Chapter Text
When Peter regained consciousness after his fight with the invading beast that Stiles had called a Tarasque, he noticed several things in swift succession. First, he was definitely not in the forest. Second, his abdomen was on fire despite the unmistakable feeling of a pain drain. Finally, everything smelled like Stiles.
Panic coursed through him. He didn’t think Stiles would attack him, but the boy had certainly shown quite the ruthless streak during his various escapades with the supernatural and Peter was currently in no position to defend himself, as much as that fact grated against him.
As Stiles murmured reassurances that Peter nodded agreeably to without actually bothering to pay attention, he struggled to sit up, ignoring the way his injury vehemently opposed that course of action. He refused to lie on his back in an uncertain situation. It felt far too vulnerable. As he did so, memories of the ill-advised fight with the Tarasque trickled back. He had been losing. One beta-near-omega against such a beast was never going to end well, but Peter couldn’t let it be, no matter what Scott had insisted.
Peter vividly remembered the fight swiftly turning for the worse, the scorpion tail stabbing him in the stomach and the burning fire that encompassed his torso afterwards. The pain made his memory hazy after that, but Peter definitely remembered another wolf, one with bright crimson eyes and lightning fast reflexes, stepping into the fight, distracting the Tarasque from Peter’s prone form and finishing what he had started.
Then that wolf had come to Peter, draining his pain and clearing Peter’s mind enough for him to recognize Stiles’s distinctive features and scent, bearing those fangs and impossible red eyes. He couldn’t remember anything after that. The cessation of mind-breaking pain, dropping him straight into unconsciousness.
And now he was here.
Once Peter finally achieved an upright posture with help from Stiles, he pinned the boy with a stare that made even Derek look away. But Stiles watched him back easily. There was a steadiness to the boy that Peter hadn’t seen before, a surety in himself that had always been missing, for all that he hid it well with sarcasm, quick wit, and flailing motions.
“You killed the Tarasque,” Peter said, acknowledgement and challenge all at once. Would the boy boast? Look away embarrassed? Gloat about his success where Peter had failed?
But Stiles only hummed in acknowledgement. “I did.”
There was no boasting, no hesitance, no apology. Just simple, stated fact. Peter felt his respect grow despite himself.
A face hung in his memory, eyes a bright red instead of the whiskey he was used to, and Peter hesitated halfway through his next question. Stiles didn’t rush him though, still watching quietly.
Then, Peter all but accused him of being an alpha werewolf, the thought sounding absurd even as he felt more sure the second the words left his mouth. And Stiles confirmed it with the same uncharacteristic steadiness. There was a safety in the surety of his gaze and Peter felt longing well up inside himself.
Then Stiles revealed that he had only been a wolf for a week and a half and an alpha for a bare few days, and Peter felt every other emotion drown under his frank shock and amazement. Stiles had been an alpha werewolf at the last pack meeting with the alpha spark settled by approximately two days and Peter hadn’t noticed. He had always thought Stiles would make an incredible wolf but this was unbelievable. But thinking about the pack meeting brought another thought to mind.
“Scott doesn’t know.” It was barely more than thinking out loud, but Stiles confirmed it anyway, giving an explanation for that decision that Peter honestly didn’t care about. He was too busy thinking about the ramifications of this. If Stiles was an alpha, if he was building a pack, then Peter might have options that didn’t involve abandoning the home his family had protected for generations or bowing to Scott of all people.
He teased around the true question, asking if Stiles was planning to build a pack. The boy had mentioned going to college out of state, so he couldn’t be sure. Stiles’s answer that he wasn’t planning to bite anyone and wasn’t deliberately looking for betas, didn’t help Peter, forcing him to directly ask if Stiles would accept betas seeking to join his pack. The question was far more revealing than he preferred, and he felt his skin crawl at the wide-eyed look that told him Stiles suspected where he was going with this.
Still, the boy told him that he would accept betas if they offered, and Peter had to make a choice. Not that it was much of one. Scott still held a grudge against him for biting him so long ago and Peter’s position in the pack was barely enough to keep him from going feral. As it was, the lack of any strong pack bonds or the companionship normal in a true pack left him barely a thread from becoming an omega. The tenuousness of his situation left him constantly on edge.
On the other hand, Stiles had proven his loyalty, not to Peter directly of course, but to those he chose. His loyalty was absolute, all-consuming, and unrelenting. If he accepted Peter, —admittedly a big if given their past— Peter just might get to experience a taste of that loyalty, if only out of obligation. It was a heady thought.
With that in mind, Peter averted his eyes in the traditional angle and tilted his chin up to expose his throat. He tried to ask, as Stiles had just said he would require, but he couldn’t get his voice to form the words, knowing they would come out far too close to begging to be comfortable. Already, he felt horribly vulnerable, and even as wishful longing filled him, he waited for the sting of rejection. Because why would Stiles accept him, his former enemy, the feral wolf who had bitten his best friend and dragged him into this blood-stained world, the washed-up former left hand with more blood on his hands then most serial killers?
The few seconds before Stiles’s answer dragged on into an eternity, and Peter thought he might collapse into the abyss forming inside of himself. He shut his eyes. Stiles would turn him down, but he would be kind about it. The boy was ruthless, but he wasn’t cruel. It would still sting though, would still inflict a deep wound on his already scarred soul.
Peter was so wrapped up in his thoughts that Stiles’s first gentle touch on his throat caused him to startle. The hand slid around to his nape and squeezed. Peter went limp, some unidentifiable sound escaping his lips. The grip was comfort and claim, reassurance and dominance all at once. But most of all, it was acceptance, heady and rich and unbelievably good.
But it didn’t stop there.
Stiles pulled him in and slotted sharp fangs against the curve of his throat, applying light pressure but not piercing the skin. As he did so, a new pack bond flared into place, bright and strong, and more sturdy than anything Peter had felt since before the fire. He whimpered softly, unable to control the powerful emotions whipping through him. It had been years since he felt anything like this and its sudden presence made the previous absence all the more glaring. He could bask in this forever.
A beautiful eternity later, Stiles released him, and Peter immediately felt the loss. Before he could sink into spiraling thoughts, Stiles scented him familiarly and settled beside him, his body a solid line of warmth against Peter’s side. Hating himself for the weakness, but unable to deny himself the comfort, Peter sank against him, leaning his head against Stiles’s shoulder.
“Alpha,” he whispered, uttering the title without sarcasm and disdain for the first time since Talia died, and for a while before that actually, given his and Talia’s often-strained relationship.
Part of him expected Stiles to gloat the way that Derek and Scott had upon gaining his reluctant submission. But Stiles simply responded by giving a reassuring rumble of acknowledgement and scenting him again.
When the Sheriff burst in, Peter feared the worst. Most humans were spectacularly bad at understanding the dynamics of a wolf pack, pushing back against their customs and instincts. As Stiles’s father, the Sheriff would be uniquely positioned to pull Stiles away from him or even make Stiles reject him. Peter flinched back before he could stop himself, instinctively seeking shelter in his new alpha and waiting for the accusing words.
But Stiles didn’t talk around the subject, didn’t lie or even obfuscate the truth. He claimed Peter as his beta, proud and happy, as if Peter was some sort of prize. Peter knew his shock and confusion were obvious, the newness of the bond wrecking his emotional control and shields, but he couldn’t remember the last time someone was proud that Peter was theirs. Talia respected him, acknowledged his position as left hand, even accepted that such a position was necessary. But she had never liked it, never liked what he did. She had hated that her ostensibly peaceful and modern pack still had need of him to dispose of threats that could not be dealt with in a public manner, and that unavoidable fact had stood between them ever since Peter took on that role.
She had respected Peter and felt gratitude towards him, but she had always felt slightly ashamed. Never proud.
Stiles was proud. And that was intoxicating.
Almost as good was the way that Stiles’s dad accepted him into the pack with no more than some token grumbling and a bad dog joke. Apparently Stiles came by his sense of humor honestly.
Just like that, Peter was accepted into their pack. Sure, it was small and new, but it already felt like home. Stiles and his dad even fussed over his wound in a way that would bemuse him if it wasn’t for the way it made warmth bloom in his chest.
But all good things must come to an end. Peter knew that better than anyone, and he thought that he had reached the end of the good things the gods were willing to bestow upon him when Stiles decided it was time for bed. His alpha was new to his instincts, and he would still war with conflicting human custom and taboos. As much as Peter desperately wanted to stay close so that he could reassure himself that this wasn’t just a strange dream, he refused to make his new alpha uncomfortable. He would take the couch and hope that the lingering scent there would be more reassuring than taunting.
Stiles stopped him, issuing his first command as Peter’s alpha to keep him close so that they could take comfort in each other’s presence. He explained himself, giving his reasoning for his instruction, all the while maintaining a reassuring grip on the nape of Peter’s neck and a steady pain drain. Dominance and care in perfect balance. Peter sighed in relief, and as Stiles helped him lie back down and curled around him, he couldn’t stop hope from building within him.
Maybe, just maybe, this pack would be different.