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Peter is exhausted.
He woke up early, fed his three two year old gems, and dressed and showered and went to work where his subordinates were even more useless than usual, and the spreadsheet data had come in late so his oversees business partner had become irritable, and someone had spilt hot coffee onto his crotch. And then his favourite sandwich had been taken from the lunch room and he realised that he’d left his phone at home so couldn’t check on Stiles or the kids. His new assistant tripped and threatened him with being liable and then his laptop went into forced configuration and he was sat staring at a circling blue loop for two hours, each second ticking by making him less and less likely to meet his deadline.
When he gets home, Claudia and Hannah are crying loudly, and Stiles is swearing over his pot of noodles as he grunts and bears the pain of Matthew gnawing at his shin, magically healing himself as best he can, but the magic is too strong, too used today and smell old and Peter grimaces. It reminds him of witches and he hates witches.
‘Can you settle the girls down please?’ Stiles calls over the gnashing of his shin, the crying of the girls, the screeching of the kettle, the boiling of the noodles and the annoying buzz of magic and crackle of the television ‘I can hardly hear myself think- Matty! Ow, ow, daddy’s leg is not a chew-toy-‘
Peter bites his tongue, heading over to his little girls and quietens them down, he switches the television off and soothes them to sleep, and then Matthew hears what’s happening and rushes to his father and Peter helps him to sleep, too.
He pulls the kettle off at the plug and turns down the noodles.
‘Could you stop with the magic?!’ Peter growls, snapping, and Stiles jerks, eyes wide at the tone.
‘My leg-‘
‘Bandage it! Jesus Stiles, the apartment is a mess! What are you doing all day?!’
Stiles flushes hotly, embarrassed and defiant all at the same time ‘I’m looking after our children, researching for Scott and helping my dad with cases! Peter, calm down, you’ve just put the triplets down-‘
‘It’s disgusting in here.’ Peter spits, and it is. The apartment is nothing short of a mess all the time now, his nice carpets fluffed up and the curtains shredded, and baby powder and diapers adds a clinical scent, and Peter is so goddamn tired, he can’t remember the last time he got a full night’s sleep. ‘Your family should come first, Stiles. I wake up and take care of them, go to work to earn money for us, come back, and take care of them, and what the hell are you doing?’
‘Peter-‘ Stiles steps away from the stove, he’s trembling, he looks frightened and tight with worry but Peter doesn’t see it. He isn’t looking ‘what’s wrong, Wolfie?’
And suddenly, viscously, Peter is just so sick of him. ‘I’m just so sick of you.’ He says, and Stiles knocks backwards into the counter, hurt; sharp and poignant fills the air. ‘With your damn ‘Wolfie, wolfie’’ he does a horrible, high-pitched mimic of Stiles’ voice tossing his words carelessly ‘I’ve been fucking stuck with you for twenty one years, and you never change, you’re always the same. I’m so fucking bored. I was sat at my desk today-‘ he laughs humourlessly ‘-and I wished I’d never seen you. Wish that gust of wind had never blown your scent back to me. Jesus Stiles, I wish you weren’t my mate, so fucking much, but I’m stuck with you.’
Stiles’ skin is ashen, his eyes wet and hurt and Peter has seen that face before, and he’s so. Fucking. Bored. ‘Get out,’ Stiles whispers, pointing at the door, shaking ‘get the hell out.’
Peter sneers at him ‘why would I stay?’ And he slams the door behind him.
Stiles cries properly then. Loud, horrified sobs and loss, and he falls to his knees, throwing spells at the door. Wolfsbane and poison and anything and everything to keep Peter out, and he falls limp to the floor, crying and curling into a ball to the smell of burnt noodles.
…
…
…
When he wakes up, Matthew, Claudia and Hannah are sat beside him, tiny faces sad and fraught with worry.
‘Hey, little ones,’ Stiles smiles, swallowing forcibly ‘my, such faces,’ he smiles a little ‘how about some banana sandwiches for breakfast? Yummy, yummy,’ He takes Hannah on his hip, Matthew on his back, and Claudia clings to his non-injured leg. They eat breakfast, but the kids know something isn’t right.
Stiles sets them in their bedroom, and enchants games and a small garden within a pen with warmth and sunshine, before heading downstairs.
He pauses.
The apartment is a mess.
Peter was right.
He sinks onto the steps.
Peter was right about everything. Stiles is…is horrible. The worst mate. He’s been ungrateful of Peter ever since he was five years old, and Peter’s been tied to him. His life forever snatched, and Stiles can’t even keep the apartment clean for his hardworking alpha who has done nothing but make sure his life has been okay.
‘You’re so stupid,’ Stiles hisses to himself ‘you have to earn your keep. You’re lazy, and disgusting and worthless.’ He chants it to himself, like a mantra, and cleans. He’s drained of magic by the end, the carpets back to pristine, the curtains re-sewn, Peter’s jackets unclawed and hung up. His finger nails are nubs but the kitchen is glimmering, the windows are clean and the bedrooms tidy.
He goes upstairs, and washes the children, feeds them carefully, and sets them down for their nap.
He scrubs himself clean in the shower, and then looks at himself in the mirror.
He’s surprised.
He was never particularly attractive but-
Jesus.
No wonder Peter got bored.
Stiles looks exhausted, and nearly skeletal, and his hair is greasy and flattened and he can’t remember the last time he brushed it. There are ugly dark circles around his eyes, and his lips are dry and chapped.
He gathers his children around him, and sleeps for hours.
…
…
…
Peter wakes up in an alley, reeking of wolfsbane infused alcohol and sleaze.
He freezes to hell when he remembers what he said.
He vomits onto the sidewalk.
How could he say those things? To his mate? To his soul mate who he was lucky enough to find and be with. Who he got to see grow and love for so long. How could he walk away from his family?
He heads home, and his hands burn at the touch of the doorknob, so he knocks, petrified.
Stiles opens it, smiling, cheeks rosy and eyes amber warm.
‘I’m so stupid,’ he says with an apologetic grin ‘I forgot to take the charms off the door, come on in, Peter, dinner’s nearly ready.’
It’s 5pm.
Peter rubs his head, and stares.
The apartment is…clean. And the triplets are in their highchair, quietly giggling, and Stiles has set two plates of delicious smelling roast on either side of the table. He sits at one head, and Peter takes the other.
Peter can’t speak.
It’s surreal.
He wonders if he dreamt the whole thing.
Stiles finishes quickly, and spoon feeds the babies one by one and when Peter stands to help, Stiles forces him to sit down ‘you need to eat, Peter. You do too much for us.’ Peter doesn’t know what to do. He expected a slap across the face, tears, angst, but Stiles seems…fine? If not slightly off.
Stiles takes their plates and starts on the washing up, wiping down the table, and the children, and collecting all three of them into his arms, and going upstairs to set them down.
Peter stays motionless at the kitchen table.
What the hell is going on?
Stiles comes back down, some fifteen minutes later smiling softly. He turns on the television, and stands beside the couch, holding out the remote ‘why don’t you watch something? I can’t remember the last time you relaxed and watched television.’
Peter isn’t a huge fan of television. He only likes it if Stiles is there, tucked under his arm. He doesn’t argue though, he sits down, takes the remote and Stiles heads for the stairs.
‘Where are you going?’ He asks, the first thing he’s said, and Stiles smiles at him softly
‘I’m going to clean the bathroom, and then take the kids laundry, and then finish washing the dishes. I can make dessert if you’d like? We only have ice cream-‘ he pales a little, his heartbeat speeding up ‘I’m so sorry,’ he says in a rush ‘I forgot, I completely forgot, apple pie’s your favourite, I can run and get some from the store- or maybe magic some, I’m not sure how good that’ll taste though-‘
‘Stiles,’ Peter cuts him off, and Stiles closes his mouth obediently and this is fucking unnerving ‘I’m not hungry. I’m full on that delicious dinner.’
Stiles doesn’t smile, just wringing his hands worriedly ‘the carrots were too hard, I was too impatient, I’m always so fucking impatient, aren’t I?’
Peter stares.
Stiles nods at him, before scurrying upstairs.
Peter has this terrible feeling he knows what’s happening. But he suppresses it, and he watches the news. It’s as terrible and depressing as the news always is, and when night time falls, he heads up the stairs. The shower is nice, and the water is hot, and the glass is spotless, and Peter thinks he should have showered when he first came home. The sick and dryness of him washes away, and he slides into his robe, and goes to the children’s room.
They gurgle, spouting a few vowels happily at him, and he kisses each of them, and goes to his room, lying in bed, and waiting.
He can hear Stiles downstairs, the clinking of dishes being put away, and then the television being switched off, the checking of the door lock, and the windows. The oven being switched off, and finally the lights. And then Stiles heads up the stairs. He’s already in his pyjamas, and smiles softly at Peter as he heads towards the wardrobe
‘What are you doing?’
Stiles stops from where he was loading Peter’s shirts onto his arms ‘I was going to iron these for you.’ He says slowly, eyes wide ‘I know you hate creased shirts.’
Peter frowns ‘Stiles, you hate ironing.’
Stiles half smiled ‘yeah I know, but that’s really no excuse, is it? You go out and work everyday, while I just laze about. I should do more to help. And I will from here on out, I promise Peter, I know I’ll never be the mate you truly want, but I can try harder, and you know,’ he steps forward, seeming completely unaware that his eyes are glistening ‘you can go out with other people, if you like. There are some…well I mean, you’re always getting hit on. You can…with other people, okay? I mean-‘ he laughs a little and Peter’s heart has stopped beating ‘I’m not anything to look at, and you’re so…’ he flushes ‘beautiful, so you can- Marcus at your office really likes you. And he’s a lot better looking than me, Peter-‘
‘Stop talking, Stiles.’
Stiles clacks his mouth shut.
Peter wants to cry. He wants his defiant boy back. ‘You don’t- Stiles, what I said yesterday, I didn’t mean any of that. Okay? I just had a really bad day. I don’t want you to listen to any of it.’
Stiles blinks at him ‘but-‘
‘No buts, Stiles. Enough. I was wrong, and I hate myself for saying what I did. I love you, and I’m so glad you’re my soulmate. You’re perfect. Now put that ironing away and come to bed.’
Stiles puts the ironing away, and slides under the blankets. He stays right on the edge of the bed, and Peter hooks his arm around his waist and drags him close, spooning him. Stiles makes a small sound of surprise, but doesn’t move. He’s tense. He remains tense for a long time, and then falls asleep. Peter let’s himself cry then.
In the morning, Peter wakes up alone, and smells breakfast downstairs.
He changes quickly, and finds Stiles ironing, a cooked breakfast waiting for him.
The children are still sleeping.
‘Stiles,’
Stiles turns, setting the iron down, and freezing when he sees Peter. ‘Peter-‘ he rushes to his mate, cradling his hands ‘have you been crying? Wolfie, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?’ He guides Peter to the couch, hands soothing and reassuring and worried, and Peter just cries harder.
‘I didn’t mean it,’ he says ‘none of it. None of it.’
‘Mean what? Peter?’
‘Before I left. I never meant it-‘
‘Oh Peter,’ Stiles smiles against his temple ‘it’s okay, it’s okay. I understand. You’ve been stuck with me too long, that’s what it is. I’ve destroyed your life-‘
Peter shoves him away, staring at Stiles who’s just looking at him, so purely and genuinely because he thinks what he’s saying is right.
Peter’s wolf is whining, too close to the surface. He wants Stiles to cry, to be hurt, not to accept what he’s saying. He stands suddenly, and forces himself to be mean ‘yes, you have.’
Stiles nods
‘you wrecked it. Completely. You’ve never done anything good for me, and you’ve never done anything good for anyone.’
Stiles is frowning now. Just a little. His spark disagreeing, wanting to disagree
‘you only ever think of yourself. You’re a bad lover, and you’re fucking ugly.’
Stiles smells angry, defiant but he’s not saying anything, and Peter growls
‘I never loved you-‘
Stiles bursts into tears.
He wretches himself away from Peter, curling into his own body, and crying.
Peter runs to him, hugs him tightly, but Stiles struggles to get away from him ‘don’t! Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!’
Peter nuzzles him ‘I didn’t mean it. Not any of it. You know that.’
Stiles slumps, crying. Heartbroken. ‘How could you say those things?’ He weeps ‘how could you say those things? Why? Why? What did I do? Oh Peter,’ he cries harder ‘how could you? How could you?’
Peter presses his own tears into Stiles’ shoulder ‘I didn’t mean it. Not a single word. Not any of it. I love you, I love you so fucking much. The day I met you was the happiest day of my whole life. You made me, Stiles Hale. You gave me life. I was so awful before I met you. I live for your smile, for your eyes- my gorgeous, gorgeous mate.’ He repeats it, a mantra, and Stiles clings to him; crying.
They find out why, hours later.
When Scott calls Peter because Stiles’ phone is off, and warns them that a witch has been leaving traces of rania a type of evil, stirring, self-loathing and hatred inducing magic. He tells them to check their apartment for a small green plant.
Peter finds it in seconds, and Stiles sets it on fire.
As the very last ember floats to the ground, the veil of sadness is lifted.
Peter realises how cold the apartment is. It’s freezing, and the heating hadn’t been turned up in days.
‘Oh my god,’ Stiles hugs himself, rubbing his arms, disgusted ‘how could someone do that?’
Peter stares at his mate longingly ‘I’m still so sorry-‘
‘Peter,’ Stiles cuts him off firmly ‘you’re an alpha were-wolf, you’re what the spell was directly targeted at. It wasn’t you-‘
‘You don’t believe that.’ Peter says ‘not all of you. There’s a part of you that thinks I’ve just confirmed every piece of self-doubt you ever had.’
Stiles looks down, and Peter hugs him ‘even with evil inducing magic in the house, I still apologised to you. Still wanted you back. Soul mates are stronger than all magic.’
Stiles melts into his touch, feeling lighter, feeling better.
In the weeks that follow, that day, that fight, becomes a very hazy memory. A bad dream. As the magic died, so did it’s effect. And in months, neither can remember ever fighting. Ever crying.
The apartment gets messy, the carpet gets fluffed up, and the curtains shredded. Dishes are piled up at the sink and Peter’s computer crashes. The children cry all night long, and Stiles runs himself ragged trying to help Scott defeat the latest demon. Dinners are microwave meals for a long time.
Peter smiles at the messiness of everyday, because Stiles is right beside him, making a snarky comment and kissing him between bouts of tired laughter.
He wouldn’t change a damn thing.
And he spends many nights directly after making it up to his boy. Talking about how gorgeous he is, the tempting slope of his nose and bow of his lips and arch of his back. About how before Stiles, Peter was power hungry and alone and never fit in anywhere. How Stiles, and his contagious smile and clever wit made him whole. How his wolf preened over Stiles' bravery, his brilliancy as a spark, a mate, an emissary and a father. 'And a wonderful lover,' Peter will finish 'Stiles, ever since the day I met you all I've wanted is for you to love yourself the way I love. Don't let some witches possession of me ever make you doubt anything. There is nothing I wouldn't do for you. I'll do anything to make you happy,'
Stiles blushes, nuzzling into Peter's chest, he can barely remember the pain or the tears. It's all fading. The magic receding. 'I want the moon.'
Peter kisses his forehead 'Then I'll tie a lasso around it and bring it down for ya.' He smiles 'though that would wreak havoc on tidal waves.'
Stiles snorts elegantly