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Peter had been the first one from the pack at the scene. He had smelled the smoke almost a mile away and for one horrifying second he had been in the burning Hale house again until he remembered that it had been more than six years, as much as it felt like only a year ago, for him. The perks of being a former comatose.
When he shook himself out of it he realized one of the pack-houses was in the direction he could hear the sirens from, ran as fast as he could. He knew the others of the pack only tolerated him because he was Derek’s uncle, but they still were the only thing close to family he had left.
The house he arrived at was already engulfed wholly in flames and he could feel a small twinge of panic settling in his stomach. Only when his gaze zeroed in on the struggling teenager, held back by two police officers, he could breathe again, wondered for a second why he had stopped to do so in the first place. He went over to the struggling officers and almost tore the boy from their hold.
„No, let me! Please, I have to, please!“, he could hear the incoherent bubbling of the young boy, the panic and devastation in his voice.
The hopelessness.
„Shhhh. Shhhhhh. I’m here.“
He wouldn’t tell him it would get better. He wouldn’t tell him everything would be alright. He knew better than that.
The struggling stopped and the body in his arms started to shake uncontrollably, wrecked by deep-rooted sobs.
„Dad!“
It wasn’t more than a breathless plea, but Peter could still hear it over the raging fire and the shouting people. It wouldn’t get the boy’s father back, but in that moment, when the boy’s body slumped powerless and defeated into his arms and just cried full of sorrow and loss, he promised himself that he would never leave this boy alone. This strong-willed, smart, funny boy, that had seen and endured more than any boy his age should ever experience.
„I’m here, I’ll stay by your side, Stiles.“