scrambles to help and he hates that he needs it but he lets himself lean against the solid support.  The man did just have his hands practically inside Peter’s chest after all.

There’s still bits of Peter’s blood and skin stuck under the man’s nails and he stares down at the long fingers pressed against his chest, like maybe the man next to him thinks he can keep him held together through sheer willpower just in case Peter’s healing fails.  It strikes Peter just then that this man has literally had Peter’s life in his hands and Peter doesn’t even know his name.

“So.  My phone’s gone and I’m guessing yours is too.  Any ideas on how to get the hell out of here and back to civilization?”  It takes far too long for Peter to realize the question is directed at him but he figures the fact that there is still a hole in his side, just below his ribs, is probably a good enough excuse for his lack of immediate response.

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether or not one of those idiots was the one controlling the wards around the woods.”

The man holding him up — because as much as he hates to admit it Peter is definitely not the one holding most of his weight right now — tilts his head and Peter watches, breathless, as his eyes flare an almost silvery white before the light fades back to his natural brown color.  Or maybe they’re hazel, he thinks as the gray light of the day makes them shine with flecks of golden green.

“Or maybe you’ve lost a lot of blood,” the man says and Peter has to agree with him because he hadn’t really noticed that he had been muttering to himself.  “And yeah.  The wards are down as far as I can tell.  But why does that matter?”

“Because, darling.  I don’t need a phone to call for backup.”  

This is going to hurt like a bitch and his lungs are probably going to try and throw a coup against him.  But it’s the quickest solution.  He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and howls.  The sound echoes around them and for the briefest moment he thinks that maybe his worst fears have come true and the assholes hadn’t been lying about saving him for last.  Then the sound of Derek’s howl fills the air, followed swiftly by the rest of the pack, and Peter sighs in relief.

“Stiles,” the man says as he shifts them around so Peter’s resting with his back to the man’s chest.

“What?” he rasps out.

“My name is Stiles.  Not dear or darling or whatever else you’ve got lined up.”

Peter has dealt with enough fae to know when a name is a name and when it’s a name so he simply makes a noise to show he heard Stiles and takes a few moments to let his body decide if it is going to cooperate with him or knock him out and go on it’s merry way without him.  Stiles isn’t a warm body behind him, in fact Stiles starts shivering every couple of breaths as they sit on the edge of the wet highway in the rain.  But he is a solid wall of support against Peter’s back and it’s not lost on him that he hadn’t even hesitated to let Stiles take that position.

He can hear Derek and the others getting closer, can hear when they pause at the sight and smell of the destruction he and Stiles had caused.  The backup team hadn’t stood a chance against one of them, let alone both of them and he can’t help the smile that slides onto his face at the memory of them leaping into the fight side by side.

“I’m Peter,” he says when he feels like he can use his voice without sounding like he’s been gargling with shattered glass.

“Nice to meet you, Peter,” Stiles says.

“Nice to meet you too, sweetheart.”

“I am already regretting saving your life,” Stiles grumbles.

Derek snorts in amusement as he steps out of the woods, Isaac a step behind him, and Peter grins at the sight of his boys.  Derek stares at them for a few seconds and he can feel Stiles staring right back.  Both of them assessing the threat of the other no doubt.

“Uncle Peter.”

“Dearest nephew.”

“I see you made a friend.”

“Oh this sweet thing behind me?”  Stiles’ fingers dig into Peter’s chest in warning and he lets out a rough laugh.  This is the start of a beautiful partnership.  He can feel it in his bones.  “This is Stiles.  He kept me from dying.”

“Kept you from dying?  More like I saved your life, asshole.”

“Semantics.”

“Saved your life?” Isaac asks as he pokes at one of the bodies near the road.  “Pity.”

“He’ll learn,” Derek replies.  

It would sound more convincing if he wasn’t smiling in relief at Peter as his gaze darts worriedly between every visible wound on Peter’s body.

Chapter Text

“You don’t know me.”

Stiles doesn’t startle at the snarl.  He doesn’t startle at the sudden closeness of the voice.  He doesn’t even startle at the way he can feel hot breath against the back of his very tender, very vulnerable neck.

No.  What startles him is the absolute hatred in Peter’s voice.  The venom dripping from his lips sounds so viscous that Stiles is surprised he doesn’t actually feel the acid dripping onto his neck burning holes in his skin.

Stiles knows how to act around predators.  How to hold himself perfectly still.  How to turn down his rabbiting, ratcheting heartbeat so it’s something less frantic.  How to take slow, steady breaths so as to not startle a reaction out of whatever has him pinned in place.

But, contrary to the words dripping down his spine, he also knows Peter.

For all that Peter is a predator, for all the blood on his hands and the lives he’s taken, he knows that Peter wouldn’t harm him without just cause.

“So don’t think you’ve leashed me just because I’ve kept you around.”

In just about any other circumstance Stiles would laugh at the assumption that he, of all people, has managed to leash Peter.  Peter may not be a wild animal in the ways that count but he certainly is one in all the ways that matter and his dad had made sure that he grew up with a healthy respect for anything able to tear off his limbs without putting too much thought or effort into it.  If anything Stiles wishes he could unleash Peter.  Give him the freedom he so clearly craves.  He’d love to burn that leash and see just what Peter can do when given the chance to truly let loose.

Stiles takes a deep breath and stares down at the bin of records he’d been flipping through when Peter had appeared at his back.  It’s Two-For Tuesday and he’s been waiting all month for the shop to reopen after the owner’s illness and not even Peter’s sudden interruption will keep him from his tunes.

“Tell me, Peter,” he says, making sure he carefully drops enough of his wards and shields so that Peter can read him with his senses.  So Peter can hear and smell and know how seriously truthful Stiles is being.

“Tell you what?”

“Are you so pissed off because you honestly think I hold any power over you?  Or are you pissed off because I don’t ?  Are you pissed off because you see the lines in the dirt around you and are finally accepting the fact that you’re trapped?  Or are you pissed off because you know there’s a door to that cage you’re in and you’re just too damn afraid to try it because it might not be locked after all?”  

He flips through a couple more records, not even trying to look at Peter.  He leaves the bloodthirsty beast at his back, fangs dripping venom onto his neck with each warm breath, and doesn’t flinch when he feels more than hears the growl building in Peter’s chest.  

“Tell me, Peter.  Are you pissed off because I don’t know you?  Or are you pissed off because I do and you’re lying to us both?”

Stiles’ dad would be more than happy to tell you all the ways Stiles acts without thinking, all the times he’s been too impulsive, all the consequences he’s had to face down because of actions he doesn’t fully process before he moves.  But Stiles does think.  He thinks so much that to most people it looks like he doesn’t think at all.  So taking Peter’s words, taking the venom and viciousness Peter’s dishing out and turning it right back around on him?  He’s thought it over.  Calculated risk.  It could go badly, sure.

But that’s a very, very low probability.  Because he knows Peter.

“Go to hell,” Peter snarls and then he’s gone and Stiles is alone.

“Already there, sweetheart ,” Stiles mutters to himself.  

He doesn’t even pretend he doesn’t feel the way his heart wrenches and every bone in his body aches.  He tilts his head to the side until his neck cracks and continues flipping through the records in the bin as he rebuilds his wards and walls.  It’s not the first time his magic has wanted something so badly it nearly overwhelms him and he highly doubts it will be the last.  

Not so long as Peter lives and breathes anyway.  Which is something he has every intention of making sure continues to happen for a very, very long time.  Whether Peter wants him to or not.

By the time he meets Lydia for lunch he’s almost got his shit sorted back out.

She still only has to take one look at him to know what happened.  To know that he's spent the last few hours rebuilding his shields and walls piece by piece.

“So did you take your PPE off yourself or did someone do it for you?”  She takes a bite of his cheeseburger and then puts it back on his side of the table before turning to her own salad.  He’s never understood her eating habits and he’s too exhausted to try and start now.  He’s just grateful that she’s willing to simply wait and let him power through his burger and fries before answering her today.  She’s not nearly so patient some days.

“I was talking to Peter,” he explains eventually.  “I needed him to know I wasn’t lying.”

“You self-sacrificing idiot,” she says and he knows he’s not imagining the fondness in her voice.

“Your self-sacrificing idiot,” he replies.

“Please.”  Lydia takes a sip of her milkshake and gives him a look .  “We both know you were his the moment you met him.  I can accept it,” she adds before he can protest.  “So long as he understands what he’s been given.  Don’t forget, Stiles.  If you can’t make him see that?  I can.  And I will.  And he will like it even less than he’s liking your method right now.”

“That is both a threat and a promise,” he says as he sips his own milkshake.  “And I can appreciate that.  I’m trying to get him to get it.  But he’s… not making it easy.”

Lydia gives him that smug smile of hers that made him fall in love with her once upon a time.

“Stiles.  You’ve never wanted easy.”

—

“Buckle up.  You’re in for a ride.”

Peter is already regretting answering the knock at his door and it has been less than twenty seconds.  Stiles tilts forward ever so slightly and he honestly, seriously debates just stepping to the side and letting the little shit hit the floor.

“Good luck,” Sheriff Stilinski says, making his way back down the sidewalk.  He doesn’t even look back over his shoulder.  He just gives a little wave before he hops into his patrol car and takes off.

“What just happened?”

Stiles blinks at Peter a few times and then tries to look over his shoulder to where his dad was without falling over.  It only works because Peter takes pity on him and puts a hand on Stiles’ chest to keep him from tipping.

“Situation at the bar.  Dad dropped me off here.”

“Situation?  What situation and why here?”

“Because I was already three shots and two drinks in when that bitch managed to dose me with some foxtooth.  So it’s gonna be a fun time for both of us, Peter.  Can I come in?  Or are we doing this on the porch?”

Peter sighs and steps back to let Stiles into the house.  Stiles makes his way to the living room in little shuffling stumbling steps.  So much for his plans of a nice, quiet night eating popcorn and watching horrible action movies.  He’ll have to settle for whatever wild fucking version of reality tv he’s being saddled with.  He might still get the popcorn at least.

He waits until Stiles collapses onto the couch in a flail of limbs and uncoordinated movement that looks more like a foal being birthed than a human being settling onto a couch before he asks, “Foxtooth?”

“Yeah.”  Stiles waves his hand in Peter’s direction.  “You know.  It’s kinda like a secret spilling one-two punch for magic users.  It makes you tell the truth and it compels you to have that truth be secrets.”

“Then why are you here with me?”

“Dad and Lydia are the only other ones in town right now and they already know all my secrets so talking to them isn’t going to help the compulsion part of it go the fuck away.  And I can’t tell just anybody my secrets.”

“Why not?  Surely there are plenty of people who don’t know your secrets.”

“Oh yeah.  Obviously.  Yeah.  But the rune of protection I have means I can only tell secrets to people I trust.”

His mind is stuck, ping-ponging between the fact that as far as he knows runes don’t work like that and the fact that Stiles apparently trusts him that much.  He chooses the former to latch on to.  The latter is not something he can deal with right now.  If ever.

“That makes no sense.  Runes don’t work that way.”

Stiles shrugs.  “They do when you make them work that way.”

“Excuse me?”

No one can just make runes do things they aren’t meant to do.  No matter how much power and magic they have in them.  There are rules to these things.  Rules that don’t  get broken and bent just because the person they’re being applied to says so.  

There’s no way Stiles has the kind of power to just… change the fucking laws of the universe just because he wants to.

Right?

“Yeah.”  Stiles interrupts his thoughts with another lazy handwave and wiggles around on the couch until he’s flat on his back with his legs hanging over the arm.  “This isn’t my first experience with shit like this and after last time we figured that I could use all the protection I could get.  So we got someone to ink a blank rune spot over my heart.  Then Lydia and I worked our mojo on it and wham bam thank you ma’am: now I can’t tell big secrets to anyone I don’t trust.  Small shit like not telling Dad I keep taking his lunch on purpose so I have an excuse to bring him slightly healthier options is free game.  Bigger shit?  That’s hard to get out of me.”

The grimace on Stiles’ face makes something in Peter’s chest twinge.  He knows how much it sucks to have your secrets pulled from you like teeth.  It doesn’t matter that the foxtooth cocktail in Stiles’ system is an anesthetic.  If you’re awake you can still feel the tug, feel the way your body refuses to let go of it until it’s forced to.

“I am going to go out on a limb and assume that was, in fact, one of those secrets you’re compelled to share?”

“Yeah.”

“The foxtooth?”

“Yep.”

He debates getting himself a drink.  He has a bottle of scotch in the kitchen that would do nicely right about now.  But one of them should probably be sober for this.  So he simply sighs and settles into the armchair next to the couch.

“So what secrets do you have for me, other than the rune thing?”

“I took a music theory class in college.  Not for credits towards my degree or anything.  Just because I already loved music and wanted to learn more about it and the whys and hows of it and truly appreciate the amount of sheer talent some singers and bands have.”

“That seems an odd secret.”

“Yeah, well.  The thing with dosing me with foxtooth?  It doesn’t quite work on me the same way it works on most magic users.  Most of them are just compelled to share secrets, to blab out anything and everything.”

“And you?”  

“Me?  I’m compelled to share secrets of what makes me, well, me.”

There are a lot of things Peter is knowledgeable about.  A lot of odd things that most people don’t have a lot of information on.  He has obscure bits of knowledge that people would, and have, paid good money for.  But he’s not entirely sure how foxtooth has such a strong hold on someone.  None of the uses of foxtooth that he knows of would compel someone to share secrets like that.  Unless…

“Dare I even ask why?”

He’s had an inkling about Stiles since that day in the forest.  A theory that just doesn’t seem to make sense.  Except for the ways it does.  Especially now.

“Go for it.  Ask and find out.”

“It’s one thing for you to share the secret, sweetheart.  Asking for it?  When you can’t do anything but answer?  That seems wrong.”

“Peter.”  Stiles stares at him and he can’t quite look away from him.  “All you ever have to do is ask.”

He can smell the magic in the air, taste it when he breathes.  He can feel it settling over his skin and sinking in like a promise as he holds Stiles’ gaze.

There’s no going back from this but, somehow, Peter can’t really find it in himself to be worried about that.

“Fine then.  Will you tell me, Stiles?”

“Tell you what, Peter?”

“Everything.”

Stiles grins at him, sharp and sweet.

“Of course I will.”

Chapter Text

There’s rain soaking his… well, everything honestly.  His hair.  His hoodie.  His jeans.  Hell.  Even his shoes and socks are soaked through.  Which is gross and wrong and unfair and come on.  Really?  

What did he do to deserve this?  

Okay.  He’s done a lot of things to deserve a lot of things.  But this?  This is just rude.

So, so rude.

He’s in the middle of the forest — one of these days he’s going to do some serious in-depth research about the number of times he and his peers are kidnapped and dumped in forests because this shit is ridiculous — because some dumb assholes have decided that he’s an easy target.

Said dumb assholes are about to have a no good, very bad day.  Because he’s cold and wet and wants to fight something.  By the time he’s through with them they’re going to regret pretty much their entire life.  Or at least the parts of their lives that lead them to kidnapping and all that.  That is if they’re even alive enough to understand what regret is when he’s done with them.  Which they probably won’t be.

Thunder cracks above him, like nature herself is punctuating his thoughts, and he grins as he picks a direction and lets the trees around him be his guide.

He’s about halfway through the forest — you can walk into the forest only halfway, then you’re walking back out, after all — when he hears a familiar voice nearby.

“Look.  All I’m saying is I’m not sure why, exactly, you seem happy to see me.  The only people who are this happy to see me are Stiles when he’s pissed his dad off enough to make me primary contact in a situation and my cat when I come home from work at dinner time.”

There’s a response that he can’t quite make out.  Something, something… a lot of money?  Which is kind of hilarious because Jordan isn’t worth all that much, even to collectors of supernatural and paranormal creatures and paraphernalia.  Stiles would know.  He’s worked hard to make sure all of his people are as safe as possible.

The voices rise and fall and he takes a deep breath.

Then another.

Then one more.  Three’s the charm after all.

The thing that a lot of people — namely the ones who make him their enemy — don’t realize is that the forest accepts him.  It lets him pass from shadow to shadow.  It buries his presence so deep into its own that even the creatures of the forest don’t realize he’s there.

The forest, any forest really but this one especially, is his.  The forest is the benevolent ruler looking out for him.  The forest belongs to him and he belongs to the forest; body, heart, and soul.

He presses his fingertips to the damp bark of the tree in front of him and slides through it all.

When he opens his eyes he spots three assholes with their backs to him, Jordan a few feet past them facing the trees Stiles just shimmered through, and Peter tied up on the ground between them.  

That makes Jordan’s words make a lot more sense.

He knows that Jordan can’t see him.  Between his wards, shields, and the forest itself he’s basically invisible right now.  But he can tell the moment Jordan realizes that Stiles is here because his shoulders twitch a little and his hands drop from his hips to hang loosely at his sides.  The dumb assholes notice and start laughing and nudging each other like they think they’re what Jordan is trying to make himself seem less threatening for.

Which is hilarious.  These assholes aren’t a threat.  They just haven’t figured that out yet.

But they will.

Because there is only one threat in this forest today and it’s Stiles.

The forest is his kingdom.  He is its protector.  Its champion.

He reaches for the power of the forest and it jumps at the chance to give it to him.  Jordan groans softly.  He’s been around Stiles and his magic long enough to know what’s about to happen.  Even if he can’t actually see anything just yet.

Stiles might be the forest’s protector but Jordan is his and he’s tuned into this forest too.

“Just.  Don’t make more paperwork for me.  Your dad already has me on the shit list this week because of that whole thing with Jackson and Danny.”

The assholes look at each other and shrug, no one understanding who Jordan is talking to.  Peter shudders a little.  Stiles isn’t sure if it’s because Peter is feeling the forest responding to his request or if it’s some injury of Peter’s that he can’t see from here.

“Jordan.  Peter,” he says softly.  “Take a deep breath.”  Peter’s eyes dart around, trying to pinpoint where Stiles is. 

Stiles reaches, asks.  The forest answers.

“If I throw up you’re cleaning my shoes,” Jordan grumbles.   But he and Peter both inhale deeply before shadows rush up from the ground and pull them out of harm’s way.

“Now then,” Stiles says as he steps away from the trees and lets himself become visible.  “I think it’s time the four of us have a little chat.”

When Stiles stumbles out of the forest, red under his nails and clothes soaked with more than just water, Peter stares at him like he’s seeing him for the first time.  It’s a little bit of a déjà vu moment though, thankfully, this time Peter isn’t also soaked to the bone and covered in red.  He seems mostly unharmed, actually, standing on his own feet and everything.  Which is a relief.

Jordan, however, is standing with his head tilted back, rain falling on his face as he takes deliberately deep breaths.

“What?” Peter asks.

Stiles hums questioningly as he makes his way to Jordan’s side and rubs his hand across Jordan’s back soothingly.  One of these days he swears he’ll be able to yoink Jordan through the shadows without him wanting to lose his stomach.  You’d think someone tied to him the way Jordan is would get some kind of immunity.  You’d be wrong.  But you’d think that.

“What was that?” Peter clarifies.

“Do you mean the expedited travel part or the part where I’m soaked in things I don’t wanna think about too hard?”

“Both.  But mostly the former.  The latter I can probably surmise all on my own.”

Stiles looks away from Jordan long enough to give Peter a pointed look.  “Ask, Peter,” he says, focusing back on Jordan.

“How did you do that?”

“Cheap answer: magic.”

“Darling, we both know the last thing I want is cheap.”

“Pricier answer: magic boy meets magic girl and have a magic baby.”

Jordan snorts and then seems to immediately regret it, taking a deep breath and pressing his hand against his stomach.  Stiles wishes there was something more he could do for Jordan but they’ve never been able to figure anything out.  Which is why Stiles tries not to pull Jordan through the shadows.  But sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do.

“And the upscale, high end, luxury cost answer?”  Peter steps closer.  Jordan tenses and Peter raises his eyebrows.  “Down boy,” he teases before he turns his attention to Stiles.  “You told me all I had to do was ask.”

“Stiles,” Jordan scolds.  “You didn’t.”

He shrugs.  “I did.”

“Does your dad know?”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck me.  Seriously?”  Jordan drops his head so that he can give Peter an appraising look that Peter waits out.  He has no idea if Peter can sense something specific in Jordan’s gaze or if he’s simply amusing the other man.  After a minute Jordan sighs.  “Fine.”

“Hey.  No paperwork involved technically.”  Stiles grins at the unimpressed look Jordan gives him.

“Next time I’m throwing up on your shoes,” Jordan promises.  Then he turns and walks away to give them a little privacy.

“So.”  Peter waits until Jordan pulls out his phone to, no doubt, call for a ride.  “How did you do what you just did?”

“Well.  When your dad’s part of a fae court and your mom’s a kitsune you’re destined to be born with a few quirks.  Mine was being born as the vessel of a nogitsune.  To counter that potential disaster Dad made a bargain with the local nemeton.  I’m what happens when a human is born as a vessel for darkness and is, instead, filled to the brim with the power of a forest.”

Peter stares at him as he processes that and Stiles refuses to drop his gaze.

“You’ll never cease to surprise me, will you, sweetheart?”

“Probably not.”

—

“Shit,” Stiles hisses.  “It’s her.  From the bar.”

Of course they can’t have a nice quiet lunch out at Stiles’ favorite diner in town.  Of course something has to go a little bit sideways.  Since running into Stiles that day in the rain nothing in Peter’s life has really gone too smoothly.  It’s a byproduct of who Stiles is, he thinks.  All that magic and chaos and life wrapped up in human form.

Peter looks past Stiles’ shoulder at the woman who apparently dosed him at the bar a few months ago.  He’s sneering before he even fully registers who he’s looking at.  She’s that damn repulsive to him on a purely instinctual level.

“Somehow I am not even surprised,” he mutters.

Stiles blinks at him.  “You sound like you know her.”

“Oh yeah.  That bitch and I have met before.” As if she can hear him she turns and meets Peter’s gaze.  It’s more likely that she can feel the way he’s glaring holes into the back of her head.  But who knows with her these days?  “That’s the bitch that made my dear nephew an orphan.”

Stiles stares at him for a few seconds as it sinks in.  “The fuck?  And she’s not a rotting carcass in the woods somewhere?”

“Not for lack of trying.  But I, sadly, had more pressing concerns than immediate revenge after the fire and by the time things evened out a bit she was long gone and all evidence pointing to her involvement was conveniently non-existent as well.  Believe me, Stiles.  I know plenty about Kate fucking Argent.”

“Wait.  That’s Kate?”  Stiles narrows his eyes and spins to also glare at Kate.  “Alli’s gonna be so pissed.”  Stiles pulls out his phone and starts messaging someone, fingers tapping angrily at the screen.

“Alli?”

“Yeah.  Alli.  Allison Argent.”  Stiles shrugs, eyes on his phone screen.  “She and I grew up together.  Her dad and my dad were, well.  They hated each other when they were kids.  But they worked shit out eventually.  Dad’s actually Alli’s godfather ya know.”

“Nope.  Did not know that.”  Stiles grins at him.  “Did not know any of that.”

“I’m full of surprises like that.”  

Stiles gives him a brief little insight into the Argent family’s drama — mainly how Chris and Victoria left the main fold of the family around the time they discovered little Alli was on the way and the plans Gerard and the others had for little baby Stiles — as he sends text after text and Peter watches Kate turn back to the man she’s sharing a booth with and continue chatting with him.

“I wish I could just rip her to pieces once and for all.”

Stiles finally drops his phone on the table.  He reaches across the table for Peter’s hand and when Peter reaches back he immediately tangles their fingers together.

“Dad’s working on it.”

Which tells Peter nothing, really.  Because that could mean their dear sheriff is trying to find a legal reason to pull Kate into custody.  Or it could mean he’s setting them up with an alibi so they can make Kate disappear.  Or anything in between.

“And we’re just going to…?”

“Sit here and finish our meal.  Because Kate Argent is a fucking soul sucking bitch of a waste of air but she is not keeping me from my curly fries.  Especially since you already told me you’d buy me lunch.”  Stiles squeezes his hand.  “And maybe if we’re lucky our lunch date can end with us bathing in the blood of our enemies and scrubbing one more stain out of existence.”

Peter squeezes Stiles’ hand and shakes his head.  But he can’t keep the smile off his face.

He kind of hates that Stiles knows him the way he does.  That he’s under Peter’s skin in a way that no one has ever managed before.  And he’s not counting that day in the rain as Stiles literally held Peter together so he could heal properly.  Though sometimes he wonders if Stiles hadn’t left a little bit of himself, a little bit of his magic, in Peter that day.  If he doesn’t, quite literally, have a bit of Stiles in his very bones.

He hates that he doesn’t hate it nearly as much as he thinks he should.

He’s never been one who has wanted to be claimed by someone else.  But that’s the best way to explain the feeling he gets when Stiles rubs his thumb across Peter’s knuckles as he chomps on another curly fry and winks when Peter rolls his eyes.  It’s a sense of warmth and belonging that he only has one comparison for: his pack bond.

Stiles’ phone buzzes but he doesn’t look at it until they’ve both finished eating and Peter’s paid the bill.  He’s counting out a tip for their waitress when Stiles picks up his phone and hums happily at whatever message is waiting for him.

“Chris says that between dosing me with foxtooth and her connection to those assholes who kidnapped you last month, along with all the shit from way back when, we have more than enough evidence built up to confront her without risk of official retribution.”

“And your father?”

“Dad says we can’t borrow Jordan.  But other than that we can pretty much do whatever we deem necessary.”  Stiles stands and holds out his hand for Peter once again.  “So what do you say, Peter?  Wanna have a little fun?  Raise a little hell?”

Peter doesn’t hesitate to put his hand in Stiles’ and let himself be pulled from the booth.

“I’m game.”

The smile Stiles gives him kind of makes him feel like he just sold his soul.

But that’s okay.  Stiles can have it.  He wasn’t using it anyway.

Chapter Text

“You are—”  Stiles cuts himself off with a growl that Peter simply smiles sweetly at.

“Sophisticated?  Sexy as hell?  The smartest man you’ve ever known?”

“The biggest pain in the ass that’s ever existed in my life and I spent six years in school with Jackson Whittemore.”

“Okay.  Harsh.”

“I mean it with all the love in my heart, Jax.”

Jackson hums.  “Yeah.  Sure.  You say that now.  But when it’s three in the morning and I want mini tacos and chocolate cupcakes it’s all ‘fuck off, Jackson’ and ‘I hate you with every fiber of my being, Jackson’ and ‘why do you smell like tequila and poptarts, Jackson’ and never the sweet things you’re saying now.”

“Is there a form I can fill out so that next time I’m kidnapped, drugged, and tied up it’s with anyone but you three?  Or can I put in a request for them to gag you before they hogtie us all and leave us in a creepy basement?  Maybe ask them to sedate me into a mini coma instead of just knocking me out for a couple hours?”  Isaac shifts on the floor to Stiles’ left, nowhere near mobile but finally able to twitch a little.  “Could I maybe just ask for a solo kidnapping?  Leave me tied up in a ditch somewhere to fend for myself?”

He takes a couple of calming breaths — he’s never done all that well with being tied up and nothing that he and his dad have tried has ever helped with it — and focuses on his fingers.  The fucked up combo of poisons that he rope has been dipped in is a challenge.  But he’s almost worked enough of it through his system to get free.

It helps that the main paralytic whoever made this rope chose to use was kanima venom.  He just hopes that means that their kidnappers are not only idiots for choosing to kidnap them — and seriously he’s gotta get with Lydia and start making some charts and gathering stats because this shit is ridiculous — but they are also uninformed idiots and are using the wrong wolfsbane for Jackson.

Because if that’s the case then he just needs to get the rope off the two of them and they’ll raze this fucking building to the ground along with everyone in it.  It’ll be like old times.  Just the two of them.

“Hey, Jax?”

The lump of a body on the other side of Peter twitches.  “Yeah, Chief?”

“You wanna pull a Greenberg, a Coach, or a Harris?”

“They don’t deserve the beauty of a Coach and a Greenberg is way too much effort for these pissants.”

He flexes his fingers, concentrates, and lets out a sigh of relief when the ropes around his wrists flare up and burn.

“A Harris it is,” he says as the ropes around him crackle and smolder.  He yanks the last of them from around his neck and chest as he pushes himself to his feet.  “May that spineless dickwad continue to rest in pieces.”

“Amen,” Jax replies.  “Now come untie me.  My tongue feels itchy.”

Stiles does as Jackson requests and then the two of them untie Peter and Isaac.  Neither werewolf is going to be able to move much for probably an hour but getting the ropes off of them will help their healing powers kick the venom and wolfsbane through their systems a little faster.

Stiles presses a kiss to Peter’s temple.  “Don’t worry, Peter.  You make a wonderful damsel in distress.  Now you and Isaac sit here and look pretty and let Jax and I take care of things.”

“I would feel a little emasculated by how often you seem to come to my rescue,” Peter murmurs as they prop him and Isaac next to each other against one of the walls.  “But I also never needed this much rescuing until you appeared in my life.”

“That’s the price of having my chaos in your life, baby.”  He takes a second or two to look over the both of them, cataloging the nicks and bruises and, in Isaac’s case, decidedly deliberate looking knife wound across his cheek, before he meets Jackson’s gaze.  “Let’s see if we can go take care of things before my guard dog shows up.”

Jackson shudders with a grimace.  “Oh fuck.  I dunno if he’s gonna be more pissed at you for getting kidnapped and making him come after you and ruining our date.  Or me for getting kidnapped and making him come after me and ruining our date.”

“We’ll split it.  One of us takes the blame for the kidnapping and his rescue attempt.  One of us takes the blame for the paperwork we’re about to cause him.”

“I don’t like either of those options.”  Jackson looks down at Peter and Isaac for a few seconds before he lets out a groan.  “Fine. We’ll rock-paper-scissors for it when we’re done.”

“Pleasure doing business with you.”  Jackson stares at Stiles’ outstretched hand but he doesn’t hesitate when he reaches out and takes it.  Jackson’s fingers are as cool as ever against Stiles’ skin when he grasps Stiles’ wrist.  “Let’s make sure we make his paperwork worth it,” Stiles teases.

“Don’t we always?” Jackson shoots back.

Stiles grins even as his magic grows dark and serious, stretching across them and dipping into every nook and cranny of their souls and Jackson?  Well.  Jackson grins back.  It’s a thing that no one else has ever quite been able to manage the way Jackson can.  He can meet Stiles’ darkness and chaos and bitterness over being a tool for something much larger and darker and eviler than himself and not let it overwhelm either of them.  He’s never shied from that darkness, that glint in Stiles’ eyes.

Stiles drags his gaze from Jackson’s eyes and dares to let himself meet Peter’s and it shouldn’t surprise him to see the way Peter is watching him curiously, gaze darting around and drinking in the sight of his magic manifesting.  He tries not to dip this deeply around people who aren’t Jordan or Jackson or his dad.

But needs must and all that.

“The fact you’re making heart eyes at him makes me wanna throw up,” Isaac grumbles.

“I’m going to put you in the dirt when we spar next,” Peter promises cheerfully.  “Teach you to respect your elders and whatnot.”

Stiles snorts and pulls Jackson into the shadows with him; they’ve got some hell to raise.

Chapter Text

There is something to be said about the beauty of a sunset.  The jewel tones of the sky, so vibrant you feel like you’re seeing the colors for the first time.  So brilliantly, brightly real that they manage to look all the more fake for it.  The way the sky and the clouds and the sun burn so damn bright that you can almost feel the way night wrenches control from day and takes over the sky, one star at a time until the moon has you hypnotized.

There’s also something about the sunrise.  The slow takeover of pastel hues seeping through the darkness, washing over the stars like a warm breeze and leaving the sky a little brighter with each passing breath.  The way night bows out gracefully despite the harshness it takes over the reins with.  Like it realizes its mistakes and begs the day to forgive it for its anger, for its need to rush through the trade off.

Each has its merits.  Each has its fans.

Each has its beauty memorialized in everything from children’s drawings to stories to paintings to soliloquies.

None of it compares to the way Peter finds himself drawn to Stiles.

Yet it is exactly the same.

Pushing and pulling.  Bowing out gracefully and taking over by force.  Blinding to anyone who doesn’t know how to look at the light.  Disorienting to anyone who can’t understand how to navigate the darkness.  

They are both sunset and sunrise in equal measure.

It’s a problem.

Peter swears it is.

He can feel it all the way down to his bones and even deeper.  Down past where his wolf curls protectively over his heart and holds his very soul in its sharp, careful teeth.

He can feel Stiles there, too.  And that’s the heart of the problem.  Weeds digging in roots so deep that he’ll never recover.

Peter had never wanted someone in his life the way Stiles is in it.  Never wanted someone to look at his broken parts — his pack, and his past, and his anger, and his rage, and his ice blue eyes, and, and, and, and —  and find beauty in them without thinking they needed to be fixed.

He watches Stiles fit himself into the Hale Pack one moment at a time.  Their pack is a mosaic made of shards of stained glass and shattered ceramics and chips of shale and seashells. Stiles fills in the cracks and crevices and crannies and canyons with inky black darkness that settles into place and cures into a brilliant, shimmering masterpiece of silvers and golds.

Stiles makes Derek — kind Derek who was forced to grow into something colder and tougher because of Peter’s mistakes, sweet Derek who uses his glare as a shield and wields a tongue that’s nearly as sharp as his claws — laugh so hard he doubles over from the force of it and then he smiles like he can’t believe he gets this.  Like Stiles is the one who doesn’t deserve to experience this moment.

And around them the world moves on.

No proof of the moment other than the slow, seeping stain of Stiles’ fingers dragging across Peter’s soul.

Then Stiles looks up and meets Peter’s gaze and he realizes with startling clarity that it’s not the roots of weeds Stiles has dug in.  It’s more like tree roots.  Reaching so deep that even if you dig it all out you’re left with rings of mushrooms growing from the decay and grass growing so vibrantly green and alive that it makes your teeth ache for something else, some other world because there is no way something so beautiful and vibrant truly exists in this world.

Yet it does.

Chapter Text

Stiles is starting to think that all of his dad’s jokes about Stiles falling on his head too many times as a child weren’t really jokes.  Because he probably shouldn’t find Peter Hale covered in someone else’s blood with his killer-blue eyes flashing as he snaps his sharp teeth and growls out words in Stiles’ direction as hot as it is.  That’s got to be the sign of some kind of repeated head trauma or something.  At least that’s the look that Derek gives him when he gets close enough for Stiles’ scent to reach him.

“Stiles,” Peter snaps.

“What?”

“I thought you said we’d be free from retaliation.”

“Pretty sure I told you Chris said we weren’t risking official retribution.  I didn’t say anything about being free from retaliation.  Official or unofficial.”

“As thrilling as debating semantics with you can be, sweetheart, this is not the time.”

Stiles shrugs.  “You’re the one who started it.”

“Pretty sure the imbecile who stabbed me started it, actually.”

“Oh.  Is that whose blood is on you?”

“No,” Derek breaks in.  “That belonged to the guy who tried to sneak up on me.  Which Peter didn’t like.”

Stiles nods.  That totally tracks with what he knows about Peter.  Hell it tracked with what he knew about Peter by the end of the day they met.  

Peter nudges the body next to him with his foot.  He’s a little surprised by that, knowing how fastidious Peter usually is when it comes to personal grooming standards and the meticulous way he takes care of his wardrobe.  Then again when you can afford to have the expensive taste that Peter does you can probably also afford a good dry cleaner who doesn’t ask questions and the ability to simply replace anything you can’t get the blood and viscera out of.

“If you’re waiting for me to apologize for taking action when someone comes after my pack and my family you’ll be waiting quite some time.”

Stiles is in the middle of wondering how much Peter spends on dry cleaning and if he bothers cleaning his socks or simply buys new ones every week when he realizes that Peter had directed that comment at him.  He blinks a few times and drags his gaze away from the dead body at Peter’s feet.

“Do you buy your socks in bulk?” he asks before he can redirect his train of thought.  Peter raises his eyebrows.  He says so much with his eyebrows.  The entire pack does.  Stiles had needed to become fluent in three different body languages just to keep up with the Hale Pack and he doesn’t think he gets nearly enough recognition for that fact.  “That’s not important.”

Derek snorts out a laugh.  “No?  It isn’t?”

“I do not appreciate the sarcasm, Der-bear.”

“Hasn’t stopped me yet, Sweetie Pie.”

“Are we going to talk about the people trying to kill us or are you two going to stand here and flirt all day?”

“Aw,” Stiles coos as Derek rolls his eyes and crouches to start checking the bodies for clues as to who they are and who sent them.  “Don’t worry, baby.  You’re the only one I flirt with seriously.”

Peter sneers at Stiles but there’s a pleased glint in his eyes before he turns his attention to the blood on his hands.  Somehow Stiles isn’t even surprised when Peter pulls a freaking handkerchief out of his pants pocket and starts wiping his hands clean.  Who even carries a handkerchief around anymore?  Especially when they’re wearing jeans?

He shakes himself off of that train of thought.  That is also not important right now.

“We’re gonna have to do some more digging,” Derek says.  “But I think they might be tied to the Argents.  Either that or someone wants us to think they are.”  Stiles crouches next to Derek and looks at him curiously.  Derek drops a medallion into Stiles’ hand.  “It’s the Argent symbol.  They have it on a lot of their stuff.”

He holds it in the air by its chain and watches as it spins slowly, gleaming in the afternoon light coming through the trees.  It’s an older medallion.  Worn down in a way that can’t be manufactured or faked.  Sunlight catches on an edge and he frowns, stilling the medallion so he can see it better.  He runs his fingertip over the front of it and his nail catches on a messily carved letter nearly hidden in the background of the medallion.

“This belongs to Chris.”  He isn’t entirely sure before but the moment the words leave his lips he knows it’s true.  He feels the undeniable weight of the truth of his words on his tongue.  “These idiots are tied to the Argents for sure.  Not entirely sure how.  But they definitely are.  I think they were meant to be a message.  I’m not sure if they were after us in the first place or if we just happened to stumble into their path on their way to Chris.”

“Do you know the message?” Derek asks.

“No.  But if I had to take a guess I’d say it’s something along the lines of getting ready for a fight.  We did take out their best candidate for their matriarch considering Allison refuses to have anything to do with them.  And Chris is the one that gave us the go-ahead to do it.”

Stiles and Derek stand at the same time and Stiles looks up into Derek’s face, looking for an answer for the question he can’t ask.  He can’t sway this one way or the other, no more than he already has by being here in this place with these people.  Derek narrows his eyes and then turns to look at Peter.

“Uncle Peter?”

“Dearest nephew,” Peter drawls from where he’s leaning against a nearby tree, hands clean but face still spattered with drops of blood.  “I do love a good fight.”

Derek nods and turns back to Stiles.

“Stiles,” Derek says.  “Will you fight with us?  Will you help us protect our territory?  Will you help me protect my pack?”

“Alpha Hale,” Stiles replies with a wild grin that makes Peter take a deep breath when he catches sight of it.  “I would be honored to help you.”

Chapter Text

“What the fuck?”

Stiles tries to blink the rain out of his eyes but it doesn’t help when it’s pouring so hard he can barely see the trees in front of him.  He’s soaked down to his underwear and he’s really tired of getting stuck out in the rain so damn much.

At least he hasn’t been kidnapped this time.

“What the fuck?” he repeats, glaring at the man in front of him.

Peter glares back at him, just as soaked, and later Stiles will probably double over in laughter at the sight that Peter makes with his hair plastered to his forehead and his no doubt ridiculously expensive peacoat drooping heavily from his shoulders.  The mud squelches under their feet as they shift their weight and glare at each other.

“Did I stutter?” Peter finally bites out.

“No.  But you sure as shit didn’t make any fucking sense.”

Peter rubs at his forehead and pushes his wet hair out of his face only for it to flop right back into place and Stiles wants to laugh.  But Peter’s question is taking up a good ninety-seven percent of his brain right now and laughing isn’t part of that last three percent.  Most of that is forcing himself to stand still and not just bolt into the pouring rain, never to be seen again.

His dad is going to kill him if he doesn’t die from laughter when he hears about this.

“My question didn’t make sense?”

“Not really.  No.”  Peter scoffs.  “I mean.  Come on, Peter.  You’re you.  And I’m just… me.”

“You choose now to have self-worth issues, sweetheart?”

“Come on!” Stiles protests.  “You’re soaked to the bone and you still look like a freaking ten out of ten.  How am I supposed to compare to all that?”  Stiles flails his hands in Peter’s general direction and Peter looks like he can’t decide if he wants to preen at Stiles’ compliment or shake some sense into Stiles because of the rest of his words.  It’s a complicated look but Stiles manages to make a lot of people get that way these days.

“Do you want me to start listing all the ways you’re more than comparable to myself?  Just because you don’t do ‘soaked to the bone’ the same way I do doesn’t mean you’re a lost cause, darling.”  Peter closes the distance between them and curls his fingers into Stiles’ hoodie.  “I know for a fact that you hide a lot under these baggy clothes.  But I also know that your looks alone are not why I asked and so do you.  You’re loyal.  You’re intelligent.  You’re feisty and petty and downright mean when you need to be.  You call me on my shit and let me call you on yours.  You’re a fire that will never burn me even when you’re under my skin.  You’ve planted roots inside me and my wolf sleeps among them like they’ve always been there.”

Stiles gulps, throat suddenly dry as Peter’s words sink in, making him shiver in a way that not even the cold rain has managed to do.

“Do you even understand what you’re doing?  The consequences if I say no?”  His voice is hoarse and Peter’s gaze darkens, fingers gripping Stiles’ hoodie tight.  Peter’s grip is an anchor that lets him get the next words out.  “The consequences if I say yes?”

“We’ve always taken things to the extreme, Stiles.  Why stop now?”

“Because me tying myself to the Hale Pack by agreeing to help protect their territory is not the same as you tying yourself to me.  You don’t give yourself to the fae on a whim, Peter.  Even if I’m not full-blooded.  The fae don’t take that sort of promise lightly.”

“Neither do I.”  Peter tugs Stiles forward until they’re pressed together chest to knee and are sharing air, Peter’s breath warm against Stiles’ lips.  “I never answered your question in the mall that day.”  It takes Stiles a minute to figure out what Peter’s talking about and when he does he makes a questioning noise in his throat.  “I was angry and you knew exactly why.  I was angry because you saw right through me, saw me pawing at my cage too afraid to simply try the door.  You saw me and you didn’t back down.”

“I’ve never wanted to leash you, Peter.”

“No.  But I understand now.”

“Understand what?”

“Letting you know me, see me?  It’s not a leash or a cage.  In fact it’s probably the furthest I could get from those things.  Because I see you too.  I know you too.  Your trust isn’t hard to earn but keeping it?  That’s where the work comes in.  The same with your love and for every moment you’ve looked at me and thought that you loved me?  I promise you that there have been twice as many moments where I’ve done the same.”

Stiles' breath catches and Peter smiles at him.

The rain is pouring down around them and they should both be trudging back to the car.  No doubt Jordan and Derek are already waiting for them, the search for the latest bad guy of the week postponed because of the downpour.  But they don’t move.

Peter’s fingers are curled into Stiles’ hoodie, hands trapped between them.

Stiles’ digs his fingers into the back of Peter’s ridiculous peacoat, just above his waist, and blinks rain out of his eyes.

The rain falls around them and Stiles could stop it, could put up a barrier around them to deflect the drops.  But he doesn’t.

He simply stands here with Peter and exists for a moment.

It’s one of the most terrifying moments of his life.  Being seen the way that Peter can see him.  The way he lets Peter see him.

Stiles takes a deep breath and Peter’s fingers twitch.

“Ask me again.”

Peter cocks his head just a little.  Just enough to make the smirk on his face even out.

“You’re a series of bad decisions that I love to make and we’re probably going to burn the world down together someday.  But will you marry me, Stiles?”

“You are somehow both the worst and best thing that has ever happened to me.  Yes, Peter.”  Stiles grins and his magic sings under his skin at the promises being woven between them.  “I’ll marry you.”