Chapter Text
The war didn’t take them all at once.
It took them the way rot takes a house- structure by structure until one day the roof simply caves in.
Scott was the first to go. It wasn’t because he was weak, no, it was because he was trying to save everyone at once. At this point the hunters had more numbers on their side and weapons at their disposal. They were ruthless and weren't above using any and all manner of tricks- silver nets laced with mountain ash, spells that burned through alpha healing or even ambushing them in the dead of the night- and Scott stayed behind so the others could get out.
Allison screamed when he told her that he loved her and that he wanted her to go. No one else wanted to leave either, but, as the Alpha, Scott commanded them to go so Boyd threw Allison over his shoulder and Stiles gave his brother in all but blood one last tight hug before he too ran off after the others, his throat tight and eyes stinging with unshed tears.
They never found enough of him to bury.
Stiles didn’t cry. Not then. There wasn’t time.
Allison followed a week later, an arrow through the throat during an evacuation run. Stiles mourned her but a part of him couldn't help but think that at least she wasn't suffering from losing Scott anymore.
Jackson was the next to go as he took a wolfsbane bullet through the chest while they were trying to escape a pack of hunters. Lydia screamed when it happened the sound of something ancient and terrible ripping out of her and the echo of her voice rang in Stiles’ skull for days afterward.
She gave up after that and as much as it pained him, Stiles couldn't blame her. After all he didn’t know what he would do without Peter.
Boyd and Erica died together. Backs pressed against each as they were surrounded by hunters.
Kira died next and Malia went feral after that.
Stiles understood. He didn’t stop her.
She took down two groups of hunters before they finally trapped her with wolfsbane gas. Derek tried to get to her in time but he was too late.
Cora died next, saving Stiles, and Derek didn’t speak for a week after that.
Peter though never stopped speaking.
Not when his words were cruel or when they hurt. Not when it was the only thing keeping them moving.
He was strategy and teeth and ruthless survival. The left hand of an almost eradicated pack.
And Stiles-Stiles became the spine.
He put up wards until his fingers bled and learned how to turn grief into fuel and fear into precision. He turned his spark into a vengeful flame and did his best to protect the 2 remaining pack members. They were family and although Peter didn’t love Stiles the way he wanted him to, he wouldn't give him up for anything.
When Derek died Stiles felt another piece of himself break. Even then he didn’t cry. He and Peter buried him in the preserve near the Hale house and for once Peter was quiet.
**************
The ambush came at the edge of the preserve, where the wards were thin and Stiles’ magic was stretched too far to reinforce them. Every instinct Stiles had screamed trap.
Peter felt it too.
“Too quiet,” Peter muttered, eyes scanning the treeline. “They want us to move first.”
Maybe if they hadn't been exhausted, starving, and sleep deprived they would have caught it. Maybe if Stiles' magic hadn't staggered, his magical core nearly empty at the moment when he needed it the most it wouldn't have happened. But they were running on fumes, physically and magically, and constantly being hunted and Stiles felt the moment his magic gave and the wards protecting them faltered.
The bolt came out of nowhere, silver-tipped, humming with runes, and buried itself deep in Peter’s side before anyone could react.
Peter staggered, breath punching out of him.
Stiles’ stomach dropped.
“No,” he was already moving. “No, no, no”
He already knew what covered the bolt-Wolfsbane.
Peter’s knees buckled. “Shit…
Stiles caught him as he fell, pulling on his meager reserves to heal.
“Stiles Peter said after a moment…It’s in my bloodstream.”
“I know,” Stiles snapped, hands glowing as he pressed them to Peter’s side . His magic flared but seemed to have no effect.
“No no no. Come on magic you have to work” Stiles pleaded
Peter laughed weakly. “I don’t think it's any use Darling.”
The hunters were closing in again.
Peter shoved Stiles away. “You have to get out.”
“No,” Stiles growled. “I’m not leaving you.”
Peter’s gaze was as sharp as his words. “You are. You need to go. Now.”
Stiles shook his head violently. “I can stabilize you. I just need time.”
“You don’t have it,” Peter said quietly as he coughed and blood stained his lips. Stiles’ chest seized. “Peter-”
Peter’s hand closed around Stiles’ wrist, grip iron-strong despite the tremor running through him.
“Listen to me. Once that poison finishes spreading, I’m dead but if I stay-if I slow them down, you live.”
Stiles’ magic surged wildly, grief and fear bleeding into him. “No! Don’t you dare turn this into a noble sacrifice.”
Peter smiled, sharp and soft all at once before coughing again. He leaned in close, voice dropping so only Stiles could hear. “I’m already dying, Stiles. At least let it mean something.” But Stiles was stubborn. No way was he going to let Peter die. He scanned around frantically trying to come up with an answer, come on brain think think think. It came to him a moment later
“ Peter! I have an idea. We're close to the hale house, if we can get across the wards we have a chance of evading the hunters long enough for me to heal you.
Stiles isn’t sure how they made it with him having to practically drag Peter along with him but somehow they were able to make it safely behind the wards. Peter wasn’t doing so well though. The poisoning had started spreading from the wound and was slowly making its way to his heart. At this rate he had less than 30 minutes to live.
Stiles pressed his shaking hands to Peter’s chest, magic flaring desperate and bright and begs his magic to heal and not to give out yet.
“ Please don’t-,” he begs, voice raw and desperate as he presses bloody hands against a pulsing wound willing his magic to stop the bleeding. “Don’t you dare die!”
Peter coughs, dark and wet, and laughs weakly like this is all very funny. Like he isn’t bleeding out in the ruins of what used to be Beacon Hills as Stiles falls apart. Stiles glares at him weakly honeyed eyes filled with tears as he urges his magic to fix him. To make Peter better.
“You always did have a knack,” Peter says hoarsely, eyes half-lidded, “for telling the universe what it isn’t allowed to do.”
The ground beneath them is cracked and scorched, ward lines burned but still holding steady. The air smells like ash and iron and ozone; of magic pushed too far, too fast. He’s so tired and he can feel the putters of his spark straining but Stiles swallows, his glare hardening as he pushes even more magic into his hands and through the other's chest. It has to work. He needs to believe that his magic and his belief is strong enough to heal Peter because the alternative is unthinkable.
He’s been taught that belief is the basis of a sparks magic. That one can accomplish anything with it yet here he is struggling to heal to heal the one he loves. Seems Deaton forgot to mention that belief can only take him so far when his magic is hanging on a thread of exhaustion and his core is nearly emptied.
A small sob makes its way out of his mouth as he pulls even harder, willing his trembling spark to become a flame.
“I can fix this,” he babbles. “I can-just give me a second.”
Peter’s hand closes around his wrist, surprisingly warm and Stiles eyes jump from where they had been trained on Peter's wound to instead his eyes.
“No,” Peter says softly, gently, but voice matter-of -fact. “You can’t, Stiles”
That should make Stiles angry and for a moment it does, the rage violent and hot in his gut but just as quickly it is replaced by a wave of anguish and then it just hurts.
A melancholy whine pulls from his throat as tears blur his vision sobs, racking through his body
“P-peter”
Peter studies him, eyes soft and full of fondness like he’s memorizing the shape of his face, memorizing the way Stiles’ hair curls with sweat, how his eyes burn with the glow of magic and the desperation to save him. How his lips tremble with tears and the faint glow of magic under his skin.
“You know, I love you,” Peter says so casually like it was the most natural thing in the world to say while he’s dying. Like he’d been saying these words to Stiles for a lifetime and this isn’t the first time he’s allowed himself to utter them. Stiles gapes at him, breath hitching as the words hit like a knife. All the while Peter holds his gaze steadily, eyes conveying the truth of his word while Stiles…well Stiles tries not to fall apart.
“W-What…?”
Peter's lips lift slightly in what Stiles thinks may be amusement and then his smile turns fond and unbearably sad all at once. “I said that I love you. That I think I always did from the moment you walked into my life and refused to be afraid of me.”
Stiles is stricken with confusion.
“Why-why are you telling me this? After so long of letting me believe you’d never want me like that…. why are you telling me now?” Grief and anger overtake the confusion. “That’s not-” Stiles shakes his head, frantic now. “That’s not how this works, Peter. You don’t get to say things like that when you’re-when you’re bleeding out.”
Peter frowns, guilty.
“I’m sorry Stiles.
“I know it doesn’t change anything… but the only reason why I didn’t say it before was because I was too afraid.” There is a bitterness to his words but it is the raw sincerity and vulnerability in Peters voice that causes Stiles to tremble. “I was afraid of falling in love and losing it again because I knew I wouldn’t survive it another time so I acted like a coward and never told you.”
“I don’t- I don’t understand” Stiles breathes shakily words sounding desperate as he tries to make sense of what Peter is saying.
There is a hazy look of pain that fills Peter's eyes as if he’s remembering something before blue eyes meet Stiles.
“You have to remember, sweetheart, that I already lost the love of my life once.” His gaze drifts again, unfocused for a moment, then returns sharp despite the pain. “When that happens you learn that loving someone means watching them die and I wasn’t willing to do that again no matter how much I wanted you.”
Stiles feels as if a bucket of cold water had been dumped on him and while he understands it, it doesn’t stop the hurt that blossoms in his chest.
“why would you do this to me now” he whispers chest heaving with the force of his anguish “why now while you're while you’re dy-” he can’t force the words to come out past his sobs. “That’s so cruel, Peter”.
Peter closes his eyes. When he opens them again, they’re wet “I know sweetheart, I know. That’s why I never intended to tell you. You deserved better than my fear.”
“Then why now?” Stiles demands.
For a moment something like anger mars peters face, He looks frustrated with himself but them he exhales, guilt softening his expression.
His smile turns to one of self-deprecation “I was going to go the rest of my life keeping it a secret and taking it to my grave. “Yet here we are,” he gives a sardonic smile as he mockingly wakes a weak hand around them “at my metaphorical grave and I can’t seem to keep my mouth shut.”
“Honestly, I never meant for it to happen like this. .I just for some reason couldn’t let myself die without telling you that I love you.”
Stiles sobs then, the sound ripping out of him like something feral. His magic surges again, instinctive and desperate, flooding Peter’s body with warmth and light.
“Don’t say that,” Stiles begs. “Please. I can fix this. I can fix anything if you just-”
“Stiles” Peter exhales slowly.
It's just one word but Peter's tone stops him in his tracks.
With as much strength as he has left he brings his right hand up to frame Stiles tear-stained face and cradles it like he’s something precious and Stiles cries pushing himself down into peters chest uncaring of the blood soaking his shirt or the cooler feeling of Peter's skin beneath his .
“Stiles… I’m dying”. The words are said matter of factly as if Peter has already accepted it and Stiles' heart breaks even more.
“No,” he whispers.
Peter’s thumb on the hand that is still cupping his face brushes under Stiles’ eye, catching a tear.
“I should’ve told you that I loved you a long time ago. Told you that you’re my mate,” Peter whispers softly in the hushed voice that one utters something sacred. “I felt it years ago, but I blocked it because I was afraid of what loving you would do to me.”
Something hot burns across Stiles’ skin and inside his chest something flutters to life at Peter's words and snaps into place.
Peter’s eyes widen slightly, awe flickering as he starts at Stiles. “You feel it now too, don’t you?”
Stiles does.
It feels like something has come alive inside of him. Like recognition slamming into place. Inside, a part of him that he didn’t know was hidden, stirs- quiet, buried, but there finally lifting its head and saying ‘I’m here, can you feel me?’.
“Yes,” Stiles also whispers in wonder mind working at a mile a minute “I feel it too.” He places his hand over Peter's chest voice filled with awe “I can feel you, Peter” and it’s the most beautiful thing Stiles has ever felt. Hearing Peter say he loved him was one thing but feeling it through a bond is another and he is overwhelmed.
Peter laughs softly bringing his own hand to Stiles chest “That’s the bond, love”
Stiles lets out another shaky breath, a volley of emotions, both his and Peters, running though his chest. It’s too much but not enough. This is everything he’s ever wanted. The words he’d been desperate for Peter to say. The actions he’d been wanting him to take but now that he’d finally gotten it, it was at the expense of Peter and everyone else dying. He wails in agony. in anger and frustration. mourning for what could have been and what will never be again. All the while Peter just holds him with as much strength as he is able to muster.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” He sounds guilty. “I didn’t mean to hurt you…even more than before anyway.” A wet sound gurgles in his chest and causes him to choke from the blood slowly filling his lungs.
Stiles pulls away horrified as he watches blood splatter out of the other's mouth and drip down the corner of the other's lips. He’s drowning in his blood and there is nothing Stiles can do. For all his magical power and capabilities he is useless when it comes to wolfsbane infused injuries.
How did things get like this? he wonders. How did it go from him being part of a ragtag pack that although dysfunctional at times he wouldn’t change for the world to being the only one left alive. Well, Peter is still alive but as he watches the black lines of poison spread closer to the werewolves heart he knows Peter doesn’t have much time and the thought hurts.
“You didn’t say it back” Peter's horse voice breaks through his thoughts and for a moment Stiles is confused before understanding dawns and a heartbreaking expression crosses his face.
His fingers clench in Peter's shirt as his voice wobbles and he glares weakly “ What makes you think I love you, huh? What if I hate you?” Even to himself the words sound obviously false and he knows Peter picks up on it by his slight quirk of lips.
“I should hate you” Stiles rambles. You made me think for so long that I was the only one who had feelings and made me think that you couldn't possibly love me back.” Tears have started to fall again “You treated me like I was just some kid who you only cared about because I was part of your nephew's pack.” His hands are shaking and his words begin to sound angry. “And now you tell me you love me while you're dying and just expect me to be ok with that?! How is that even fair?” At this point Stiles is yelling . “How could you be such a selfish asshole?”
He wipes tears from his face as he hiccups from crying so much “what do you want me to say? that I've been in love with you for years? That I love you so much that it feels like my heart it's being ripped out of my chest? That I wish we'd had more time?”
Stiles looks into Peter's eyes “you already know how much I love you. You can feel it. So Please don't die” he pleads. “I can’t lose you too”
Peter only gives Stiles that gentle smile once again lifting his hands to cup Stiles face. He gently traces his thumb over Stiles brow, down his cheek and to his lips before repeating the motion gently expressing what he already said with words.
“for what it’s worth, I'm sorry sweetheart. I wish I could have let myself love you openly” The words are barely a whisper and Stiles watches as the black lines spread to Peter's heart and the hand cupping his face begins to falter.
“No,” Stiles says sharply, grabbing him. “No, no, no! Please, Peter wake up. I'm not ready to say goodbye yet. please wake up”
But Peter doesn't stir and the blue eyes that were once so full of life are now bland and unfocused and something in Stiles break. The bond-half-formed, newly acknowledged-snaps and Stiles screams.
Unconsciously he throws his head back and lets out a howl full of sorrow and mourning for his mate. His magic surges in response-wild, bright, desperate-and for a moment the world holds its breath.
He doesn’t remember what happens next, just the thought that he doesn’t want to live in a world without Peter. Without his pack.
Then magic explodes outward, shattering what little remains of the wards, destroying trees, cracking stone and tearing the air itself.
Somewhere beneath his skin, unseen and unknown, something ancient and instinctive curls outward-
and chooses to live.