Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Pain. Rage. Fear. Emptiness that threatened to swallow the rest. To smother it all. All he had to do for it to end was lean into the emptiness and let it submerge the rage, fear, pain…his life. But that would be letting their murderers win, and he couldn't do that. So he grabbed on to the pain. Clung to the rage. Let the fear fuel the rest. There were no bonds to him. His pack was gone. His sister. His aunts and uncles. All of the kids. Great Aunt Millie. Gone, and there was nothing of them left. He thought he might be in hell. That this might be the eternal torment of the Christian damned. 

He didn't heal. Not at first. Months passed, and the wolfsbane that had laced the smoke and fumigated his wounds stayed pernicious, suppressing the wolf inside him, preventing his skin from knitting together, repairing itself. Everyday was a torment, and time had no meaning. 

The thing that brought him out of his pain, out of his own head, was the strong scent of lightning charged fresh air. Fresh rain. Honey. And all of it was saturated in grief and rage and regret. 

“Damn. Damn , Peter. I never gave you enough credit, Stubbornwolf. You weren't exaggerating when you said you clung to the edge of the grave. For years. Fuck. Damn that bastard druid a thousand times over, he could have done a cleansing any fucking time. But I can do it better. I can do it now. ” 

A hand laid on his gel-slathered chest, and agony outside his somewhat acclimated norm sent him spiraling out of awareness. 

When he swam back to the semi-consciousness that was the best he could manage, he could tell something had changed. There was no feel or sound of the thunderstorm, but the room was thick with the scent of it. Ozone and thriving green things, moving, mountain air saturated the air he breathed through his nostrils, so different from the stale, sterilizing cleaners, desperation, and illness that stagnated hospitals on a daily basis. The acrid scent of his own pain was rapidly fading, and there wasn't a hint of bitter wolfsbane. He could feel his body sluggishly beginning to heal, and he was breathing significantly easier. His wolf shifted in his consciousness for the first time since the fire. 

And … there : a packbond, new and worn and tried over time, tenuous and tested in the same breath, stood between him and the man, a connection that damn near drowned in the man's, the Spark's, tumultuous emotions. 

The sound of the man slumping into the chair next to the bed interrupted his cataloging, the breath coming in short, frantic panting. “Shit. That was. Fuck. I've used too much magic over the last couple of days, fuck. But you're healing. No years of pain for you, Peter. I can’t heal you, that's not my power set. I… wish I could have done more. My intention was to come back before the fire. To stop it. But I could only go back to my earliest trauma of significance. That was mom's death. Dad's here, somewhere. He just walked out of the room. Ten year old me is probably still clinging to her hand. I'll have to. Yeah. Jesus. I've got so much to do. Heal up, Peter. I'll be back when I can be. You're not alone, man, okay? Not anymore.”

Peter slept, truly slept,  for the first time in months. 

***

The Spark was back. It had only been a few hours, by Peter's new ability to register the sequences of things going on around him. Exhaustion covered his scent, and Peter wasn't sure how long he'd been at his side.  

“With us again, huh? Your doctors are pretty excited that you're showing signs of healing. They think the burn goop they've got on you covered earlier signs, and I've got a very slight misdirection spell on you to keep everyone from running around screaming “miracle!” and summoning every hunter this side of the Rockies.” The man chuckled darkly. “Hunters won't find you here. I've done that much for you, and they'll be too distracted to care soon enough anyway.” 

He lapsed into silence for a few moments. “I called Laura. She's. Fuck. She's a mess, Peter. I never really gave her side of things a thought, you know? Family dead, alpha at the age of 18, reeling from the fear and loss and having only her little brother left, and his life is her responsibility, but he's, shit, so far down you don't know if he'll ever recover… I know you're furious with her, but, Peter, she's still so much a kid. Talia really sheltered her, huh? So she ran. But she thought you were dying, and she got Derek to safety. Remember that, when she gets here, okay? You regretted it, before. Even though you were insane and feral, and she was trying to do her duty even after failing so spectacularly at the rest of her duties. Even so. You regretted it.” 

The man shifted, sighed.  “I came back to prevent the… epic shitshow this place becomes. Part of that is tracking down the people who burned your family and home, and making sure they and their poisonous bullshit never gain the traction they did in my timeline again. I promise you, Peter. She'll suffer tremendously,  and then she'll be dead, separated, salted, and burned. She'll never come back from what I'll do to her. And while I'm at it I'm going to take care of her petulant father, too. Alright? If I could afford to wait I would, but I don't have time. None of us do.” 

***

Four days later, the scent of his niece roused him from his uneasy slumber. He couldn't move yet, hadn't been able to take control of his body at all. But he was more fully aware with each passing hour. 

The nurse accompanying her cheerfully chatted about his sudden improvements, and the tightly restrained hope, grief, and regret made Laura's answers stilted and short in return. Finally the nurse left, and Laura sat down.

“I didn't think you'd make it. Uncle Peter, that night. The doctors said you were going to die, that there was nothing they could do. The bonds told me the same thing. I don't know how you lived, but I'm so, so grateful. And I'm goddamned sorry. I abandoned you, and I owe you better than that. I took Derek and I ran - I swear I didn't know you were still alive, I would have been back sooner, maybe even turned back around and stayed, if I'd known. But I… Uncle Peter, I cut the bond. That was me, and I know I made it worse for you. I'm so sorry. I couldn't take it, feeling another pack member die. And Derek… no. It was selfish and cruel and horrible, and I swear, if I thought you had half a chance I never would have done it. But I did. I don't know if you can forgive me for that, or for running. I’m sorry, even if you don't. It's no excuse, but I was scared and I didn't know what to do.” She laughed, bitter and broken. 

“I still don't know what to do. Derek. Uncle Peter, he won't talk. He can , but unless it's direly necessary, he doesn't. He smells of guilt and horror as strongly today as he did that night, and I have to… to… order him to eat. To get out of bed. To attend to his hygiene at all. He has nightmares. They're so bad. He wants to die.” She was crying now, gasping and helpless. “I don't know why . I don't know how to help him. I'm barely functioning myself on a good day. Cora’s remains weren't found. Uncle Peter, she might be alive and I don't know where she is . I'm a terrible alpha. I can't figure out why I ever wanted this. I miss Mom. I miss feeling safe. I've missed you so much. You were such a bastard to mom and the adults, but with the kids, we knew we were safe with you. I haven't used a thing Mom taught me about being an alpha. But I lean on your advice everyday.” She rested her forehead on his arm, lightly, and his skin had healed enough that the touch didn't cause him any pain. “God. I shouldn't be dumping this on you. You've been here all this time, and I failed you. Anyone could have come in here -” she broke off, her breath hitching once more. After a couple of minutes she continued. 

“The man I talked to said he'd warded the room - I felt the wards when I stepped through the door. It felt… like something large and deadly was sizing me up. Just for a second, but anyone who comes in here meaning you harm won't escape it. That's how he phrased it, and I believe him. You're safe, now. And I won't leave again. I know that doesn't make up for ‘before.’ I don't know if I can make up for ‘before.’” Laura trailed off, an occasional hitched breath coming as she worked through her thoughts. And then… he felt the invitation, one he's never needed to be offered before, born into his pack as was, and felt her pull forward the alpha spark. For a moment, it almost felt as if she held them out to him.

“You lived, you're family, and you should be pack. We… I need you, Uncle Peter. Your place in the pack is yours, if you want it, want us.” She hesitated. 

“I know it's a burden, even if it'll help you heal faster, but you should have been alpha. I wasn't ready, and I… haven't done well with it. You're stronger than me, your wolf is, and I think we need a lefthand's experience more than anything.” Again, she hesitated, and then whispered. “I don't want it, and you'd be better. Will you take it?” 

He ached to hold her. To nip the tip of her nose in admonishment. To dry her tears and tell her, as he had so many times in her young life, that she was going to be just fine. Pack magic thrummed between them,  and he could feel the crackle of the alpha spark waiting. 

It would be a burden. 

He would have a pack again. 

He accepted Laura's offer,  and pack magic set his nerve alight, not with pain, but certainly with overwhelm. Laura was sleeping when he came back to himself, snuffling into his shoulder and whining so low only his wolf's hearing could pick it up. 

***

Low voices roused him, Laura and the Spark’s. “Private care’s pretty easy to ape, Laura, he'll have the contacts, but you need him outta here before the staff realize how much he's healed. I wasn't expecting you to make him an alpha again - scared ten shades of shit outta me when I realized -” 

“He should have been alpha, after Mom. I wasn't ready - I've failed.” 

“You kept Derek safe and from completely self-destructing, give yourself some credit, would you?” A sigh, and a rapid taptaptap. “Okay. Yeah. History repeats itself, but not the same way. Thank fuck. Maybe … this could be better.” 

Laura's voice sounded so hesitant. “He's healing faster. That's part of why… I'll never be able to make up for the hurt abandoning him caused. But alpha power will speed that along.” 

“Without the wolfsbane poisoning, yeah.” The Spark shifted. “You also dumped the responsibility of the pack on him, safeguarding Beacon Hills with a diminished pack, dealing with the encroachment of other packs and hunters, for Deucalion in particular this is a golden opportunity. And a nemeton who was abandoned by the creatures it chose as its protectors. You've been everywhere but here since the fire, Laura, doing all you can to avoid this part of being the Hale alpha. Don't pretend it's all out of the good of your heart. You also gave up the ability to force Derek into compliance, and now that's on Peter, too.” 

“He accepted it.” Laura hissed, sounding more like a scalded cat than a werewolf. 

The man snorted. “Of course he did. And you get to live with the consequences.” 

Laura snarled, but it cut off abruptly. After a moment of silence, she said in a very quiet voice, “yes.” 

Peter opened his eyes. Took stock of himself. The goop was gone, though his skin was slathered with some sort of lotion, and he had a lightweight hospital gown on, more paper than cloth. Finding himself more or less put together, he began to sit up slowly, only to stall midway. Two pairs of hands tucked under his elbow, clasped his forearm, and cradled his back, and he was held until Laura maneuvered the bed into a raised position. 

“Welcome back to the land of the living, dude.” The Spark said with a casual cheerfulness, releasing his grip on Peter's forearm and back and reseating himself in the plastic visitors’ chair hospitals chose to discourage lingering. For all his relaxed posturing, there was a keen edge of awareness to the man - a readiness. 

Peter lifted a brow, turning to size the stranger up. Pale, mole dotted skin, rich brown hair, honey-brown eyes that held too many shadows, a lush mouth that had a sharp edge to it. He wasn't older than thirty, and Peter thought some of the age the man seemed to carry might be attributed to whatever put the shadows in his eyes. Maybe twenty-five? Young, all things considered. He wore jeans that had, once, been high quality items. They fit like designer, but also like he'd beat the things into submission, and then beat them a little more for pleasure. A barbour coat sat over a heather red henley, in the same condition as the jeans. The hiking boots, if anything, were even more of the worn yet quality than the rest of the outfit combined. He looked… timeless and tired. 

“You healed me “ he stated as an opener, and grimaced at the grating, dry rasp his voice was. Laura quickly poured water into a paper cup and handed it to him, refilling it twice before he nodded his thanks to her and handed it back.  

The man flashed a grin when his attention returned to him. “Nope.” He popped the p with a peculiar brand of insolence to match the grin, but his eyes… the levity didn't extend to his eyes. “I performed a variation of an ancient harae rite to purge the wolfsbane elements you had smoked into your almost-corpse, clearing the way for your own healing ability to kick into gear. Because the ritual is comprehensive of mind, body, and spirit, I was able to mitigate the madness that loss and constant pain caused you.” 

Almost-corpse? A rather tactless, if direct way to phrase it. It certainly hit Peter's left-of-center funny bone, his rasping chuckle interrupting Laura's hissed admonition. “Very well, you purged the inhibitors keeping me from healing my crispy ‘almost-corpse.’ And, it seems, made it so I had a pack to wake to. Pedancy aside, it seems I owe you a great deal. How do you suggest I repay you for your efforts?”  

The Spark shrugged. “I'm a trained Emissary, and a Spark, so I'd appreciate it if you'd consider me for that role in your pack. Other than that, a favor or two in return.” He paused, then grimaced. “I have taken a few liberties with your resources in the past two weeks - allow me some leniency in returning the funds I borrowed from your family's vault, and forgive me for the trespass, and I think we'll be square.”  

That was… interesting information. Peter considered all that he'd gleaned from the man's ramblings, the impossible but apparent references to time travel, and the number of tidbits of information that supported it. That he'd trusted the man in the future enough to give him the knowledge of how to access the Hale Vault spoke volumes. Then he gave the new-old packbond between himself and the man a tug, a wry grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

“It seems you already fill that role for this pack.” Surprise, appreciation, and a shocking fondness, colored the bond, while the man's expression remained unreadable. “And if what you've said to me these last few days is true, you were and are more than welcome to whatever funds and resources you needed. I have contacts that can arrange foolproof identification documents, if you need them.”

A small, soft smile crinkled the corner of the man's eyes. “I know. I've made use of them already, thank you.” 

“You know quite a bit about me and mine, and are familiar enough that it seems odd to keep calling you ‘the Spark' or ‘the man’ in my head. May I know your name?” 

Honey-gold eyes flooded with grief, with joy, hope, and despair. It was a pale echo of what surged through their packbond. “I'm Stiles Mściwoj.” 

Mściwoj was a Slavic conjunction of the words 'vengeance’ and ‘war.’ He didn't think that had been the man's original surname. Stiles wasn't a commonly used name, but it had greater popularity in the Polish regions, and bore an inexplicable familiarity. 

“It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Stiles.” Peter held his gaze for a long moment, interested in the moisture and surprise in the man's eyes. He turned to Laura, giving Stiles a moment to compose himself. 

“Is Derek here?” 

Laura nodded. “At the hotel. He's…” 

“Not doing well, I believe you've said.” Peter nodded. “Is there anything pressing in the immediate?” 

Laura shook her head, biting her lip, and Peter glanced at the clock. 7:21 am. Very well. “Let's get to work then. A hotel isn't secure enough for the pack, let's find a better temporary arrangement while we're looking for a more permanent one. Mary Eldridge had three rental properties I'd sourced as bolt holes a - how long has it been?” 

Laura dropped her eyes immediately, shame radiating at him. Yes, they would have to talk about that soon, before it became a crippling impediment, but he'd prefer not to talk about the aftermath of the fire here. He put a hand on the back of her neck, gentle and firm, and looked at Stiles. 

“It's November, the 8th, of 2005. A Monday.” Stiles said, his voice carefully neutral. Peter closed his eyes. The fire had been on Saturnalia, a Friday, and Laura had been bringing Derek back from a basketball game as the rest of the Hale family were sitting down to dinner. He froze, fury starting a slow crawl in his belly as he met the Spark's solemn eyes. 

“Thirteen deaths on Saturnalia.” His voice came out falsely mild, the only hint of his temper in the ice that froze it solid. “And you mentioned a ‘she’ and her father when you were promising to deliver my Pack's justice.” 

Stiles regarded him, expression blanked, eyes hard as gemstones. “They based their ritual on seventeen dead. Early April, 2002, Gerard Argent was diagnosed with advanced Huntington's Disease. He exhausted the mundane world's resources rather quickly, there's no known cure. He turned to witchcraft.” Stiles smirked, just a little, and there was a satisfied cruelty in its corners. 

“Not many of the witchkin were willing to help him, considering how many families he hunted to extinction, how many times he killed family that were innocent of deed or knowledge as a method of salting the ground they grew in. He resorted to capture, threats, and torture when money and reward didn't garner him the results he sought. Witches are spiteful beings, and his disease grew teeth when bad information sent cures astray.” The satisfaction grew, and then abruptly died away. 

“So he went to the next resort and made a bargain. ‘Balance’ is a mysterious motivator for Druids. He found one druid who believed the peace of his territory, rigidly held and enforced by agents of chaos and darkness, was out of alignment with the rest of the world, and that an act of barbarism done by those who profess to be protectors of humanity and innocence, would right it. Conveniently, the territory had a Nemeton who's power started with and could be jump started with sacrifice.” 

“Did it work?” This time, Peter's voice held the growl that matched the rage in his belly. Had the betrayal of the Pack's druid and their subsequent deaths charged a healing for Gerard Argent? 

Stiles smiled, and something that wasn’t quite human, something that went beyond the Spark, looked back at him, for just a moment. “Not quite. The Nemeton had a… passenger , let's say, that had little love for hunters or druids. He twisted the spell to his own service, and Gerard’s certain cure warped into a weak kidney punch.”   

“He survived, though.” 

Stiles inclined his head. “He was bed-bound for three months, but improved. The disease has been advancing, but he regained enough health to take up his rifle and lead his men again not too long ago.” He shook his head, mournful. “That startling recovery has made the shocking hunting accident that he and his daughter died in over the weekend that much more tragic for the Argent family.” 

Stiles relaxed into his chair, stretching his legs out as a tiny, icy smile played on his lips. “The two managed to lock themselves in the basement of their family hunting cabin, authorities think late Friday night, apparently preparing for a hunting excursion over the weekend. There had been a power outage a couple hours earlier - a number of candles had been lit in the home at the time of the fire. The generator was far enough from the house to avoid most of the damage, and showed severe signs of disrepair. Authorities think the fire that started in the kitchen, where the basement door was located, would have taken the better part of an hour to get to destructive levels, and by then it was too late to escape.  Footage from the father-daughter duo’s security cam showed once the fire burned through the floor of the home, it found an unusually large amount of ammo, several types of incendiaries, and blew the cabin into so much of a crater. Authorities are in the very beginnings of an investigation into the possession of illegal firearms and incendiaries that should tie up the Argent hunters for a good long while.” Stiles met Peter's now red stare with silver white pouring from his eyes, obliterating the honey-gold irises and swallowing the pupils. “My spell didn't release them until the first responders, hours too late, broke the perimeter line I set. They knew why I came for them, who I represented, and I made sure they didn't escape.” 

Peter smiled, dark pleasure settling like well-banked coals in his belly. “As satisfying as my own retribution would have been, the end you met out was a fitting execution. Thank you for taking on the role of lefthand for the pack in this matter.” It was a thanks he'd never received from his sister over all the years he filled that position for her, but it was the proper response from alpha to lefthand when they carried our duty for pack.

“Thank you.” Laura agreed fiercely, her eyes flaring electric blue. Peter felt a pinch at the sight. Laura's wolf eyes had been gold before the fire. Stiles nodded at them both.

“You're welcome. But, as much as you were owed for their crimes, know I had my own reasons.” Stiles shrugged. “They didn't need the next six years and change to hatch terrible, selfish plans.” 

Peter's curiosity was growing, but they'd spent enough time on this subject for the moment. “Whatever the reason, I am satisfied with the results. Laura, do you have Mary Eldridge’s number?” 

“No, but I can get it. I have your phone and your effects from the night they brought you here, the nurses gave it to me last week.” 

“Get in contact with her and ask about the three properties I had talked to her about. Her grandfather married into the Hale family: she's a cousin, and should do what she can to help you get things set up. If one of those properties are ava-” 

Stiles cleared his throat, and Peter cut himself off, turning, brow raised. “I rented the third out when I got here. It's warded, and rented under Laura's name. I looked into a mutual contact that can front a convincing homecare service for getting you transferred out of here. I wasn't sure when the pieces would fall in place, but I can give them a call, probably get you ‘transferred’ today?” 

Peter blinked, taken aback by the man's preparedness. “That's exactly what we need.” He said, and Stiles smiled slightly. He pulled his phone out and dialed, standing and stepping to the far corner of the room so Peter could continue his and Laura's conversation. 

“Did you have the opportunity to get our finances in order? Wills, insurance?” Laura shook her head. 

“The initial investigation cited a gas leak.” Her lips twisted into a frown, but shook her head. “It was initially dismissed as an accident, but one of the deputies made a fuss about a couple of oddities, and was just starting to look into it, and then his wife's health took a hard decline. She passed away a couple weeks ago - things are still tied up for the moment.” 

Peter glanced at Stiles, who wasn't paying them any attention as he talked softly into his phone, remembering the comments about coming back at his earliest point of tragedy, about two weeks earlier. “Then that is something I can work on with you once we're set up at the rental. Do you have my work effects?” 

“No, but Mr. Temple is holding your position for now - I ran into him at breakfast yesterday. He was glad to hear of your improving condition - your office is locked up, he only took back the active case files.”

“I'd just paid the yearly lease on my apartment. Provided no one has broken in, my laptop should be there.”

“Derek and I could go get what you needed? We've-” she stopped and swallowed. “We're pretty good at avoiding traps and notice, if you're worried about Argent setting anything up for you.” 

“How long have you been settled in New York?” He asked, keeping his voice carefully neutral. 

“Two months? We've spent the year moving, mostly. Kate caught up with us in Oregon in March, shot me with two wolfsbane bullets - Derek had to find her after we escaped to get a bullet to take the wolfsbane from. After that we muddied our trail as much as possible. I think we actually lost her in July, but we didn't trust it. Couldn't.” Laura swallowed again, ducking her head again. 

“Evading a hunter of her caliber is no small accomplishment, Laura.” He said it softly, taking in her worn appearance. She hadn't been eating enough. The soft jersey sweater she wore was thin enough to see how it clung to her frame, the blade-edge scarcity to her, and there was a gauntness in the hollows of her cheekbones. Laura hadn’t been eating enough, either. She had bags under her eyes and her scent was filled with fatigue. 

“Does it make up for abandoning you or Cora?” She asked, tone self-flagellating and bitter. 

Peter abruptly has had enough. What Stiles had said to him the other night had stayed in the forefront of his mind since. She was young still, almost twenty, and burdened by grief and the care of her brother. She'd been here when he’d woken, given him the alpha spark both to help him and in penance. If he'd woken years later, half mad, maybe, still slowly healing and drenched in pain, and found some well adjusted adult who'd stayed away for whatever reason, he might have reacted differently. 

But this girl? He'd taught her to track game, how to fight as human, as werewolf, how to pass as human, how to ride her bike, and how to source a fake ID. When Talia had run roughshod over her fledgling teenage independence, he’d taught Laura how to get away with the little things, about misdirection and alibis, and had been her alibi aplenty. She was his niece, his pack, and the last of his family. He could no more shun her than he could kill her.  

“Come here, Lulu-love.” He said softly, opening his arms as she jerked her head upright in shock. After a startled second she gasped out a strangled sob and clambered onto the bed and into his lap, just like she had growing up, constantly butting heads with her strong-willed mother and coming away bruised in spirit and looking for solace. She clung to him, burying her choked cries into his gowned chest. Stiles glanced at them and then gestured at the door- something in front of it glimmered like a heat sheen before fading from sight. He tapped his ear, then turned back to his call. 

Peter held Laura until her sobs started to ease off. Then he urged her to sit up and tucked two fingers under her chin, bringing her face up so they could see one another. “You were pursued, your pack had been laid low. Cora's bond snapped. You had no reason to believe she hadn't died with the rest. In these things, you are blameless. Your responsibilities to this territory are not fulfilled, yes, but you've been in hiding, and with the ongoing investigation there's not much you could have done. You came back. You kept Derek safe, even from himself. These things are admirable. Not many without a lefthand’s training could have done as well. You did so well, Lulu.” 

“If you hadn't taught me, trained me, I wouldn't have made it.” She whispered, shaking. “I left you.” 

“It's possible you saved me. That they left me here, alive, in hopes that you'd check in somehow, and they could track you down again. It is hard to be on the run when you're lugging around a vegetable. It was the smart move. Laura, I'm proud of you. You did what you could, with what you had, and you lived . You and your brother both.” She stared at him, open-mouthed in astonishment, and then she was sobbing again, crumpling in on herself. He tugged her closer, wrapping arms around her. “You're forgiven, Lulu-love. You did well. You did what you could. We're here, we're still alive, and our pack is avenged. We'll heal, we'll get stronger, and no one will use such a heinous trick on us again. I promise, little one. I'm sorry I didn't catch the plot in time. It was mine and your mother's job to protect our pack. We failed, and I'm sorry you've suffered for it. You're not alone any more.” 

Stiles stepped up to the bed, laying a hand on her back. “No home of yours will ever burn again. I will ward every base of ours to Kingdom come, Laura. I can't promise we won't meet capable foes again, but I promise we'll be as prepared as possible for any outcome. Hale Territory will stand for peace in strength again. You're not alone.” 

“I don't even know if they have grave markers.” Laura hiccuped. 

“We'll find out.” Peter promised. “We’ll host a proper memorial service.” 

“The people of this town will remember the Hales. We'll make sure the investigation is pursued, and by the time they find out the results, Beacon Hills will know they failed and forgot too many of their own.” Stiles agreed. He smirked at Peter. “Always thought it strange how easy it was for this town to look in the other direction. It should make them feel uncomfortable, for a bit.” 

He really enjoyed the way this man's mind worked. His older self had done well, finding such a resourceful packmate.  “Just so,” he agreed. 

***

The transfer went off without a hitch. Laura was able to pull herself together enough to cow the hospital administration into capitulating to her change of care. Stiles had spelled Peter into the illusion of a coma, keeping his vitals steady and him in seeming unconsciousness. He maintained his senses, though, able to scent and hear as he was wheeled out of the hospital and into the ambulance, and then set up in a room of the house. As far as anyone knew, Peter Hale was still in a coma, just in home care now. 

Laura signed paperwork, received the doctor's instructions, and sent everyone on their way before heading out to retrieve Derek, their things, and swing by Peter's apartment to gather a chunk of his things. Stiles disappeared from the hospital room before even a nurse checked in, though when the spell broke shortly after Laura left, he bustled into the house, ferrying in a squad's worth of groceries. By the time Laura and Derek returned, Peter was set up at the kitchen table, Stiles' offered laptop open and Peter catching up on the year's events as much as he could. His email had a few messages from contacts, asking after his health after the news of the Hale Fire had spread, but it had been weak since a fresh one had arrived. He wouldn't be responding just yet, but he would remember the courtesy. Just like he'd remember who didn't reach out. Stiles was putting the finishing touches on dinner when Laura and Derek stepped into the kitchen. 

Laura came over and pressed a kiss to his forehead, and Peter slung an arm around her in a hug. “Got a bunch of your clothes, your work bag. Brought your desktop, books, and files, too - the superintendent offered us a few boxes. I went ahead and renewed your lease for another couple of months, considering the coma and all.” 

“Thank you.” Peter looked at Derek, hovering at the door, almost pressing himself into the frame. Guilt and longing and desperation colored his scent, for all the boy scowled ferociously. “Nephew.” 

Derek shook his head. “Don't - don't call me that. I don't deserve that. Family.” Disgust, fear, and fury roiled through their shared bond, and even that nearly drowned in guilt. 

Peter stood, his eyes changing to alpha red. Stiles had gone still by the counter. Laura whined softly behind him, confused and distressed. The Spark knew the whole of it, Peter thought, but he'd had time to think of the events, to piece it with information and concerns from before that day. Peter had always had an organized mind, had always been very good at following a trail and sniffing out prey. Derek's withdrawal from the family, the scent of woman and chemical cherry blossom he'd been drenched with so often, his increasing excuses to leave or stay away from home for longer and longer. Kate Argent had a peculiar method, finding young members of a pack, seducing them, and gathering information from them. He hadn't known the Argents were sniffing around their territory at the time. He'd barely become suspicious of Derek's absent but very apparent girlfriend - the family should have met her before they'd started a sexual relationship - when the fire happened. He'd failed his nephew more than the rest. 

“Why not, Derek?” He asked, keeping his voice soft even as he used the alpha gaze to keep him from fleeing. 

“ It's my fault!” Derek shouted, and then turned and slammed his fist into the wall, punching a hole right through it. “I - Krista, no, Kate , she-” 

“Oh, Derek.” Laura whispered, finally, finally putting it together. 

“Say it.” Peter said. 

“I was dating her. She said she loved me. Wanted to marry me.”  Derek snarled around the wet sounding words. “We had sex and she kept my clothes and I thought -” 

“You thought it was real. That you'd found a mate.” Peter finished, still in that soft voice. “She fooled you. Targeted you. Lied to you. It was all part of her plan to kill our family.”

“It's my fault.” Derek said brokenly, slumping against the wall, pressing his face into it. 

Peter let that statement hang in the air for a long breath. “Did she tell you her plans?” 

Derek reacted as if electrified, whipping around to stare at Peter with wide, wild eyes. “ No!” 

Peter nodded. “Did she ask you if you wanted to be rid of someone you were mad at? You sisters, maybe? Your mom, me? Ever say something after you vented your frustrations about things being easier if we weren't around?” 

Derek shook his head. “No! I would have said something. I know that much!” Peter didn't smile, but he caught Stiles’ glance his way, read the approval and encouragement on their bonds, and the caution. Go slow , this is not prey easily caught.  

So he broke off the attack, came circling up from another angle. “Did she ever say she knew what we were, or did you tell her?” Derek shook his head emphatically again. First Rule of dealing with those out of the pack: Tell No One. They cannot fear what they do not know. 

“When she asked you about your family,” because she had, that's what she did. “She asked about your favorite relative, who you got along with best. She wanted to know who took care of you, who thought you were special. You told her where you liked to go when you were happy, in which places you'd experienced your best memories.” 

Derek stared at him. “How did you know that?” 

“Because that's how you train someone in the art of espionage.” Peter said, his voice still soft, even, still a handful of steps away. Derek had been carrying this secret, the guilt, the responsibility of his Pack's death for almost a year. He could not rush the boy into believing it wasn't, couldn't pressure him into it, either. Even if he did everything right, here, tonight, Derek would still struggle with the truth. He was going to try, anyway. 

“Those of us who were trained to gather information, to spy, to deceive, we're taught to come in as a friendly face. To grow the relationship, make it a small, private thing. A secret to cherish. We lavish attention and compliments on our mark. We ask about the good things. Those are still secrets, most never know how much they give away in the little things. Those little treasures of happy memories are still important to the mark. Soon enough, we don't have to ask for the rest. We're a confidant, we already hold your trust with the trinkets. The best of us, and I was very good at the game, Derek, we can even tell our mark, ‘no, don't tell me about that, that's between you and your family, that's private. I'm here to support you.’” Peter nodded when Derek sucked in an involuntary little gasp. Kate had been very good, too. 

“And so we become safe. And when there's a relationship? New love is intoxicating. Sex, especially when it's good and new and you've got that person all to yourself, it seems like your entire world revolves around it. That person can't be bad , they've made me feel good, feel safe, they love me. And add in our wolf, yes? We're hot-blooded creatures that live in the moment and become very possessive of the people we claim. We are very easy creatures to fool when someone comes at us the right way, Derek.” 

Peter let out a humorless laugh. “I fell for such a plot myself, even half-trained and thinking I knew so very much, when I was nineteen. She was targeting me, not the pack, but still. I will tell you about it, if you like. What I remember of it - some parts your mother took from me.” 

“Oh.” Stiles breathed in revelation. 

“You?” Derek asked, voice small, disbelief on his face. 

“Me.” Peter said, firm. 

Peter studied the young man, and shook his head, stepping forward until he was nearly nose to chin with him, one hand coming up ( up , the brat had grown even taller, even if he hadn’t kept up the weight he should) to scruff his neck, and Derek leaned into the touch like a starving man. 

“You were a child, Derek, coming into your independence. Kate Argent was an adult, an expert manipulator. She had trained in how to capture, deceive, and kill werewolves her whole life. Talia and I were worried about you, but neither of us thought we were in any pressing danger. We should have paid more attention. That's on us. I'm sorry I failed you. Kate Argent planned the fire, the deception, the cover-up. Kate Argent killed our pack.” He tightened his hand on the back of Derek's neck, meeting his beta blue gaze with the red of the alpha. 

“ Nephew ,” he said firmly. “It wasn't your fault.” Derek buckled. Peter had known he would, catching him and holding him as he folded into Peter's arms. Laura was there in a second, crying, shoving her way into their embrace so she could wrap an arm around Derek, too. 

“Not your fault.” She said insistently, and Derek shook his head, sorry, sorry, sorry. 

Peter didn't know how long the huddle went on, a while, and then Stiles was quietly nudging them apart.

“Here.” He said, pushing a tray into Derek's hands. “Take that to the coffee table in the living room. Laura, grab a couple of the tea mugs off the counter, yeah? Alpha, let's move this to the couch - none of you have enough meat on your bones.” 

It amazed Peter, how this young man’s frequent interferences didn't seem like an invasion, how, even after such a short time, he felt trusted and safe, that he was as much pack as either of the young wolves. Neither Derek or Laura bucked at his orders, obeying without even raising a brow. Peter reached out as his niece and nephew stepped out of the kitchen, setting a light hand on their Emissary’s arm. Stiles glanced up, slightly, Peter didn't have more than a couple inches of height on him, quizzically. 

“Thank you.” He said quietly. 

The other man smiled, and it was the first unguarded, sincere smile Peter had seen on his face - it was beautiful - and shook his head.

“It’s nothing. You're doing so well with them.” 

Peter let his hand fall, though he had to fight himself not to reel the man in for a hug of his own, and a thorough scent marking. A sparkle in Stiles' eyes made him think the man knew of his struggle, but he just stepped away, grabbing the other two mugs and making a move to pick up the kettle with his pinky and ring finger by the handle. Peter clucked at him disapprovingly and swept up the kettle and a pot rest for the table, jerking his chin at the door. Stiles huffed, grinned, and obeyed. 

“What's in this tea, Stiles?” Laura asked, curled up on the couch, leaning into Derek. Peter settled down on his other side, leaning forward to set down the tea kettle before leaning back and lifting his arm to wrap around Derek's shoulders. Stiles waited until he was settled before handing him his mug and folding into the overstuffed armchair next to him. 

“Motherwort - that's the faint bitterness in there - cardamom, cinnamon, rose petals, hawthorne, violet, and linden. Honey, always. It's been a common ‘comfort tea’ for anyone who sources their own teas for ages. I've been using it for a few years, but found an almost identical recipe in a journal of a settler from 1873. Cinnamon and cardamom wouldn't have been very accessible for the lady, and cost a sizable fortune to boot. It's called ‘Heart Ease.’” 

“It's delicious, thank you for this and the food.” 

Stiles nodded to her, pulling in a long draw of the steam from his own mug. Derek leaned forward after a moment and started handing bowls around, spoon handles sticking out of the heaped, fragrant fried rice liberally interspersed with red peppers, chicken, and basil leaves. 

“I went a little overboard,” Stiles said with a shrug when Laura squealed gleefully over her first bite, and Derek froze a second before beginning to shovel spoonfuls of the stuff into his mouth at a time. 

Peter took an exploratory bite and closed his eyes involuntarily as the flavor burst over his tongue. He hadn't tasted real food in over a year. Maybe that had something to do with how wonderful this tasted. 

“I haven't had the opportunity to be in one place for… jeez, a while. Let alone a place with a kitchen and ready and plentiful provisions.” Stiles had continued, eyeing the wolves with pleasure as they clearly enjoyed their meal. “There's more on the stove.” 

Laura and Derek unfolded immediately, moving swiftly to squabble over the pot. Peter shook his head at their antics, and continued to eat steadily, not certain he'd transition to solid food well even with his wolf’s healing restored. The ginger in the meal helped, he thought, and he smiled warmly at Stiles. 

“This is wonderful, sweetheart.” 

The hand holding the spoon faltered to a halt, and Stiles stared at him for a long moment while an intense combination of pleasure and wild grief wrangled over the packbonds. Derek and Laura’s wrangling immediately quieted, and Stiles slowly set the spoon down, dropping his head to hide his eyes while he mastered himself. 

“We are not the only ones who have had a hard time of it, are we?” Peter observed cautiously, and Stiles huffed, shaking his head. 

After a long moment he looked up, smiling ruefully. His eyes were wet, tears clinging to the man's absurdly long lashes. “I'm sorry. I just, I've missed hearing that.” 

“Did you know Uncle Peter well? Before?” Laura asked from where she and Derek hovered at the doorway. Stiles motioned them inside, a wry smile twisting his lips.

“Not for a while, we had a rather horrible first meeting, situations being what they were. But the last five or so years? I trusted no one more.” And didn't that make his wolf preen. Had he ever been someone's most trusted companion? He and Talia had finally mended their differences just months before the fire, were finally extending a bit of trust towards one another again for the first time since their - his - childhood, but he had still been a very fringe member of the larger pack. 

“Can I ask why you came back? You did, right? You really time traveled?” She hadn't changed, his niece, not in this regard. Give her an inch and she'd snatch the mile out of your hands for good measure right before she asked for more. Sometimes a conversation with her resembled being trampled by an elephant. 

Stiles smiled a bit before letting the expression flow away, his gaze going distant as he organized his thoughts. “M- the before-after Peter was the last of the Hales, right up to… oh, seven months back. There was so much going on, but the Hales are the lynch pin, you and the Nemeton. Your pack has quite the history with that old tree, did you know? Anyway, once there were no more Hales, things went from bad to completely fucked. A portal opened over the stump of the tree -” 

“Stump?!” Three voices cried out in shock, and Stiles blinked at them, straightened slowly, his eyes damned near crackling with sudden intensity.  

“It’s not? It wasn’t, I mean, when you, when the fire -” He shot to his feet, clanking the bowl down on the coffee table in frisson of haste. “I need to check that out. I have no idea when it was chopped down. I…” Stiles swayed, caught himself. “Shit. I can't imagine having the Nemeton whole and recoverable.” He held out his hand, and the leather bag he’d placed out of the way shot through the air to slap into it. He slung the strap over his shoulder, flipped open the flap to do a cursory examination of what was in it. Satisfied, he nodded, and latched it. “Sorry. That can't wait.” 

Peter started to stand, and Stiles waved him down. “Sorry, Alpha, no. Not until you're back to full strength and we learn to work with one another again, same for you two. I'm capable of holding my own against just about anything in the area around here at this time, but I've honed my powers to be… volatile. I need to safeguard the tree. I won't be back until morning, earliest, probably.” 

“We should go with you.” Laura insisted, tension running through her body like a live wire. Stiles smiled, reached out and squeezed her shoulder. 

“Next time, Laura. You and Derek are exhausted. Peter just woke up from a coma. I've had more sleep in the last couple of days than anyone here. I've warded the holy hell out of this place. It's safe. Stay, eat, rest. For fuck's sake, talk. I've been on my own for the better part of a year and survived much worse than an ancient tree with a passenger. I'll be fine.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket and wiggled it at her. “I'll send you updates.” 

Laura subsided, and glanced at Peter. So did Derek. Stiles cocked his head at him, impertinence dancing in his warm amber eyes. 

“Be cautious. If you have need, send for us.” Peter said after a long moment of fighting down his suddenly furious wolf. It wasn’t an easy thing to do, the beast didn’t want to settle, didn’t want to let his packmate go unguarded. He'd not given Talia enough credit for handling the possessiveness of the alpha spark, it seemed. 

Stiles' grin softened. “Come here, puppies, I know you're dying to scent me.” Laura dived at him, hugging him tightly as she stropped her cheeks against each of his. He patted her shoulder and laughed, and she stepped back, smiling almost shyly. Derek hugged him, too, rubbing his cheek against Stiles' hair. The Spark squeezed his shoulder with a fond grin and turned to Peter. Peter stepped into his space slowly, taking note of the sudden, nearly hidden tension in the Spark, the resurfaced keen edge of near desperation along their bond. There was something fey about the man, like he was poised at any moment to run, or to shatter. He cautiously touched Stiles' elbow, waited for the shaky breath and the nod before sliding that hand up to his shoulder and drawing him into another hug, his other arm sliding around Stiles' back after the Spark tentatively wrapped his arms around Peter's waist. He set his nose at the meeting point of Stiles' ear and hairline and paused, waiting. Stiles let out a shuddering breath, and melted, ducking face into the merge of Peter's neck and shoulder, hands suddenly clutching at Peter's shirt. Peter brought his hand up to cup the base of his head, nuzzling against Stiles' cheek for a long moment. 

Finally (too quickly), Stiles straightened, and Peter released his hold on the man. “Okay, I'll admit it. I needed that almost as much as you guys did.” He said with a watery laugh. His eyes were wet again as they met each wolf's gaze. “I'll be back soon.” 

He didn't wait for their response, striding for the door, pausing only to sling a leather backpack over one shoulder. He paused once more when he turned to shut the door behind him, resolve hardening his gaze as he nodded a final time. 

A long moment after his battered green Isuzu Amigo reversed out the driveway and down the long drive to the road, Laura said, “I think he needs us, Uncle Peter.” He squeezed her shoulder. He thought she might be right. 

They spoke softly while they ate, and Peter patiently waited out the guilt-ridden silences, or the deep pockets of grief that welled suddenly into the conversation. He and Talia had lost their mother and an aunt to a witch coven in a town they'd visited together on vacation when Peter was sixteen and Talia twenty-two. He'd experienced the ravages of grief, what it did to a pack, before, and several times since, but his niblings hadn't until the fire. A few months was nothing in the face of such a loss, especially when they'd been on the run for most of it. Especially when Derek had been so locked down, carrying the weight of his secrets, his belief of responsibility. 

After a couple of hours, after they'd cleaned up the dishes and put Stiles' bowl in a container and then in the fridge, and Laura had dug out a pack of cards, and Peter had won most of their games, Laura let out a sudden huff and reached out to whack Derek soundly on the back of his head. 

“Ow! Laura, what-” Derek ducked away from her, hand to his head and staring. 

“I can't believe you didn't tell me, you numbskull! Did you think I'd blame you?” She snapped, indignantly, and Derek recoiled. 

“Yes.” He said in a small voice, and Laura looked stricken. 

“Der, no. If anything I'm a little pissed Stiles has already killed her. I want to rip her heart out of her ass.” 

Derek blinked at the visual her words produced, then shook his head hard. “Gross.” She shrugged, and punched him in the shoulder. 

“Not your fault. And I'm going to keep telling you until you believe me.” 

The young wolf glanced between the both of them, and Peter met his glance solidly. “I thought you'd both hate me.” 

Peter nodded. “There are a few scenarios where I can see that I might - but not this one. You didn't out us, you didn't conspire against our pack, and you didn't think of trading us for her. There was no betrayal.”

Laura nodded, reaching over and clasping her brother’s hand. “I'm sorry. I wish I'd known, earlier. I would have tried to help, been able to help better, maybe.” 

“She shot you.” Derek whispered.

Laura shrugged. “She killed our pack. She was trying to finish the job. We didn't break the code - we enforced it, even, and they killed us anyway. I think she would have done it even without her father needing to juice up the Nemeton. I didn't need her to have more notice than that, and she's older than I am - it didn't even cross my mind.” 

“She was - I thought she was kind.” Derek said, hesitantly, as if he was preparing himself to be slapped down. “But she was grooming me, wasn't she?” 

Peter reached over and squeezed his shoulder.  “Do you want to tell us about it?” Derek hesitated. “It's alright, pup.” The alpha insisted. “Tell us what you want, when you want.” He picked up the kettle, pouring more of the fragrant tea in their three mugs. Heart Ease, he mused, is certainly something we could use. “If it makes it easier, tell us about Krista. You didn't know Kate Argent.”

After a long minute, Derek did, hesitant and faltering at first, then gaining speed as the emotional damn he’d been shoring for so long began to crack. It was painful, to hear how she used his innocence, and for Derek to parse the then loving actions with the predatory reality. Laura gave up on sitting stoically by when the first tears started trickling down his cheeks, moving to curl around him and holding on tight. 

At one point Laura asked, voice gentle, “and you never scented the lie on her?” 

Derek wolf-whined. “She wore perfume. Always. And I wasn't looking for the lies.” He looked hesitantly over at Peter. “Can you teach me? What to look for?” 

Peter regarded him solemnly, seeing the hope and determination in the young man's expression. “When you decide to date again, you need to understand that your preferences and comforts are part of the equation. Humans like strong-scented things, they're practically nose-dead, but enough of them have sensitivities to scents that claiming such won't be an oddity. Let them know their perfume, body lotion, whatever, gives you a headache, or triggers migraines, and ask if they'll tone it down. If they refuse, it's either because they're trying to hide or because they don't care enough to be considerate of your needs. Either way, it will be a disqualification, and you will tell me immediately, yes?” 

Derek nodded emphatically, and Peter smiled before turning to look at Laura. “You, too. Let me vet an interest. I will look for dangers only. You may suffer through assholery if you wish it, far be it of me to deny either of you the joys of doomed-to-fail relationships and the misery it encumbers. I am not interested in controlling your interests, only in protecting our pack. Acceptable?” His niece nodded, her mouth twisting into a wry smirk, and Derek acquiesced as well. 

Peter nodded, satisfied. “Yes. I'll train you both. That was never a question.” 

“I'm sorry we left you.” Derek said, and Peter shook his head. 

“You should have. As I told Laura, I was dead weight, trying to outmaneuver Argent with me in tow would have gotten you killed for certain. I don't blame you for that.” 

“They could have killed you, in the hospital.” Derek said in protest, and Peter shrugged.

“I needed the hospital. For a while. They were hoping to use me as a trap, I think.”

Derek tensed. “Does that mean they're here? Hunters?” 

“Maybe. Someone was posted here to watch, certainly. From what Stiles said, most of the Argent’s hunters are otherwise occupied right now. We should be vigilant, but Kate is dead, not poised in the wings to visit further death and destruction on us.” Peter leaned forward to lock eyes with his nephew. “Derek, you and your sister survived being hunted across the country, have been able to settle in one spot long enough to want to stay. You and Laura might not have been thriving, but you had the funds to book plane tickets here, rent a car, and stay at the hotel, despite not having access to the full family fortune. You're already more practiced at survival than half of our pack was at your age. Three-quarters, even. Stiles has been living in what I can only assume was a hellscape, survived what killed even werewolves, and is more hands-on already as an Emissary than the last three the pack had. My skills are not inconsiderable.” He sighed, looking at the ceiling. 

“We got too comfortable, and too arrogant. The Hale pack were the first settlers of what became this town, and we were feeling pretty invincible.” Red smoldered in his eyes, and he bared his teeth in a silent snarl and promised: 

“We won't make those mistakes again.” 

Derek and Laura answered his declaration with low growls, a vow solemn and sworn. 

***

Peter cracked open his eyes when the sound of an engine came close enough to be immediate, barely tensing before Laura was rolling from where she'd curled up on the couch in the early AM, using his thigh as a pillow while Derek bracketed him on the other side. His nephew stood swiftly and silently crossed to the hall to the bedrooms, sinking into the shadows like a wraith as Laura moved sinuously to peek out of the window from behind the blinds. 

“It's Stiles' car.” Peter murmured, recognizing the sound.

Laura nodded. “Stiles is driving it - just pulled into the driveway.” She stayed by the window, eyes scanning the predawn lit yard and the surrounding trees for possible ambush. 

Stiles' door opened, slammed shut, and then Stiles was pushing the door open, eyes bright with feverish energy and a wide, feral grin on his face. “Heyhey, the gang’s all here.” He said as his amber eyes found each of the Hales.

There was a long gash from Stiles' temple to the point of his chin, sliced dangerously close to his eye, still sluggishly bleeding. Peter was up and crossing the room before he'd made the conscious decision to move, fingers feathering over the wound as he growled softly.

“You said you'd be fine.” He scolded censoriously, and Stiles laughed. 

“I met something new .” He said, jubilantly. “It's been eating children walking in the woods. Got in the way of it and the girl he was after - Baby Boyd gets to grow up with a sister now! And that child eating fucker is so much hamburger, goddamned creepy multi-jointed bone creature. Fuck. No wonder he never told anyone what happened. We all need all the therapy, jesus.” He sounded jubilant, even through the disjointed rant, even as exhaustion poured off of him in waves. 

“Nemeton’s been cleansed, hidden, and warded for the end of days. Its passenger is loose, but we made a bargain as a condition of release. That's-” Stiles interrupted himself with a relieved sounding laugh. “Oh my god. You have no idea how good this is.” 

The Spark was practically vibrating, and when Peter soothed a hand down his arm, a crackling energy followed it, like super-charged static electricity. Stiles looked down at the crackling, and an honest-to-god giggle escaped him. “Oh. Oops. Shit, I so fucking sorry, I am so on a magic high right now. I haven't tapped into the unfiltered, taint-free shit in years. It's incredible.” Stiles lurched a half-breath closer, hands coming up to cling around his biceps. He damn near shook the alpha, giddy and effervescent. “Peter! The tree isn't cut down. Isn't that wonderful?” 

Laura clapped both hands over her mouth in an attempt to stifle a giggle, and Peter couldn't help the warmth that fueled his smile. He didn't understand what drew him so strongly to this man, but his joy was catching. Still, he had a reputation to uphold, so he countered the smile with a raised brow and droll rejoinder. “It tends to be a good thing when our ancient guardian tree hasn't been felled and poached for firewood, yes.” 

Stiles tipped back his head and laughed. Outside the wind shook the leaves in time with that laugh, and they all heard it. Stiles broke off, and then let out another wild giggle. “Ah, damn, I need to ground this or I'm going to freak everyone out.” 

“What do you need from us, Sweetheart?” Peter asked, the endearment that affected the Spark so slipping out before he could curtail it. Stiles' smile became a little lopsided, and his eyes developed a sheen of tears. He planted his forehead against Peter's collarbone. 

“I've fucking missed you, Zombiewolf.” He whispered. “Hold on to me? Just, stand with me here, please, keep me from falling over while I let this go.”

He didn't tell the man that wouldn't be a hardship, or that he could think of nothing better. He'd spoken to him for the first time barely twenty-four hours ago, he shouldn't tell him so. Instead, he wrapped his arms around the Spark, murmuring “of course” against the shell of his ear. Stiles' shudder didn't go unnoticed, but he fell into meditative breathing immediately. For a long moment, it felt as if the air, the earth, the very blood in his veins moved with the man's breath. It felt like vertigo. How strong was this man? 

Peter felt the power go when Stiles dispersed it through the floorboards under their feet, felt it spread like ripples through the ground, and was ready when Stiles slumped in his hold, catching him and hoisting him up into a bridal hold as his legs tried to fold under him. 

“Gonna go out like a light for a while.” Stiles muttered, pressing his nose into Peter's chest with a shaky sigh. 

“Couch or bed, sweetheart?” 

“Couch?” Stiles asked, a little beseechingly, and Peter settled back down on the sofa, still holding the Spark. Laura slipped one of the throws over them both and turned on the TV, channel surfing, until Stiles, watching with half lidded eyes, zeroed in on the screen. “Oh, shit, is that Supernatural?” 

Derek eased into the room as Laura selected the first episode of the first season. She ruffled his hair as she passed him, heading down the hall. A few moments later Peter heard the shower turn on. Stiles wiggled until he was laying mostly on the couch, pillowing his head on Peter's thigh before glancing up to check on Peter's comfort. His answer was to straighten the blanket over the man's form, and then brush his fingers through the shaggy, slightly curling length of Stiles' hair. The Spark’s hum of contentment was a wonderful thing to hear, and the way he clutched Peter's knee in an unconscious attempt to keep him right there with him… Peter shook his head, bemused, and determined to see that even an earthquake wouldn't shift him. 

The Spark made it through twenty minutes of the episode before dropping into a sleep so deep Peter thought he might be able to pick him up and chuck him across the room without waking him. He and Derek watched the captivating, if fairly ridiculous, pilot episode all the way, and made no move to change it when the next episode began to queue up. 

“Mates?” Derek asked, the word barely an exhalation of breath. 

Peter looked down at his fingers, considering how he hadn't stopped carding them through the rich brown strands even once over the last hour, and marveling at the Spark who felt safe enough to sleep stone-dead in his presence - all of that together brought on a surge of unfiltered wonder. 

“I believe so.” He murmured in response. All these years, and the fates delivered to him a man willing to rain fire and destruction, to tear apart time to keep him and his pack safe, to undo their deaths - to endure his hardships all over again, for him. Of course they were mates. He looked back up at Derek, and something of the wonder must have shown on his face, because his nephew blinked once before letting go a tiny smile. “I really think so.” He wondered if his counterpart had been Stiles’ mate. Wondered what shape their life had been, and if he wanted to form the bond now, after losing it before. Part of him wondered at the few details the Spark had let slip, and the wariness, the allusions to not knowing Laura as well as Derek and Peter, the concern over Peter’s sanity and ascension to alphahood. The considering expression on his face several times the previous day, as if Peter’s reactions didn’t quite line up with his expectations. He was undoubtedly fond of Peter, had said he trusted him beyond all others, and had obviously mourned his death. He didn’t know , but he wanted, terribly, the chance to woo this spectacular young man. He wasn’t sure he’d be welcomed, or that doing so wouldn’t pain the man. 

When Laura returned, they watched another couple of episodes before Derek slipped into the kitchen. A few moments of silence later, the sound of doors opening and things being shifted around began, and then the obvious sounds of food preparation. Laura curled into her knees and wept for a solid five minutes, putting all of her effort into keeping her tears silent and controlling her hitching breath. Peter frowned over it. Before the fire, Derek had taken three cooking classes over the year, helping his dad prepare family meals three or four times a week - before he’d pulled away from the pack, at least. He’d been making noises about culinary school. Talia hadn’t thought it something a ‘virile young male of a celebrated bloodline’ should be interested in, but their aunt had been quick to pop that particular prideful inflation before the alpha could ruin Derek’s enthusiasm. If him being in the kitchen was cause for Laura to cry over it, it must be something he hadn’t allowed himself for sometime. While he was glad reclaiming a bit of pack, of their old life was helping both his niblings even a little, they’d had such traumatic experiences over the past year that he expected nothing was going to be smooth sailing for a long while. 

He hadn’t been overall invested in his mental health as Talia’s lefthand - the core of his dissatisfaction with the role wasn’t the job itself. It was a necessary and valuable role within a pack, and in most packs, the position is as honored as it was feared, and that he could have lived with. But Talia was disgusted by his ease with the lefthand’s demands, and found his bloody-mindedness a shameful proof of a ‘throwback savagery’ of days long gone and unneeded. No, his issues weren’t with his designation, but with his alpha . And that was a game that had no winner, so he invested no time in it. But these children had been through enough. They deserved to reclaim what solid ground they could, and he thought that required outside, professional help. It was definitely something he’d have to look into. Perhaps his university contacts would know of someone well versed enough in the supernatural to do the job justice. For Cora, too, when they found her. He needed to ask Stiles about that - he couldn’t believe they hadn’t broached that subject yet. Where was she? 

Derek interrupted further contemplation, bringing in plates heaped with fried potatoes, omelets, and bacon. A small bowl of yogurt with slices of fruit arranged within was on each plate, and he’d dug out the Italian press Mary stashed in each of her rentals, making four cappuccinos to go with their midday breakfast. The scent of coffee hit the Spark’s nose and he shifted, groaning, into wakefulness. When he rolled over the back of his head pressed into the join of Peter’s hip. He blinked up at the alpha, eyes slowly gaining more awareness as he seemed to surface out of a well.  

“Hey.” He croaked. “How long was I out?” He glanced over and let out a fairly lewd moan at the sight of the mugs. “Nevermind, not important. Please tell me Der made the coffee.” 

Peter chuckled. “He did, darling.”

“Fucking fantastic.” The man rolled into a seated position. “Oh! Food!” 

The four of them didn’t talk much over the meal, too busy focusing on scarfing the food down. Stiles cracked up at the current episode, something involving planes and possession, and the older brother losing his mind about airplane travel. 

Laura lasted about five minutes. “You killed a what last night?” She burst out, after having stared unceasingly at the man eating on par with starving werewolves. “What did you call him? A ‘creepy, multi-jointed bone creature?”

Stiles paused, glancing up at the wolves with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Oh, yeah. Left ya spare a few details, didn’t I? But I don’t have a freaking clue. I can think of several video game creatures the thing kinda looked like, but I also couldn’t get a good look at the bastard. Just its freaky horse-skull head with swamp-green eyes looming out of the shadows right behind a brother and sister walking home from the bus stop. Skin was literally sloughing off the damned thing - its arms were positioned like a bats, or I don’t know, a pterodactyl. It had freaky long fingers with too-long razor claws. It was large enough that it would have had no trouble bringing those kids down. I’ve never seen it - something must have killed it before I became aware of all this supernatural shit in the world, or it moved on, or something. Does it sound familiar to you guys?” Derek and Laura shook their heads immediately, but Peter allowed himself a few more minutes to think. 

“I couldn’t say. Did it look in its proper state? All the pieces melded seamlessly?”

Stiles froze. “Eichen House?” He asked, and Peter nodded slowly. Stiles looked down at his plate, frowning. “It makes as much sense as anything, being a Dread Doctor amalgamation.” 

It was Peter’s turn to frown. “Dread Doctors?” 

Stiles laughed bitterly. “Just add them to the pile of nightmares this place has to offer. If you thought Eichen House was awful before, just wait until you hear about their Nazi scientist division in the basement.” 

Derek mouthed the words ‘Nazi scientist division’ a few times, while Laura twisted around to stare at Peter. “I thought Mom was getting them shut down.” 

Peter offered them a slim razor blade of a smile. “She and I were working on it, yes. Their blueprints don’t show that it has a basement, interestingly enough. That was one of the many things our emissary argued with your mother over in those last few months. It is so… interesting , let’s say, how things connected to Alan Deaton keep popping up in conversation lately.” Derek and Laura’s eyes glared blue, and low snarls rose from their throats. Betrayal had a nasty taste. 

“He has a few connections.” Stiles agreed mildly. “For instance, his sister is the acting emissary for the Alpha Pack.” 

Why did that sound familiar? Peter cast back in his memory, trying to chase the words down - and snorted derisively. “You must be joking. That is the moniker Deucalion gave his ridiculous little pack of murderers?” 

The Spark shrugged. “He calls himself the Demon Wolf, Peter. Obviously subtlety and modesty are not strong traits he possesses.” 

“They rolled through the Johannesburg pack.” Laura said softly. “Left a bonded set of twins alive to inherit the alpha spark and took them into their pack - they’re all that’s left.” 

“As I recall the Johannesburg alpha was Caden Lark.” Laura nodded, and Peter frowned. “He was a hell of a fighter.” 

Stiles shifted, sneering. “As if good ole Deuc leaves things to chancy concepts like ‘fair fights,’ Peter. Marin Morrell, Deaton’s sister, insisted she was a reluctant member of the pack, but it sure didn’t stop her from putting her talents to use in subduing their chosen victims. He uses wolfsbane weapons and mountain ash barriers, and has a fondness for abducting pack members and stashing them for several months in hecatolite chambers and then releasing them on the full moon and sewing discord and despair in the pack.” 

Peter raised a brow. “That’s… a very dramatic collection of traits.” 

“Storybook villain, except you can’t make this shit up.” Stiles huffed. “I’d recommend a ‘shoot on sight’ method of approach when he does look this way - and he will, sooner than later. There’s going to be all kinds of interest in the Hale territory now that the Argents are out of the picture.” 

The alpha nodded, and then nudged the corner of his omlet he’d held in reserve onto Stiles’ plate. “Eat. We’ll hold our questions for after you’re fed and have a chance to take a shower. We can discuss what all of the things we’re to be facing and what we need to do to prepare afterwards.” 

Stiles smiled at him, shaking his head ruefully. “Who knew you’d be such a mother hen of an alpha.” He said, a little wonder hiding among the humor of his tone. 

Peter sniffed disdainfully at him. “Instincts, darling, are a terribly hard thing to master at the start of alphahood. I promise I’ll resort to my usual sunny disposition soon enough.” 

“Yeah right,” Laura huffed. “He’s always been like this with the pups - it’s the rest of the pack that had to tiptoe around him, but they deserved it, mostly.” 

Rolling his eyes, he poked her with his fork, and she hissed at him, batting it away. “I don’t suffer idiots, I even less wish to be part of the reason a promising young pup is squashed into an idiot. It is a shame our pack had so many fully-formed fools.” 

“Aunt Elsbeth wasn’t an idiot.” Derek said, and Laura and Peter smiled fondly. 

“She, if anything, was sharper and meaner than I. Truly someone to admire.” Peter agreed. Stiles looked fascinated at the dynamics they were sharing. 

“I know next to nothing about the rest of your family.” Stiles said, when Laura shot him a questioning look. He pushed his, mostly empty, plate back and leaned back in his chair, tilting his head back and staring at the ceiling. “Let me just give you a rundown of what I’ve experienced with your future’s past counterparts. When I came into the picture, six years had passed since the fire - Peter came out of the coma, the Argents moved back to Beacon Hills, and their hunters had chopped you in half. Derek showed up a few days after that, and Deaton had been the main reason Laura had come back. After six years of constant pain and glacial healing, you weren’t firing on any cylinders -” he gestured at Peter. 

“The wolf was running the show, and when you came back on line, it was crazytown. Not-you bit my best friend in the woods one night, and we were in it. We killed not-you, but you came back to life a couple months later, mostly recovered in the mental capacity, healed of your scars, and weakened by the time in the grave. Derek became alpha, turned a couple of Betas, we dealt with a Kanima and a burgeoning serial killer, and then the Alpha pack rolled into town, killed the betas, brought Cora with them, and poisoned her - you gave up the alpha spark to save her.” Stiles sighed. “Then there was a darach, and my dad got abducted, my friends’ mom, too, and Chris Argent - my buddy was head over heels for his daughter, and she was running around with us. So Deaton put us through a sacrificial drowning ritual, and I woke up with a passenger - the nogitsune that had been imprisoned in the Nemeton’s stump some seventy years ago.” Stiles scowled. “My buddy became the worst true alpha in history, managed to heal Duecalion’s blindness and let him go, claiming he was ‘redeemed.’” He sneered, and Peter read his disgust in the expression. 

“The marvelous true alpha believed fully that all problems could be solved by being the ‘good guy’ and that nothing even resembling murder was acceptable unless he was the one doing it. We wasted a lot of time letting enemies go so they could come back for another bite of us, later. The nogitsune rode me for, fuck, months. My mom died of frontal-lobe dementia: I honestly thought I was developing the signs of that before I realized what was happening. It was almost too late by then - he’d integrated with my magic, had seared his soul into mine. They put me in Eichen House for a bit and then Chris Argent came up with a way to separate us, sorta, and Peter did the rest. We killed him, but not before he - the nogitsune - killed Allison. The alpha stopped listening to me after that. I’d been tainted, and Scotty had a very black and white view of the world. So when the Dread Doctors started trying to infiltrate the pack with their chimeras, just about no one noticed - one tried to kill me, I was ridiculously less able to defend myself back then, but I managed to put a crowbar through his skull, not before he broke bones and ripped me open a few times. The next chimera convinced Scotty that I’d been tarnished by the nogitsune and would never be able to be redeemed. He tried to kill Scott later, so, you know, they let me hang around a little longer.  Somewhere in all of that the Desert Wolf, a coyote shifter assassin, came out of the woodworks and started killing people. Then there was this completely whacked out supernatural assassins competition - millions for killing the unreasonable amount of heavy hitting supes in this town, a list that was compiled by a banshee that was comatose in the hospital while Peter was, and took the names out of his head. My dad and Scotty put Peter in Eichen House as punishment for a goddamned thought crime, but we ended up letting you out before long because you’re the only resource the pack managed to hold on to.” Stiles sighed. 

“After that, Kate came back as a werejaguar, and Gerard as some sort of undead, not quite-werewolf, and then the entire continent’s worth of hunters declared war on Beacon Hills, the Ghost Riders took over the town for a while, and then a fae portal opened up on the Nemeton’s stump and the world went to complete shit. Dad died, then Lydia. Kira and the chimera pups went out in one swoop, Deucalion came back and gutted Scotty, Derek ran for South America, where Cora had fucked off to about two years prior, but didn’t make it - hunters - Chris and Isaac went down fighting some freaky fae creature. Malia… might have still been alive when I hit the reset button. She had the best survival sense of all of us, and the sense not to get attached - left without a word and we never saw her again.” Stiles broke off and shrugged. “Peter and I took off, traveling to stay ahead of enemies and persuers. The world had gone postal, so pretty much filter any post-apocalyptic movie you’ve seen in and you’ll probably be pretty close to the reality of it.” 

He paused, and a small smile crossed his lips. “That… wasn’t all bad. As far as the end of the world goes, it could have been so much worse.” Stiles stood. “I’m going to go get a shower, give you all a chance to try to make that mass of bullshit make sense. I’ll be back for further questions after that, okay?” 

Peter reached out and clasped his hand in his before the Spark could step away. “You’ve survived a truly baffling amount of horrid circumstance, Sweetheart.” He said quietly. “I’m happy you made it to be here with us.” 

Stiles smiled lopsidedly. “You know what, Peter? So am I. I don’t want any of that to happen again, and I’m going to be asking for your help.” 

“You have it.” Peter said immediately, squeezing Stiles’ hand and letting it go. “Go. Take your time. If you need to take a nap in one of the rooms, do so. We’ll keep.” 

Peter didn’t miss the baffled fondness in the man’s expression. “Gotcha. I’ll do that. Thanks, Peter.” He paused, eyes studying Peter’s face intently. With a small, wondering huff, he turned away. “Thanks for breakfast, Der. It was delicious.” 

They waited until the door down the hallway shut before looking at one another. “What. The. Fuck.” Laura whispered, eyes wide. Derek nodded in agreement, and Peter huffed out a laugh. What the fuck, indeed. He motioned at the laptops and paper pads scattered around the room. 

“Write up your questions, order what you heard in a list of priority with what you know of our time as it is. We’ll wait for Stiles to discuss it further.” Laura and Derek did that immediately, and Peter picked up his laptop. It was time they had a homebase, and he wanted to have a few options to present to his Emissary for approval. He had a very discrete friend in real estate that would be thrilled to hear from him, and to help them find a defensible base of a home. He smiled, and knew it wasn’t a friendly smile. He’d have to come out of his coma to the public, soon. They had work to do. 

Chapter Text

Stiles choked when Peter placed the laptop in front of him, eyes going wide as saucers. He carefully put his cup of coffee down before taking in the email listing Diane Ellen, Peter’s real estate friend had sent within thirty minutes of calling her. He really was such an expressive man, Peter thought as he settled into the chair across from him. Laura and Derek were on either side, their own laptops open and both typing furiously away. He enjoyed their Emissary’s gob smacked expression entirely too much as he worked his way through the house’s details and photos. After a couple of minutes silently absorbing, Stiles began to comment in a way that Peter was fairly sure wasn’t entirely conscious, for all he directed the comments at the Alpha. 

“Are you shitting me - this is in Beacon Grove? Peter, their HOA fees are $1200 a quarter . Gated, though. I’ve got a couple of spells that would actually make that feature decently effective. Hm. Backs up to the Preserve - the part that you own, too, how nice - four acres, though this fucking massive ridiculousness takes up a chunk of that - I’m sorry, does that say a heated pool? Oh, and heated driveways for our two times a year it snows, awesome. Okay, fine, our winters are worse than that, I know. A jacuzzi, of course. Why live in a, shit, nineteen bedroom mansion if you don’t have a fancy hot tub? Seriously? Nineteen bedrooms? Why stop there? What’s wrong with an even twenty? A theater room, of course. Room for six cars in the garage - I’m sorry, garages , though it looks like you could drive three cars side by side on that driveway. Jeez. Huh. That kitchen is pretty- is that? Of course it is. Bluestar Nova Range, and two more ovens besides. Nice. That view off the back patio is gorgeous. Huh. Office and a connected study, huh? Basement has a workout room, a wine cellar, and four bedrooms - a hillside exit, patio, too, nice. Oh, three of those bedrooms are part of a guesthouse. That’s slightly less ridiculous. That veggie garden is the nicest raised bed system I’ve ever seen. What? Is that a freaking Hartley? They’re calling that a potting shed? I could live there and die happy, forget the house.” Stiles blinked a moment before looking up from the screen, disbelief plastered across his face. “Peter, this monstrosity is eleven million dollars .” Laura and Derek were watching Stiles with humorous grins flitting across their lips, and at Stiles’ final exclamation, Laura snorted out a laugh that she tried to stifle by clasping her hands over the lower half of her face. 

Peter allowed himself a smug smile. “I think it suits our needs nicely, sweetheart.” 

“Aren’t your funds tied up with the investigation and insurance bullshit?” 

“Well. The family funds are.” 

“I didn’t think you had this much in the vault.” Stiles said skeptically, eyeing the photos of the oversized lodge again. 

There was a hint of wistfulness in the expression that sealed the deal, and Peter didn’t bother to curtail the gloating croon as he replied. “Oh, darling, we won’t touch the vault’s funds. My finances have not suffered for my absence these last few months, and my financial team is excellent.” Derek rolled his eyes at him, while Stiles stared at him for a full minute. 

“Christ on a cracker.” He whispered, and Laura wrinkled her nose at him. 

“Stiles, we eat here.” She complained, though her eyes glittered with amusement. 

He flipped her off without looking away from Peter. “You’re a smug bastard, has anyone ever told you that?” 

“What do you think?” Derek asked, and Stiles guffawed. Peter’s smile grew just a little larger, showed a little more teeth. 

“Whatever. Thank god for the starter foundation of inter-generational wealth.” The Spark threw his hands in the air and looked back down at the laptop screen. 

“Seriously, though. Do we need this?” 

Peter nodded. It was a sensible question. “The goal is to be a healthy pack, and a healthy pack grows. A pack house should be able to provide housing and security for the whole pack, regardless if they live at the home base full time. The amenities fit our needs nicely. There were a few other options of similar size, but they mostly trended towards the newer, modern architecture.” He laughed when Stiles made a face. “Yes, I thought you might react in that way. If you look at the email, there’s four options in Beacon Hill that fits a pack’s needs. Look those over, I’ve sent it to you both as well. If something else catches your eye, let me know.” He stood and crossed to the kitchen, beginning the preparation for their lunch, smiling at the lively conversation springing up behind them.

“Why do most people with money suck at decoration?” Laura murmured. “I like the lodge the most, but, jeez, do you have to push the mountain hunting lodge motif so freaking hard?” 

Stiles snorted. “They have carved wooden lamps with baby black bears all over them - oh look, bears and a trout. That laundry room, though - look at all the space in there. Oh, don’t look at me like that, you work on taking blood stains out of a pack full of people’s home and not drool over proper laundry utilities.” 

“Sounds old, hard pass.” Laura sniped back, and Stiles spluttered at her. 

“I - what - how dare you! Oh. Damn it , I am the old one now. How freaking weird.” Stiles paused for a couple seconds for mental recalibration. “Oh. Oh I might like this.” 

“Whatever you say, oldtimer.” Laura rolled her eyes and popped over to the next house. 

Stiles eyes widened. “Oh, oh no. Am I going to be considered a boomer? Math, gotta math.” He closed his eyes and then let out a full body, relieved sigh. “Gen X. I can handle that. Phew.” 

Laura blinked at him. “Ooookay?” 

 “Don't worry about it.” Stiles said. “Crisis averted. Jesus.” She shrugged and turned back to her computer, viewing the other available homes Diane had sent him. 

“Ew. Why pour this much money into a house and then make it soulless? Why is there so much white? ” 

“Yeah, white carpet and werewolves go really well together.” Stiles agreed, rolling his eyes. “You’re going to find the best cleaner in town and put the next three generations through their pHD programs of choice.” 

“So long as we’re bolstering the economy.” Derek said absently, and Peter smiled slightly. The lone boy of Talia’s brood had always been a quiet lad, but he had sass to equal his sisters when he cared to use it. “I might break those windows for the hell of it - what’s wrong with walls? Why does everything have to be glass?” 

“Can you imagine more than five people in that huge open space? The noise would be freaking awful. Nope. This is a beauty of a house, but it doesn’t have half the space, or a Hartley.” 

“You’re really into greenhouses.” Laura teased.

“Yep.” Stiles popped the ‘p.’ “Plants are kinda a big deal in what I do and I’ve grown to appreciate good gardening facilities. The more you can grow or make on your own, the wider the scope of the spell. And, look at it. It’s so damned pretty.” 

“Can’t argue with that. I for one like the layout of the first house. The whole thing is sectioned off into wings with a smattering of bedrooms clustered together. You could have several families here and still have some breathing space. It’s awesome. Look at that captain’s walk - it’s a perfect space to lord over all my minions.”

Derek snorted. “You would. The kitchen’s the center of the house, and I like the breakfast nook.” 

Stiles nodded. “Multiple study spaces, too - we could add shelving in the study and have a nice library.” He sat back and sighed. “It’s overblown and epically ridiculous, but you’re right, it serves a lot of purposes. Nineteen bedrooms. Honestly. I’m in.” Derek shrugged, then nodded.

Laura finished going through the virtual walk through and spun the laptop around. “Already picked my bedroom.” 

Peter laughed, and tossed her his phone. “Call Diane, she’ll be glad to hear from you, and get things rolling. She knows the percentages of a quick and painless transition.” 

Laura caught the phone, her eyes sparkling wetly. “Wow. Why did I think I’d never talk to Diane again?” She asked, staring at the phone apprehensively. Diane had been Peter’s friend since middle school, and the seven years younger Laura had idolized the woman. As they’d all grown, Diane had taken the girl under her wing, mentored her during school, and offered her internship opportunities for the clubs Laura had been a part of. Her family were descended from the dryads who settled Beacon Hills. She had just a touch of Other to her, but it was enough to sense deterioration in wood and assess the health of the trees at a glance - something that came in handy in her profession. “How do we just pick up our lives, like nothing happened?” 

“That’s the thing about loss,” Stiles said. “Our world shatters and we think the rest of the world should, too. But nothing actually stops beyond what we’ve lost. People less affected just keep on going. In some ways, we do, too, and then we do more, and pretty soon we’re operating full steam ahead. Sometimes it’s a punch in the gut, huh?” 

Laura let out a little laugh. “True enough. Yeah. I’ll call Diane.” She found the contact, took in a deep breath, and punched the call button. Stiles smiled softly as she wandered out of the room, “Hey, Diane, it’s Laura - yeah, me too. Hey, Peter picked the house you thought he would. Yes, exactly .” Stiles turned back to Peter and Derek, letting Laura's voice fade into background noise. 

“What’s next, bossman?” 

Peter glanced at him, and smiled. “We need to figure out if Laura and Derek are staying here or going back to New York - Laura’s in classes, isn’t she?” 

Derek shrugged. “They’re online. She didn’t want to be on a predictable schedule. I'm doing my GED the same way.” 

“Do you want to go back to New York?” Peter asked.

The younger werewolf stared at him quizzically. “Why are you giving me the choice?” 

Peter sighed. “Derek, pack doesn't mean we have to see each other every day. Doesn't even mean we have to like each other. It took you and your sister the better part of the year to stop running, and you were finally settling in somewhere. If that's a place you want to be, feel safe at, I'm not going to uproot you. Beacon Hills is always going to be the place where fire killed most of our family. It's my territory, I'm committed to it, but that doesn't mean you have to be. Staying there doesn't mean you won't have a place here, a room of your own. Once a year visits will satisfy the territory instincts of our wolves. I trust you remember my own college days.” 

Derek huffed. “Mom had to threaten to cut off your monetary access to get you to come home.” 

Peter offered him a fanged grin. “The perfect impetus to use my funds in a way that never left me dependent on the family fortune again.”

“Spite, your name is Peter.” Stiles muttered, humor dancing in his eyes. 

“So insightful, darling.” Peter praised, and the Emissary laughed at him, a light blush dusting his cheeks. 

“Gross. Are we going to be dealing with the two of you flirting every time we turn around?” Laura strode into the room, and before Peter could respond to that rather interesting question, tossed Peter his phone and continued. “Diane's got things moving. The seller's pretty motivated, she thinks she can negotiate in our favor.” 

“There's a reason she's my go to contact in real estate.” Peter said, pocketing the device. 

“She's offering me the internship again.” 

“Of course she is. You're bright, charismatic, beautiful, and personable. Beyond the surface elements, you've got a keen eye for numbers, rarely miss details, and read people well. I think you'd do better in contract law, myself, but it's up to you.” 

“I should work?” She shifted, and the sour-milk stench of guilt began to cloud around her, her dark eyes darting away from his. 

Peter huffed. “I think we'll have enough occupying our time without adding a new, largely unnecessary, career to it. Lulu-love, I could support the family on my estate alone. We'll have the family resources soon enough. You and Derek have been through enough. If you want to spend your life jet setting and picking up and discarding useless, pricey hobbies, I'm certainly not going to complain.” 

Laura smiled, but looked uncertain. “It's too late for law school, isn't it?” 

“Why on earth would it be? Your own merits got you into a very prestigious school with cutthroat competition. Your mother could not stop crowing about your successes to anyone she could pin down long enough to listen, and Professor Franklin wrote to me weekly on your progress. You were his most promising student in six years, as I recall.” Peter turned back to his dish, now that the oil in the pan was ready. “I have connections and people who owe me favors. I have money. And if all of that had dried up, I'm very good at leveraging the right people, and even better at threatening them. You were in your first year at Stanford - why not go back?” 

“There's so much to do here, though. And I went AWOL for an entire year.”

“We had a psychopath kill our family and pursue you and your brother across the nation. They'll make allowances, whether you go back now or in a decade.” Peter cocked his head to the side as he thought. “As for what we've got to do - we'll work it out. There's no reason to put your life on hold, Laura.” 

“Does that mean I have to go back to Beacon High?” Derek asked, and Peter sighed in exasperation. 

“Has anything I've said in this conversation sounded like an ultimatum? You're pack. I am alpha. Decide what you want, or not, and I'll provide as I can.” He turned off the burner and twisted back around to face his niblings. “Finish online, pick a different school, go back to the old one.” He shrugged eloquently. “Whatever you feel like you need to do.” 

Stiles came up next to him to peer into the pot. “Oh fantastic, I was hoping this was your pav bhaji.” He bumped his shoulder against Peter's, flashing him a small smile. “Bowls for everyone?” Peter nodded, filing away Stiles' liking for the dish in the constantly revised mental folder for the man. 

They were seated back at the table in a few minutes. Laura huffed. “I guess I'll finish my current coursework. But I'm not sure what to do beyond that.” 

Peter shrugged. “Let me know when something catches your attention.” 

She pointed her fork at him, uneasy and slightly suspicious. “I'm not used to it being like this. Permissive.” 

“For fuck's sake.” Peter groused, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I forgot the family line, forgive me. ‘If you know what's good for you, young lady, what's good for this pack, you will strive to the limit to reach your highest potential. We are Hales, missy, and that means we excel, whatever it takes.’” 

Both Derek and Laura smiled, though the smiles wavered slightly, and even Peter felt a twinge at the familiar mimicry. He'd never hear Talia's near-constant scolds again, and the thought had the audacity to hurt. He's always managed to get Talia's inflection and vocal tone down pat, much to her ire and everyone else's amusement. How long would it be before the impression started to slip? How long before it didn't matter any longer? Taking a breath to center himself, he decided transparency was going to be his best tool moving forward. 

“I hate that line. ‘Hales excel.’ It puts the pressure on getting things right from the start, and true craftsmanship is derived of exploration and experimentation, which means failing, over and over again until you've run out of ways to fuck it up and know your area of interest from tip to top.” 

Peter  looked at the two werewolves. “Success” was a word that applied to a myriad of situations. A year ago, success for Laura was to prepare for the next semester, to equal a fantastic start in her college career where she out-thought and outdid her classmates. Success now might mean showering every other day, or getting groceries. Or even writing an email to her guidance counselor to see what it would take to re-enroll. It was too early for him to tell, he'd missed out on so much of their journey after the fire. Derek… he'd watched Derek curl into himself and stare at the wall for four  hours last night, and the look on Laura's face had told him this was the version of Derek she'd been contending with since the fire. 

“Your mother took excelling to another level completely - we were to excel at everything, and if we couldn't actually do it, we were damned well going to look like it. Working for the good of the pack is a moving goal post, but the woman acted like she was going to run for office, not show a successful front to the world. I went a lucrative route, but not in the direction my parents or my sister approved of, and, yes,” he glanced at Stiles. “Spite had a lot to do with it.” 

The Spark grinned at him before turning back to his bowl and next spoonful, eyes fluttering closed in apparent bliss. Peter's wolf preened at the man's obvious enjoyment, and he very much wanted to find out what else he could do to draw out that particular, delightful, expression. He swallowed to clear his throat and turned back to Laura's exasperated knowing look. He sneered at her and she stuck out her tongue.

“Most packs don't police their wolves’ careers. They pull a tithe for pack funds - well established packs take three percent, most take eight. Depending on how we advance, that might be something I instate later down the road. For now? We were in crisis mode a handful of days ago. Our fortunes are vastly improved, our most threatening enemies are dead. The needs of the pack will be more immediate than careers in the near future. So, Laura. Derek. Success is yours to define. I'm prepared to be ‘permissive’ for quite a while. Take your time. Explore. Fuck up. The future of our pack isn't determined by your careers, but your health and your happiness.” He looked at them both, and when they nodded, he relaxed slightly. 

“To be completely honest, I'm in a similar fix, uncertain about stepping forward. I have my practice, but they've done without me for a year - I've been horrendously disfigured-” he gestured at his face and arms that only had a faint ripple effect to the skin where the puckered and layered scarring had been. 

“Such a recovery in such a short time will be suspicious, and yet I'll need to operate in the open as alpha and as the head of the Hale family of we're to be an effective force in this town, mundane and supernatural alike.” 

Stiles pulled out a talisman and tossed it to him. “The scarring isn't an issue. Wear that and people will see what they expect to see, and the spell will encourage them to mind their own business. Photos and videos won't come out clear, and will indicate scarring but nothing conclusive. The press, if there's press, will use old photos and the ones they took at the hospital instead of ones that didn't make. Those who will be able to see past the spell work are in the know anyway. We'll give it some time, pick a good time for you to have a vacation, and claim plastic surgeons are miracle workers. Worst comes to worse, we'll claim to have hired a body double so that you could escape the mass murder targeting your family and that you and Cora have been holding up somewhere exotic to avoid detection.” 

“Where is Cora?” Laura asked intently. 

“I'm not entirely certain. At some point, she makes it to South America and joins a pack there, she's ten, it makes no stinking sense, but she's a hell of a survivalist. I've got feelers out, as soon as I get a hit, I'll go get her. I can't imagine she's settled anywhere yet, but she flat out refused to talk about her life before the alpha pack captured her anyway.” 

“Who do you have looking for her?” Peter looped the talisman over his head and looked up to find Stiles staring intently at him with glowing eyes before nodding to himself and letting go of his power.

“A fucking amazing tracker who also can be trusted around kids.” Stiles sighed. “And I gave them a finder  - I'd reestablished my packbond with Peter by the point of performing the spell, and so had enough of a sympathetic link to make it.” 

“I don't know what that is.” Laura waved it away, impatient. “You'll find her?” 

“Yes.” Stiles said simply, and Laura nodded. 

Peter tapped his knuckles on the table, reclaiming their attention. “My partner at the firm is a Kelpie, and our employees are in the know. I could walk in there today and not have to worry about coming up with a lie. Stiles' truly magnificent talent has lessened several of my more immediate concerns. And… I like the idea of saying I recovered earlier but left a decoy so that I could take what's left of us to safety. That kind of narrative could be very useful, and explain away the expectation of me still being a drooling invalid.” 

Stiles nodded. “Not bad. You've got the contacts to lay a paper trail to back up your story. Now that Gerard and Kate are dead, and that it made national news,” they all smiled like the predators they were, toothy and bloody-minded. “You thought it safe enough to return home - You'll bring Cora when you're convinced it's safe.” 

“Delightful, darling. Laura, Derek?” 

Derek shrugged. “Good enough for me.”

Laura nodded. “We're here. Just need Cora to join us and the who's going to say different?” 

“My firm has a history with the CEO of the hospital, so they certainly won't.”  Peter smiled slightly. “No immediate decisions, either of you. Take time to decide what you want, and then we'll figure out how to get there.” 

“Excellent. Now. You have questions for me.” Stiles cracked his knuckles. “Let's knock it out.” 

***

It took money, muscle flexing, Diane's particular brand of efficiency, and three days to get the contract on the house finalized. 

Stiles spent the time making contacts with people he’d known in his time that had been useful, mostly by obscure texts and emails, though a few in person visits were made, and searching for signs of Alan Deaton. Peter spent his time similarly, responding to inquiries of his health from in the know connections and slowly stepping back into the world. His partner of the firm, Wade Temple, stopped in for dinner, which turned into a lively planning session. It was of constant interest to Peter who of his acquaintances the Spark knew and who he'd never even heard of before. Every interaction added information to the web of details Peter was putting together, and more and more he was beginning to wonder how Stiles had made it as long as he had - he was not impressed with his or Derek’s future counterparts, and growing less so the more he learned.  

The previous owner was absolutely fine with selling the house as is, furnished, and so they moved in. Peter, for one, would refurnish his suite as immediately as possible, which, after Diane's whirlwind tour and equally efficient exit, Laura snagged Derek sleeve and said “we're going to pick out different furniture for our rooms.” Peter chuckled and waved them off. They'd lost Stiles during the tour at the gardens, winter-set that they were. Once the pups were out the door, Peter headed back down the hill. 

The Spark had shed his coat, socks, and shoes, and his shirt was rolled up to his elbows. He sat cross-legged, hands buried in the soil, eyes closed and face slack. Power pulsed in the ground around Peter, shivered through the air. It caressed Peter's hair and slid down his cheek and neck, as thorough a scenting as anything Peter had ever done, and done entirely unconsciously on Stiles' part. Peter didn't interrupt, breaking away to explore the Hartley, gardens, and surrounding trees while he waited.

He liked the view through the winter bare trees, the expanse of forest building into rolling foothills leading into the mountain range stretching over the distance. The feel of the preserve pulsed at the edge of the property, and he felt a longing to shift, to run as wolf in the territory that was his own. Perhaps when Laura and Derek returned, they'd do just that. 

When he heard the change in heart rate and breathing that indicated Stiles' returning, Peter headed his way, timing his arrival to coincide with Stiles' attempts to gain his feet on legs that had gone numb. The man had his socks and shoes back on and was shrugging into his coat when Peter stepped smoothly in to offer  a hand, disgustingly content to prolong the hold while Stiles worked feeling back into his legs. 

“Thanks, Zombiewolf.” The man said absently, leaning forward to press his cheek to Peter's in a cursory greeting. 

“That's what you called future-me after I came back from the dead?” Peter asked, and Stiles sighed. 

“Yeah, sorry. I've got thirteen years of nicknames for that-Peter that are probably going to crop up with annoying frequency.” 

“I wasn't objecting, sweetheart. How do you find the garden?” 

“Healthy. Exceedingly healthy. The previous owners had a wonderful service for it. The property itself has some things to sort out from the construction in the area, but overall it fairs well.” Stiles looked around at the beds, a center circle  with flagstone walkways and ray-like garden boxes in the shape of a rectangle, with border gardens hugging the fence, and the front capped with the beautiful Victorian style greenhouse. He sighed happily. “It's ridiculous how in love with this place I am already.” While Peter's wolf preened at his possible mate's approval of their provision, Stiles glanced up at him, wicked humor dancing in his eyes. “The designer from the house didn't get a toe inside that Hartley. There's not a carved bear or “out at the lake” wood-carved sign anywhere.” 

“Speaking of which, Laura and Derek went to go do some shopping for their bedrooms. Would you like to join them?” 

“I'll go when you go. Copped a feel of the material earlier - might look kitschy as all hell, but it's quality fabric. I can deal.” 

Peter dug the credit and debit card he'd requested from his bank manager the day prior. “If you decide it's beyond tolerance. Or have any other needs, these are yours. And this.” He handed him another card. “I had your annual salary put in an account for you, the rest of the documents are in the office inside. I insist on you using the household funds for pack and household related purchases.” 

Stiles stared at the cards. Looked up, and then to the cards again. He laughed a little shakily. “You really are so incredibly different from him. It keeps surprising me.” He closed his hand over the cards, and his smile was equal parts wondering, melancholy, and wistful.

“Do you find the differences disappointing?” Peter asked, finally deciding to broach a subject they'd been circling for days. 

The Spark jerked his head up, his eyes widening, and he shook his head sharply. “Fuck no. Peter. You don't have a clue, the differences. It's been… Amazing. To watch you step into the alpha role like this, to see you care for your niece and nephew, to still have that much and do so well by them. The other you… he burned. For six years, he felt the fire’s ravaging like it was still happening. He survived out of spite and the bone deep need for revenge. By the time he cobbled himself together enough to escape the coma, he was a charcoal hull of who he used to be. You're so keen to be an alpha that provides, buoys, and supports his pack. He wanted the power so he could never be hurt like that again. The differences are staggering . But not disappointing.” 

“I killed Laura, didn't I?” 

Again, Stiles’ eyes widened. He shook his head. “So goddamned sharp.” He murmured and sighed. “Yeah. When she was lured back to BH, she just wanted to finish things and get back to the life she'd built away from the tragedy. She demanded he stop. That he’d been left behind, and there was nothing for him to do now, even though their Pack's murderess was free and breathing. That he was feral, and she had to do her duty, when she’d neglected duty to such a grievous point with everything else.” 

“Ah.” Peter closed his eyes. Imagined that scenario. Couldn't envision it. Kill Laura? His sister's first pup?  The ten year old that had stared down the well-meaning pack members trying to warn her away from her violent, deranged uncle, brushing past them to seat herself right next to him at the table, and imperiously asked, “well? Are we eating or not?” Who made it a point to sit with and talk to him every sit down meal they had after. The teen who continuously slammed through his office door, the door that no one other than the kids dared to breach without his express permission, with her great ideas, her ready-for-trouble grin, her hurt and fury and frustration with trying to fit into Talia's narrow vision for her daughter. How could he have ever broken so much that he'd killed that girl? 

Stiles watched him, a little sideways smile twisting his lips. “She wasn't the woman I met here by then. She was brittle and afraid, and hated being alpha to the point of resentment. She challenged him, threatened to put him down. And he wasn't you. He wasn't even after-Peter. I helped kill feral Peter, and I would have done it again if the circumstances had repeated themselves. I understand his actions, but he wasn't going to stop killing. The man he was after, when he'd died and lived again, regretted killing her. When the feral madness was gone. But he didn't know what would have changed the outcome. He had borne unimaginable pain to survive, and his niece, who I now understand was very special to him, was just going to put him down? It's only now that I'm truly realizing how truly fucked everything was to get to that point. The Peter that died and came back could not have killed his nieces or nephew, even from Rebirth Day 1.”

“Were you mated?” Peter kept his eyes closed. His nose told him the man was deeply saddened, a little startled, too. 

After a long minute, Stiles said “no” in a rougher voice than before. 

“I met Peter when I was sixteen. He'd bit my best friend, was killing everyone involved with the fire, and attacked us a few times. He killed Kate, mostly, turned on Chris, and then her niece and my buddy and I lit him on fire. Derek ripped out his throat - I always got the feeling it was a mercy kill, but we never actually talked about it, and if After-Before-Peter and that-Derek did, I have no knowledge of it. He came back a couple months later. It was almost a year after that before I got to know him well enough to get past that initial meeting. Longer, to trust him. But he saved me from the Nogitsune. Saved me from myself when the aftermath of possession, my fears, and the isolation from the pack nearly killed me again. But… the potential for that kind of bond wasn't there. He wasn't whole enough, for a long while, and I don't think he ever wanted to make himself that vulnerable again. We…” Stiles stopped, closed his eyes, and Peter realized he'd opened his own, drinking in every facial tick, every hitch in Stiles’ voice, his scent. 

“We were getting there. I think. Despite everything. But he died. He saved my life again, and spent his to do it. He told me, once, oh, twoish years back? When mates came up as a topic, if he were capable of offering what a mate deserves, he wouldn’t hesitate to claim them. But,” Stiles swallowed against the memory, smiled, a very little. “He refused to burden an extraordinary being with the husk of what the fire left behind.” 

“He didn't tell you.” 

“He did. But he waited until he was dying to do it, for all the good it did us both.” 

Stiles' voice was dry, and for a brief moment fury shimmered in his eyes. “Dying, and he told me I wasn't permitted to waste away like some pathetic romance protagonist, and patted my cheek like the condescending bastard he was and then he had the goddamned nerve to just fade away.”

The Spark was quiet for a couple of minutes, then sighed. “To be fair to him. He did offer to bite my wrist the first one-on-one conversation we had. When he was crazy. Asked me if I wanted the bite.” 

“At least he had the sense to accept your answer.” Peter grumbled, less than impressed with his overall showing. “But if his wolf was running the show, I'm not surprised it was ready to seal the deal so quickly. You are exceptional.” 

The man blushed so very prettily. Peter reached out, clasping the Spark's hands gently in his own, rubbing the pads of his thumbs over the man's knuckles. 

“Would you let me court you, sweetheart? The chemistry between us, the potential we have, your fondness for us that has gone beyond time - darling, please tell me you'll consider it.” 

Stiles' hands clenched on his own, his eyes wide and breathing rapid. “Peter.” He whispered. “I don't think I could survive losing you again.”

Peter cupped his cheek with one hand, already half drunk on how the man leaned into the touch now, as he had at every touch the last few days, how his eyes fluttered closed for a brief instance, and the unconscious longing in his eyes as they found and followed Peter no matter what was going on. The scent of him, so often full of longing, admiration, and the spice of arousal. How he looked at him now, suddenly steady and battle ready, not just the man who was already half gone on his alpha, but the Emissary that had survived events beyond Peter's imaginings. 

“Oh, sweet boy. You've lost so much. Given so much. Endured and conquered and overcome, and you're still so giving, sharp and funny and so capable of making room in your heart for us. The selfish, controlling man that I am is dying to keep you, to show you everything my moronic, utterly disappointing counterpoint denied you both. To take everything you had to give, to give everything I had in return. Stiles, if it were in my power, there is nothing I would not give you.” 

“You're talking of possession.” Stiles said. 

“Perhaps.” Peter smiled, letting his eyes flare red. “I'm an alpha werewolf, sweetheart, everything we do has some element of possession to it. I have no doubt I will, at some point, be a smothering neanderthal about one thing or another - but I think you're more than equal to putting me in my place, darling.” 

“And what would my place be? In your opinion.” Stiles asked, expression dry as paper even as the scent of him was gradually turning into molten want . 

Encouraged by the scent, and by that telltale chase he did to keep skin contact when Peter went to pull his hand just a bit away from the man's cheek, Peter stepped another half step into Stiles' space, gratified when the Spark stayed rooted, allowing the incursion, standing toe to toe with him. He brought his other hand up, cupping his face between them, smothering a smile when those honey-gold eyes fluttered again, almost closing before he willed them open again. Peter leaned in, ghosting his breath over the man's lips. 

“Right here.” He rasped, the wolf's growl and desire deepening his voice. “Standing with me. My Emissary, my partner, my equal. The man who will have no hesitation in grabbing me by the short hairs if he doesn't like the direction I'm going. Who will never let me shut him out of our pack dealings, or allow me to lead our pack astray.” Peter brushed a kiss against those lips, as soft as they looked. “You're gorgeous, baby.” He rumbled, claiming another burning, frustratingly chaste kiss. “You've been watching me, darling. You’re so beautifully responsive to my touch. Clever thing that you are, you haven't missed a nuance. You’re trembling in my hold, just like this.” He kissed him again, a bruising, claiming, quick tease of lips. “And so.” Another. “Damned.” Another. “Hungry.”

Stiles moaned, going up on his toes to meet Peter's next kiss, and Peter took advantage of the opening, sweeping in his tongue to taste and claim and to feel the man’s near immediate surrender. “Stiles.” He growled, and the Spark’s hands drug up his sides, coming to rest on his chest, fisted in his shirt, a nearly silent whine answering Peter’s demand. His head tilted back, baring his throat even as he opened to a deeper kiss. The alpha immediately closed his hand over the vulnerable expanse, dropping his other arm to tuck around the small of the man’s back, dragging him flush and secure, locked into place in his hold. Peter felt a shiver travel up the Spark’s spine, which became a trembling breath on his next exhale. Peter had enough presence of mind, barely, to ease back after several long moments of impassioned kisses. He kept his hold on the man, drifting the hand he’d used to claim the man’s throat up through his hair in soft, soothing strokes as they both caught their balance and breath again. 

The time traveler huffed out an explosive breath and dropped his head against Peter’s chest. “If you’re going to kiss me like that.” He said, voice slightly muffled by the alpha’s shirt. “I would be an absolute fool to refuse you.” 

“You can, Stiles. You owe me nothing - the opposite is certainly true. If you’d rather not -” 

He lifted his face to glare at him. “Shut up. What about that kissing session led you to believe in anything other than how ridiculously into you I am?” 

“I’ve promised you anything that you need.” Peter said seriously. “I want you for my mate, but if I’m pressing a wound, if what is between us is too much of a distraction, if this doesn’t work for you, I will do everything I can to curtail what’s brewing between us.” 

Stiles stared at him for a long moment, his expressive face shut down in thoughtful impassivity. He took a breath, and sighed it out. “Peter, that’s sweet, it really is. But if you think for an instant you get to kiss me like that and then never do it again , I have a few choice spells for you to experience. Believe me when I say you will not enjoy them.” 

Peter took it for the permission it was. Stiles was panting hard by the time the next round of kissing was over, a delicious glaze in his eyes and his scent a haze of contented, aroused, happy Spark. “I’m feeling the need to spoil you, darling.” He murmured into the man’s ears. “Let’s go find Laura and Derek and get this house out of the lake cabin hell it’s trying so hard to fit into. Let me fill your wardrobe, and anything else that catches your eye.” 

Stiles chuckled, and it was a dark, smoky noise that Peter hadn’t quite expected from the man. “Feeling the need to show me off and mark me as yours, Alpha? Warn off any potential suitors?” 

“Hm.” Peter nuzzled his neck. “You do bring up a salient point.” He licked and nipped his way down the man’s neck from beneath his ear until he closed his lips over the join of his neck and shoulder, and worried the skin there until his mark of possession showed vividly against the pale golden skin. “There, sweet thing. I think my claim is quite visible.” 

“You’re an evil son of a bitch.” Stiles gasped, satisfaction to equal Peter’s own sparkling in his bright, clever eyes. “Fine. Let’s go shopping. I’m pretty keen to have things that don’t shout mountain shack in our new home.”

He stepped back and grabbed Peter's hand glancing back when Peter didn't budge, brow raised. Peter smiled at him, pouring the heat and desire into the look, and watching that pretty pink flush sweep over the man's features again. “Hmm,” Peter said appreciatively, lids half hooded as the man's tongue darted out to nervously wet his lips. He lifted their joined hands. “I like this, sweetheart, but I'm not quite ready for you to be so far away from me.” He drew the man in, stepped into his space until the were side by side, Peter's arm wrapped around his waist, pressing their interlocked fingers to Stiles' jutting hipbone - he needed to feed the man better, he was so lean. He ducked his head to purr “better” into the Spark's ear. Stiles closed his eyes and sucked in a breath. 

“Sweet baby Jesus in a handbasket. I'm not going to survive this.” The man whispered, grinning when Peter chuffed out a laugh. “Are you situated, Big Bad? Got me in your piddy-paws enough that we can get something done today?” 

“For now.” Peter said in an agreeable tone. “Shall we?” 

“Gods, yes.” Peter started them up the hill, and Stiles continued blithely, “if we stay any longer we're going to end up naked in the best way, and sex in a mage's garden is not the first thing I should be doing, not if I want to set this place up right.” 

Peter stumbled, looked down at the grinning man with red glowing eyes. 

“You alright there, Alpha?” Stiles asked, and the innocence in his tone was strictly at odds with the heated flare in his eyes, and that knowing quirk of the lips. 

Peter smiled back, letting the part of him that was predator and hunger show through. “You know exactly what you are doing to me, don't you, baby boy?” He smiled toothily when the Spark's lips parted with a little punched out breath. “Keep playing your game, darling, tugging on that chain. I promise you the reward you receive will be exactly what you've earned.” 

“Promises, promises.” Stiles replied, cheeky even through the honey-coated glaze in his eyes. “We could just stay here. Inspect the durability and comfort level of the bed - beds?” 

Peter laughed, and instead of opening the door they'd reached, he turned Stiles to press his back up against it, crowding him with a full body press. “I am not,” he breathed into the man's open mouth, “fucking you,” he pressed his hips into Stiles', gratified to find the man as hard as he was. “On paisley sheets and a checkered comforter that only wishes it were country chic.” He took Stiles' mouth, kissing him with every ounce of heat and possession he had. He kissed him until the man was gasping, writhing in his hold. Until, when he broke the kiss, Stiles tilted his head against the glass and panted, eyes closed, any tension long since melted away. 

“You'd let me take you right here, wouldn't you? Where anyone could come around the corner. Would you even notice voyeurs? You're already floating, aren't you? Going to follow my instructions, let me order you around?”

“Gods, yes, Peter.” Stiles gasped, and whined when Peter palms the back of his neck, gently squeezing, eyes tracking the tremors sweeping the man's frame. 

“So good for me, baby. All the beautiful things we're going to do together. I can't wait to see how you look in my bed, on my cock. To hear all the noises I'm going to draw out of you when I put my mouth on you. To see how far this pretty flush goes down your body.” 

“Jesus.” The man whispers.

“Peter will do, darling.” Peter grinned into the man's neck, feeling the startled laugh as much as he heard it. 

“You're a goddamned troll, Peter Hale.” Peter laughed softly, loving the shiver the sound produced. 

“We are going to have so much fun together, sweetheart.” Peter straightened, adjusted Stiles' clothes on his frame as the man groaned in complaint. 

“It's all fun and games til the blue balls fall off.” He warned, straightening Peter's shirt in return, paying particular attention to where his grip had wrinkled the fabric. 

Peter smiled, “Come now, sweet boy. Neither of us are teenagers. We can make it a few days without ravishing each other, surely.” 

“If you're counting the first day as at the hospital and not today, then, sure.” 

Peter laughed, the sound crawling out of his chest and wrapping around his future mate, causing the man to shudder and close his eyes to fortify himself. “As you say, darling.”

“Okay. Shopping. I can do that.” Stiles opened the door behind him and turned away, snagging Peter's hand and tucking himself back into his hold. “My magnanimity has its limits- let's go find a bedding set you can fuck me on. Maybe more than one. Definitely more than one.” 

***

“I don't think you're happy to see us. It hurts me, Laura, it really does. I thought we'd hit it off. Best of buds. Come on, who's going to tag team tormenting Derek with you if not me, huh?” 

“Your scent is a torment.” Derek snarked from the aisle over. 

Laura had a hand pressed over her nose. “I can't with this. You can't even look at Peter without flooding the air with ‘fuck me’ pheromones, and he's no better. Why are you here and not defiling the new house?” 

“His highness objects to the decor.” Stiles sighed. “And my car is too plebeian for his overinflated ego.” 

“I don't suppose the broom closet meets the mark, either?” Peter laughed at how wistful Laura sounded, and he had to admit she was entitled to her pain, Stiles’ scent was a constant calling card, and he was having to use every ounce of his restraint to not take the man up on all of the unconscious offers he had provided in the half hour since they'd joined the niblings. The bruise he'd left in the man was blatantly visible, and he'd spent the time keeping his hands to himself desperately anticipating making more. 

They’d met up at the Beacon Hills town square: the boutiques, art galleries, and eclectic shops that filled the historic square, edged as they were in wine and tourist country, were a known draw and had a number of quality items. 

Laura had originally said “oh good, now we can replace the rest of that travesty of a decorating scheme.” Of course, that's before she'd caught a face full of their scent. “Gross.” 

They were in their second shop - a quirky southwestern style gallery that boasted handmade art, pottery, and textiles. Even as Stiles tweaked Laura's tail, he was intently studying a driftwood, leather, and cord dreamcatcher, an intricate collection of several dreamcatchers with lace-like patterning. Laura was oohing over a collection of hand painted pottery - she and Stiles continued to navigate towards the same colors, dusky teals, terracotta, earth tones, marigolds, and rich creams. Derek was captivated by a set of hand carved wooden cutting boards that had made use of the trees whorls and weren't industry-standard straight. The kitchen section of the store was well appointed, quality, and beautiful, and Peter didn't think they'd be dragging him out of it anytime soon. 

Stiles brushed his fingers lightly over the wallhanging and moved on, and Peter caught the store clerk's eye - she’d been unobtrusively collecting things he'd indicated for about the last ten minutes - and she smiled quickly and headed for that corner.  

Laura pulled out a few more of the dishes and waved Peter over. He studied the patterns and colors she'd collected - three different artists and a smattering of each of their works that went well together without being too matchy-matchy. He removed one of the plates, noting the hairline crack almost hidden along the pattern line. 

“I like the rest.” 

She nodded, and found a replacement plate. “I think I'll grab a matching number of solid colored pieces - these three? To round it out. Der? Stiles? Will these work for you?” 

Derek stuck his head over the divide where he was working on his own collection, hummed, and then nodded. “I like the colors better than what I was grabbing, let me adjust a few things and I'll bring my stuff over.” The store clerk came over and began clearing the table display Laura was at. 

“Arrange whatever you'd like here to get a better idea of what you're taking home.” She said. “I'll get this out of the way and find some compatible pieces - remodeling the kitchen?” 

“We've just moved into a new house.” Laura replied with a grateful smile. “The decor is atrocious, so we'll be doing the whole kit and kaboodle.” 

“That’s a chore and a half. I'm Elaina, anything I can do to make it easier, please let me know.” 

Stiles hmmed in approval, stepping up to the table as Elaina took an armful of display away. “Nice eye, Laura. Anything you find that is handmade will help me attune my magic to the house. Magic imbues things that were made with effort and intention better than batch made items. It flows in patterns, and the more things have in correlation - color, repetition in design, material, whatever - the better it sets and melds. In dishes and kitchen implements that means I can put spells for health and wellness, mental fortitude, spiritual cleansing, things like that, into effect. Decor, blankets, rugs: safety and protection, sanctuary charms, restfulness, etc. If any of you are proficient in any sort of trade or crafting skill, I can build on what you're making, doing, creating, so that the effects are layered and built into its formation. But handmade items of any sort work very well.” 

“In other words,” Laura said cheerfully, “we're going to spend uncle's money like there's no tomorrow.” 

Peter chuckled. “Niece, I've received the account updates from your earlier shopping. The permission was already granted.” 

“Perfect.” She responded and grinned. He ruffled her hair and pulled back just in time to avoid her snapping teeth. 

“I wanted to take the upstairs bedroom on the far right, and Derek liked the far left, upstairs. I was thinking about kitting out the one across from his for Cora- do you think she'd like that?” 

“If she doesn't she can choose another. But I think we pick a room close to the rest of us.” Peter squeezed her shoulder. “Young wolves separated from their packs for extended periods of time tend to be clingy and mistrustful of improved circumstances.” 

“Do up the room that shares the bathroom as a child's room, too. Vary the colors and theme and let her pick, but also let her know the rest of the house is available.” Stiles suggested. “Once she's picked, have some things that are personal you can add right away, something with her name on it, or her favorite animal or books or whatever.” 

“That's a good suggestion. Cora was very into Spider-Man, as I recall.” 

“Harry Potter.” Laura replied. 

“Star Wars.” Derek confirmed.

“Kid me would have loved kid-Cora.” Stiles sighed fondly. “Nerd.” 

“We should make that happen, when she gets back. I bet kid-you is freaking adorable.” 

“Yeah, sure, in a hyperactive, spazzy, klutzy sort of way.” Stiles said derisively. “I irritated people on Adderall, let alone before my 8th grade homeroom teacher threatened to make Dad's life as sheriff living hell if he didn't get me tested for ADHD.” 

Peter frowned down at the tea kettle he'd picked up absently, turning it over his head as he considered the sparse collection of details Stiles had dropped of his childhood. He didn't like what those tidbits were hinting at. Not at all. 

“That first day, when you did the ritual over me, you mentioned it being the day your mother died.” Had said that his father had walked out and left their kid with her body. “Have you had the chance to check up on you and your father? Should I do that?”

Stiles blinked up at him. “Check up on them? I have, of course, but from what I remember they held it together until after the funeral. That was yesterday. Why would you check up on them?” 

Peter leveled a chiding look at him. “Stiles. In what world would people important to you not be of value to this pack?” 

Stiles stared. Shook his head slightly, not negating Peter's word, more like he was trying to jostle the cognitive function. He turned away and stepped over to a display shelf as his scent flooded with intense grief and fury and exhaustion. Laura shifted where she stood, and Derek stepped into view, head cocked in frowning curiosity. They waited as Stiles put his thoughts together and mastered whatever mire of memories Peter's question drudged up. 

A long moment passed, and Stiles spun on his heel and strode over to Peter, reaching up to drag Peter into a ferocious kiss. Peter pulled him closer, closed his arms around the man and gave as good as he got. 

“I will check on them.” The Spark said roughly as bright flecks of white and gold floated in whiskey brown eyes. “And then I will bring whatever needs to be done to you. It wasn't. It wasn't good. It got better - I love my dad, and losing mom destroyed him. But I wasn't going to be able to watch what happened to me happen again. I won't.”

“Whatever you need.” Peter promised again. 

Stiles smiled, an expression so fond and hopelessly lost it was beautiful. “You are an incredible alpha, Peter Hale.” 

“Oh God.” Elaina, the store clerk, whispered to her coworker where they stood behind the counter. “ If they start again I'm going to melt into a puddle.” 

“That's the hottest thing I've ever seen.” The other woman whispered back. 

Derek made a fake retching sound from where he'd gone back to perusing, and Laura and Peter laughed. Stiles glanced over at the clerks and blushed, giving Peter a quick peck on the lips before stepping back - and Peter caught the faint trace of white-inked spider web tattoos on the inner shell of Stiles' ear. 

“Did you enhance your hearing with the ear tattoos?” He asked, almost fascinated enough to not regret the loss of the man's touch. 

“What? Oh, yeah, it sucks to be the only one without finely tuned ears. You noticed that?” 

“You heard them - you shouldn't have, with human hearing.” Peter touched his ear lightly. “Pretty and exceptionally useful, darling.” 

The flush darkened, and Stiles' sighed mournfully. “We haven't even looked at bedding yet.” 

“We'll get there.” Peter promised, and it was Laura's turn to gag. 

“Jealousy doesn't become either of you.” Stiles told them, tone haughty and chiding, putting his nose in the air, and both Laura and Derek spluttered indignantly at him. 

Peter sighed, intervening before the three lost focus completely. “Does the dreamcatcher work as a catch all, or should we have one in every room?” 

“All the bedrooms and entry ways, though they all don't have to be as intricate as -” Stiles turned back to look for the wall hanging he'd admired earlier and frowned when he didn't see it.

“Elaina has already wrapped it up, sweetheart.” Peter said, and Stiles shook his head, blinked, and backtracked his progress through the store. He touched a couple places and looked at Elaina, grinning when she held up a couple wrapped packages. He came back, still shaking his head, his expression amused and exasperated. 

“Seriously, Peter? What were you going to do? Throw the bags on the table and act clueless when all this shit showed up?” 

Probably. “Pick out more dreamcatchers, Stiles, they look wonderful and we all need them. If they don't have enough, we'll put in an order with the artist - her bio is on the wall there.” Laura left her gathering to go throw her opinion in with the lot that Stiles, muttering about having to adjust to unnecessary splurging, “ Crazy Rich Asians style bullshit,” was picking out.

“I don't know that reference.” Laura said, and Stiles sighed.

“You're going to have to wait twelve years to get it.” He replied, and rolled his eyes. “It's kind of wild how the world went to shit, but the government put so much effort into covering it up that if you were a card-carrying human, life just went on. Sure, the planet was dying, global warming was in affect everywhere, a global pandemic wiped over seven million people out, and there was a militarized, government funded hunting chapter in every fucking state, and boy did the bubbas of the world jump on the bandwagon, jeez, but Hollywood kept cranking those babies out, and Disney told them, ‘hold my beer.’” He brought over a stack of the dreamcatchers, and his eye caught on a basket of smaller, singular dreamcatchers. “Perfect.” He dived in. 

Derek came over with an armful of items, looked at Peter's selection of tea kettle, and after putting his things down, took his kettle back. He'd picked up a variety of vintage colored glass goblets, potholders and rests, a few trays and the cutting board he'd been looking at earlier. Mugs that fell into Laura's design scheme. A set of cutlery that had colorful handles that also matched.  

Derek placed gentle fingers on the cutlery box. “Reminded me of Mom's.” 

“It's perfect.” Peter assured him, an approving hand resting on the back of his neck. “I like the rest of it. She would have been pleased her table setting obsession made such an impression. Shall we do the whole set up like she would have? Cloth napkins and three layers of different place settings, napkin holders, runners and centerpieces?” 

Derek wrinkled his nose. “Can we have a table that doesn't look like a butcher block to do it on?” The statement startled a laugh out of Peter, and he squeezed his hand, earning a small smile from his nephew. “Of course. I believe that craftsman and antiques furniture store is still down the street. I was planning on replacing most of the furniture, anyway. The theater room in particular needs some work.” 

“Painters, to break up the wood paneling? And I think painting the counter cabinets in the kitchen would look wonderful - that chalky teal color Stiles is liking so much, maybe?” Laura suggested. 

Stiles shook his head, dropping another handful of dreamcatchers on the table. “If we're spending like there's no tomorrow, the light fixtures are seriously dated. If we can find some hand blown glass light shades, I can etch runes in that will light them without electricity. I use the ambient magic, lighting is the easiest magic in the world. I can spell it to light Einstein bulbs easily. And the curtains are terrible.”

“Yes,” Peter wrinkled his nose. “I'll ask Elaina where she recommends for light fixtures. Curtains are, personally, my least favorite decor item to mess with. Diane recommended a decorator for us. Let's find what we find today, and I'll have her over to complete the house.” 

 The bedding selection was fairly simple and straightforward: they sold sheet and comforter sets of varying color and textures and several knitted throws of Merino wools. Stiles had a whole collection of sheets that were soft as sin and in a whole host of colors that he was having trouble narrowing down - 

Peter solved the dilemma by taking the entire bundle over to Elaina. “All of these.” He said over Stiles' protests. He slipped an arm around the Spark's waist and led him away, only ducking in when he was out of humanly ear shot: “Sweetheart, if kissing you is anything to go by, one of our most frequent purchases, and casualties, will be the sheets. We are going to need more than a couple sets.” 

“Gross.” Laura and Derek said from opposite sides of the shop, and Stiles blushed furiously, whispering, “oh my god” near reverently into Peter's shoulder. The alpha chuckled in that lower, growling register that almost always had Stiles’ pupils dilating and that delicious scent of cinnamon and cloves flooding the air. “Gross.” His niece and nephew said again with added fervor. 

When they finally checked out, Laura had several sets of sheets of her own, and Derek had four. Peter eyed his niece speculatively, and she grinned toothily at him. He snorted and turned back to Elaina. He'd been more than a bit of a horndog at her age. She might as well enjoy herself. 

Laura put a couple of pieces into her bag, for comparison’s sake, she said, but the rest they arranged to have delivered that evening.

***

They leaving the store Elaina had recommended for light fixtures, having found a style they agreed on, when Stiles’ came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the walkway, staring at a display window while Peter jerked to a stop to avoid dragging him, and Laura and Derek had to side step them to avoid plowing into them.

“Shit, Stiles,maybe some warning next time?” Laura snapped, eyes scanning their surroundings as if she was expecting an attack. Considering Derek had turned opposite to scan their blindsides, that's exactly what she thought was happening. 

“What? Oh, sorry, I just saw-” sheepishly he gestured at the display window. Peter studied the beautiful quilt shown, winner of Los Angeles’ 2005 quilting competition, if the sign was to be believed. 

“What's the significance of quilts, baby?” He asked quietly, and Stiles nodded. 

“All things of great power are done in a circle. Continuity is one of the greater tools of building powerful spells. The planning that goes in, the attention to the build of it, using elements that bind, connect, all of that is involved in crafting magic. There is an echo of spellcraft in artisan work. The only thing that can out do quilting is weaving, because of its transformative aspect of being. That,” he pointed at the quilt. “Is a master craft of magic and quilting. Peace, tranquility, rejuvenation. Whoever puts that on their bed is going to have the most restful sleep of any thousand men in the last century, even if it feels like a desecration to put that anywhere but a damned museum. Whoever made it is very powerful.” 

“Hm.” Peter tilted his head at the display and nodded. “Let's see what else is available.” 

The store was immaculately tidy, with glistening wooden floors, one wall covered in narrow shelving that housed rows of carefully organized rolls of fabric, all organized by color. Tables with different sorts of sewing and quilting supplies filled the space between the walls and the right-hand wall had four large racks with arms that swiveled in a 180° arc, allowing shoppers to turn through the quilts the racks held as if they were turning pages of the world's largest book. 

Peter didn't miss Stiles' pause at the threshold, or the subtle tension that filled his wiry frame. He stepped through the door, and using very subtle body language, summoned Laura and Derek through next. The two didn’t recognize that the pack emissary leading charge and the alpha taking rear guard position had significant meaning, but they had picked up on Stiles' sudden tension. Peter's job was to be unobtrusive for now, let the flash and bang of the magic user to take attention and the first offensive. When those they met drew the line, it would be the Emissary who swept it aside, and the alpha who dealt the swift death from the shadows. He had much to teach his young pack members, but not, apparently, his mate.

Stiles zeroed in on the sales clerk who had watched them enter from a position behind the large wooden cashier's desk without greeting, her face shuttered into impassivity. 

“Greetings, witchkin.” Stiles said softly, and the woman cocked her head to the side in curiosity.

“You taste of storms and blood and shadows, Stranger. What business has brought you to this shop?” 

Not my shop, Peter noted. He knew this woman, Gillian Forsythe, a transplant from the Midwest about eight years ago, a vivacious woman in her forties who'd petitioned Talia for entry in her territory because she'd felt a call, and her gift urged her to follow it. Witchcraft, generally, was built by brews and spells and powered by blood and pain. The worst of them tortured others and murdered to charge their spells. The best of them used self harm and willing victims, and were usually preyed upon by the rest. Gillian was somewhere in the middle, and was a member of the chapter of the BDSM scene that operated out of Sacramento, was a known sadist and dom, and offered up all that information very willingly. Talia had been disgusted. Peter had been intrigued. 

Gillian hadn't been impressed by Talia in return, and, as Peter remembered, didn't kowtow to much of anyone. So who, in this place that smelled like ozone and geranium, did she respect enough to hold space for? The air sizzled with magic that he hadn't sensed until the door closed behind him, and then had run through him like static electricity, a warning and testing both. Laura and Derek’s proverbial hackles were up, for all that they stood lax on either side of Stiles. 

“The calling card in your display window. It's beautiful work. Not something in your bag of tricks, I'm thinking.” 

“If you're not a quilter, I'm quite sure you won't recognize the name.” Gillian responded with false sweetness. “She's world famous in the quilting circles, but a bit of a shut-in beyond that.” 

“Local?” Stiles asked. “It would be a shame if someone so accomplished was so unknown to their community.” 

There was the sound of a door opening and a woman well advanced in her years came into view. She had long, pure white hair braided to her waist, crystalline blue eyes, and the sweetest smile Peter had ever seen folded into a weathered mass of age-wrinkled, tan skin. He'd never met this one before. 

“I'm still introducing myself to my neighbors, youngster, and I'd hate to start off an introduction with a brag. Bad manners, you know. I am Eleanor. Tell your alpha to stop lurking, and come sit down in the back with me for a cup of tea. It's been forty years since I met another Spark and I was quite sure I'd go to my grave before the opportunity came up next.” 

“Eleanor.” Gillian said, low, urging caution in everything but words.

“Hush, Gill. Our guests are welcome, and well-behaved. The Spark has had a rough road and doesn't take surprises well - something you ought to sympathize with, dear girl. We are well enough.” 

Stiles looked a little lost when he turned to Peter, searching his face inquiringly. “Did you know there was a Spark here?” He asked, and his voice shook slightly on the word ‘Spark.’

Peter stepped to him immediately, wrapping his hands around the man's biceps, grounding him even as he held his gaze. “I did not. I would never keep that kind of information from you. I've never met Eleanor - though I know Gillian passably well.” 

Stiles nodded, closed his eyes for half a breath, and then reclaimed his unshakable exterior. “Right then, let's have some tea.” He  led them to where the two women waited in a small sitting area with two couches and three overstuffed armchairs. Laura perched on the couch arm of where Stiles sat, a prudent move on her part: The couches were old and soft and sank quite a bit when Peter sat down next to Stiles. He was unhappy about what this would do to his response time, but Laura's readiness and Stiles' capabilities allowed him to carry the calm demeanor he was very much trying to hold onto. Another Spark in his territory, a stranger, and aligned with a witch. He wasn't sure what that meant, but it was a large surprise, and it made his wolf edgy. Derek glanced at the couches, then gingerly sat on the edge of the least-carnivorous of the chairs. 

Eleanor’s bright eyes sparkled humorously as she handed around cups, and then, to Laura's obvious surprise, floated the kettle over to fill each cup. Stiles pressed a glowing finger to the edge of his cup, and his magic flowed into his cup and into theirs before shimmering out of view. Eleanor laughed while Gillian looked affronted. Stiles smiled. 

“I am Stiles. My alpha is Peter Hale. My packmates are Laura and Derek. Thank you for the tea.” 

“A handy spell, young Spark. Checking for poisons never came so easily for me. Though, I didn't know about my spark for the majority of my youth. Only my obsession, and talent, with needle and thread, patterns, the like. I was twenty-eight, newly widowed, and at a quilter's retreat that was supposed to teach advanced techniques and quiet the mind when the medicine woman who'd partnered with the quilting teacher for the retreat recognized the wild magic I was pouring into my work. She taught me how to be intentional with my magic, and how to hide myself. I haven't the hand for offensive magic, you see. I've had fifty years to hone my gifts, but I'm hardly as diversified in my talents as you, young man. And with such power. I felt your workings with the Nemeton the other night - and was glad to know that old tree was finally getting the protection it needed.” 

Stiles observed her over the rim of his cup, expressive face calm and emotionless as he hid his thoughts behind keen eyes. Peter smelled no lies on the woman, and heard no stutter in her heartbeat. 

“Would you have tried to stop the druid from killing the tree?” He asked quietly. 

Eleanor's smile faded, and she put her cup down on its saucer and set both on the table. She straightened her shoulders, crossed her hands in her lap, and met Stiles with her own inscrutable gaze. “Yes.” 

“Even though you wouldn't have survived the encounter?”

She smiled gently. “Some things in life are worth dying for. I would have died - my strengths are not in battles or defensive magics, but when I tie something to life, my thread does not break and my knots will not loosen. Someone would come along one day and help that old tree heal and shed its burdens, and my part in its preservation would have been worth the sacrifice.” 

Stiles studied her for a long, tense moment, and then smiled, letting out a little marveling laugh. “I always wondered what kept it alive, when it had been mutilated so thoroughly.” 

It was Eleanor's turn to study the man. “Oh, child. I did you no favors.” She said sadly, and Stiles reached out for Peter's hand. 

“Yes, you did.” He said firmly. “Because of the tree, I had the experiences I needed to get here and now. Because of your sacrifice, I survived the Nogitsune, the dread doctors, and the end of supernatural secrecy. I survived time travel. I needed the Nemeton for all of that. You have my thanks, Eleanor.” 

She regarded him for a long moment before nodding sharply. “You will take the gift of one of my quilts so that you may experience peace in your slumbers, and rejuvenation from your harrowing times. And you will allow me to teach you what would be useful to you. Those things I feel like I owe you, given what mess I left for you to clean up. And you may call me grandmother.” 

“Do people ever argue with you?” Stiles asked, his eyes crinkling in the corner. 

“Oh, sweety.” Eleanor laughed. “They try. But I am old: I choose not to listen. And so it does none of them a wit of good to argue.” She gestured behind them. “Let us see how sharp your senses are. Go to that rack and tell me what that first quilt does.” 

Stiles did as he was told, and as he picked apart each facet of the woman's designs, pointing out obscurities and delving beyond what physical sight could divulge, Peter watched the older Spark. Stiles' surprised her several times with his insight, and she seemed to grow more and more satisfied each time. Gillian, too, seemed impressed, if reluctantly so. She studied his mate just a little too thoroughly to start off with, and Peter had no doubt she saw the glimmers of potential that he'd picked up himself, but she quickly diverted her attention when she glanced his way and found him watching her with all the intensity of a hunting wolf. Mine . He told her without saying a word, and she dropped her eyes immediately, making a pretense of checking her nails. Peter glanced at Stiles, and outright grinned at the man's exasperated expression directed solely at Peter. Caught, it seemed. Stiles rolled his eyes and turned back to his task, while Eleanor regarded Peter with approval. 

“This won't be like last time.” She said, interrupting her own process. “You're not new to your powers, and you're shoring up your defenses, building your castle walls, as it were. Your spark won't be overlooked as it was in the time before.” 

Stiles propped a hip against Derek's chair and crossed his arms. “It's already so different.” He agreed. “I have a mentor who's actually a Spark, my pack is already healthier and more capable than it ever managed to be before. My alpha is invested in his Pack's growth and health. I had none of that before. I've bonded with and protected the Nemeton and released the Nogitsune, and we are spirit bound to do one another no harm, and he to act in the Nemeton’s benefit for all of the years of damage it suffered as an unhappy nogitsune’s prison. In this time, he is a willing ally.” 

“Those are wonderful first steps. But you are powerful, and rare, and many will seek to possess you.” 

Stiles shrugged. “Then they will be the lesson others heed. I won't lose my pack again.”

Eleanor regarded him shrewdly before nodding in satisfaction. “Excellent answer, Grandson.”

He smiled. “Thank you, Grandmother.”

***

They left Beacon's Needle with the purchase of twenty-five of Eleanor’s quilts, her direct line, address, and invited to have tea with them at her leisure. Stiles made it a block and a half before starting to shake. 

“How many people died before they could help us?” He asked into Peter's neck while Peter tried to keep him from shaking apart. “How many deaths were their last ditch efforts to safeguard the future?”

Peter's mind was caught up in the puzzle of it, of Eleanor's foreknowledge and the steadily growing data of those who did not appear in Stiles' stories that should have, could have, and would have if they'd been able. In the way Stiles talked about and used his magic. How Beacon Hills had a singular entity that held its very pulse, sitting on the ley lines as it did, tapped into the life stream of the world. How many game pieces were chivvied into place in order to set up a certain move? How many resources had the Nemeton spent so that her champion would be ready, seasoned, and capable of fulfilling his role? 

Peter held the man and kept his silence, letting his presence and light, scratching hand along his back ground and comfort the Spark. 

It took less time than Peter wanted to give for Stiles to pull himself together, but he stepped back and shook himself slightly. “Shall we head home?” He asked softly, and Stiles gave him a wobbly smile. 

“So that I can fret and overthink with no distraction? Nah. We've got a few hours before the stuff we bought gets delivered - let's keep going.” 

Laura cheered, and Stiles held out his fist for her. She bumped it with enthusiasm and grabbed his arm. Derek shook his head at them both and bumped his shoulder into Peter's, a lifted eyebrow questioning their sanity as only Hale eyebrows could do. Peter smiled and threw an arm around his nephew's shoulders. 

“Just think how fun it would be to get them espressos and loose them on the next shop.” 

“You want to let highly caffeinated crazy people loose in a furniture store?” Derek asked, his other eyebrow raising to match the first to question Peter's sanity. 

“You make a good point. But just imagine the chaos.” 

“I thought Stiles was the one who's been possessed by and now is buddies with a chaos demon.” Derek rolled his eyes. 

“Peter doesn't need a demon of chaos to want to cause some of his own.” Stiles threw over his shoulder, and the stopped and turned, pointing at Derek. “Say that last part again?” 

“Uh? Buddies with a chaos demon - that part?” 

“Ye~ah.” Stiles said slowly, turning back around and resuming his walk. “That’s… going to get interesting.” He was quiet for a few minutes before visibly shaking himself and nudging Laura with his shoulder. “Don't think I missed your rather large sheet purchase, ma’am. Got someone in mind?” 

Laura stuck her nose in the air with a haughty sniff. “Nunya. Because, no.  But I'd like to keep my options open, ya know? My college boyfriend was… well. Anyway, it's been a minute.” 

“College boyfriend?” Peter asked, humor in his voice. “What happened to whatsername? Vanessa?” 

His niece groaned. “No. Vanessa was a mistake born of your wolfsbane-laced bourbon. Let's never bring her up again. Let's not have this conversation. We need stuff. Let's get it and go.” 

***

His pups were flagging three hours later, and Peter was ready for the comfort of home ground and territory. Their Emissary was as chipper at the end of their trip as he'd been at the beginning, bright eyes studying every face and assessing each approach. He appeared to others as twitchy, but Peter recognized the hyper focus as a left over from embattled times. Stiles was still living as if the end of days had come, ready to meet an attack the instant it happened. 

Their packages hadn't arrived by the time they got home. Stiles dropped a kiss on Peter's cheek. “I need to finish what I was working on earlier. I'll be back in before dark.” 

Peter caught his hand before he could walk away and pulled him in for a proper kiss, ignoring the complaints from the other two rapidly retreating werewolves. Stiles melted into his hold and returned as good as he got, eyes closing and voicing breathy little sighs setting Peter's blood to boil in his veins. Before he took this too far out of hand, he gentled the kiss, slowing their pace until Stiles drew back the slightest bit, gorgeous brown eyes looking up through impossibly long lashes. 

“Come to my bed tonight?” He asked lowly, his voice huskier than he'd expected. 

Laughing quietly, Stiles surged up to steal another kiss before twisting out of Peter's hold. “I expect you to carry me there, Alpha.” He winked and was out the door, a wide grin on fresh kissed lips. 

Peter smiled after him, and has to shake his head at himself. A week of flirt-lite, then a day of full flirt and handsy kisses, and he's one hundred percent gone. As he should be on his mate. His mate. He basked in the wonder of it. He'd been so sure his advances would be met with hesitation, or pained refusal - too soon, too much, too everything. But Stiles… perhaps Stiles needed too much. He'd been through and lost so much. He certainly welcomed Peter's rather aggressive forwardness in the physical aspect. 

Shaking himself out of the happy, bemused daze, Peter headed for the office. He had some communications to attend to. He'd been using Laura's email account to begin the process with the firm’s probate officer, and had called that morning as himself to express his desire to move things along, with a healthy dose of his ire at nothing being done so far after the death of the family. For what the firm promises, and the range of business they've done with them, it's truly unforgivable that no progress has been made, even if the fire had claimed every last Hale. So he had several people falling over themselves to be helpful right now, and that was lovely. It also meant that he didn't have to be the one to put pressure on the Sheriff's department to get a move on. The firm's lawyers had leapt on that. Sheriff Wellig was having a very bad day. 

Stiles had snorted at breakfast and said good . He'd been dead and gone in Stiles' timeline, but his Dad's investigation had turned up sure signs of the man being paid off to do nothing on the Hale Fire Case. His dad and the former sheriff had butted heads for months over it, and the disagreement is one of the reasons John Stilinski had been a shoe-in for the office the first year he ran against Wellig. The man's seedy ways had been really apparent by that point. 

So Peter had encouraged the firm to look for foul play, and asked for an internal investigation as well. Money talks. When it shouts, things move fast. 

He thought seriously about hiring a private investigator to look into the Stilinskis. He knew next to nothing about Stiles' childhood, but the tiny details he did know were damning. Stiles seemed determined to change things, but Peter knew personally how hard it was to address emotional blind spots, and he wanted to have the information to act as soon as it was necessary. 

After weighing the options, likely reactions, potential fallouts, and benefits of the action, he decided to wait on Stiles' first move before making the decision. 

“Things didn't go south until after the funeral.” That's what Stiles had said. How south? Bad covered such a range of possibilities. The idea of the man being physically abused by his father pulled a growl from him, but he was fairly certain that wasn't it, Stiles didn't act like someone who’s foundational trust in physical safety had been stripped away from him by someone integral to his childhood. He'd have to wait in being effective there. Let Stiles make the call until he had more information. 

He heard the knock on the front door, and was in the hallway to the entryway before Laura finished opening the door, out of sight and ready for an attack. 

“Thank you!” She said with a bright smile, and accepted a large box filled with shopping bags.

“I brought a couple of my guys to help with the furniture. Hisself said you wanted to get rid of pieces, too? We brought the big truck.” The man outside the door had a slight accent and a deferential air, and as Peter stepped up to the door and took the box from Laura he noted he was the same man Peter had made arrangements with at the store. 

“Oh, that's perfect, yes. Uncle Peter, can you put that on the kitchen counter? Let's unload the new stuff in the dogtrot, and then we'll get the furniture that's going.” She raised her voice a bit. “Derek! Come help with the furniture!” 

Derek slid around the corner without comment, and she and Derek ignored the man's protests, insisting cheerfully that they were happy to help, no worries at all. When Peter came back outside, Stiles was poking around the things already unloaded, running a hand under the joins and inspecting every inch of the furniture, the faint scent of crackling ozone the only sign the Spark was using magic. 

It was the work of two hours all told to get things sorted. Peter thanked Greg, Luis, and George for their help and sent them off with the tips they'd earned. Stiles was lounging against the door, hands in his pockets, half lidded contemplative gaze on Peter. He'd felt the man's eyes on him the last few minutes, and when he turned around he took a moment to return the look with less contemplation and more appreciation. 

“What's got you thinking so hard, Sweetheart?” Peter murmured from his position in the driveway. Night had fallen during their furniture shuffling, but wolf eyes and good lighting were more than sufficient for taking in the man's numerous good qualities. Those long-fingered hands and deceptively delicate wrists, the wiry muscles that hinted at his strength, broad shoulders and tucked in waist and his long legs were just a few of the elements that made this man so appealing to Peter. 

“Wondering why it's so… natural… with you. Second guessing myself, a bit. Mostly just admiring you. You've always had that effortless authoritative air. Even when the rest of the pack hated and feared you, they listened to you. Even when you were crazy. But now? With your pack behind you, healed, never becoming him in the first place… and it's the way you see everything, how you're always planning and assimilating information and aware of your niblings and me. The protective, ready to kill to protect intensity your gaze puts on. You're mesmerizing.” He gave him a lopsided smile, and Peter took a breath to be humbled by the man's regard before prowling forward. 

“You're beautiful.” He said quietly. “On a purely physical level, you are beautiful. And then I consider your capabilities: powerful, diversely capable, a true master of your craft, capable of bending time to your bidding. You are viciously protective of those who are yours, shatteringly intelligent, and deadly - you are the most dangerous person in this town, and no one here has anything to fear from you. And with all of that, you are kind. You care about our well-being, our comfort, and have gone through immeasurable efforts to make us feel safe when safety was so thoroughly ripped away from us.” Peter reached out, swept the pads of his fingers down Stiles' cheek.

“It's quick, sweetheart. I fell for you so goddamned fast. My wolf knows you. The packbond has been there since that first moment, and through that, I know you. Your emotions are there, all it takes is a thought to know how you're feeling at any given time.” 

Stiles straightened and stepped into Peter, wrapping his arms around Peter's waist and smooshed his face against his shoulder. Peter rubbed his jaw against the man's hair, closing his arms around him. 

“I have never wanted a mate, darling.” He admitted quietly. “Never wanted to depend on someone else like that, be vulnerable like that. But with you… I want this with you. A partnership, with you shoring up my weaknesses, a match in ferocity and capability, and just as determined to make our pack safe. And, all the rationalizing aside? I just want you.” 

“Fuck, Peter.” Stiles whispered, eyes closed and resting inside his hold. “I wasn't prepared for this. For you.” 

Peter chuckled, low and rasping, and smiled when Stiles' hands tightened their grasp in response. “Tell me about it, baby.” 

“We have so much to do. There's, fuck,  there's so much. I came back to fix things. Not be selfish, not to build my own life. My life was over - I had nothing to live for any longer.” 

“You've done it, sweetheart. You changed the tide. I know you're not done, I know there's more to do, but so much is different already. Lean on me, on the pack, let's get this done together. Whatever you need.” 

“I can't offload all of it, Peter. Some things that need doing will require my skill set. I'll need to leave for days at a time. I'll be putting my life on the line to do them. Can you handle that?” 

Peter pulled back, meeting that determined, steady gaze with his own. “Whatever. You. Need. I don't love you going into dangerous situations without me to back you up, but I trust you, in your capabilities. I never want to slow you down or get in your way, just be a part of this with you.” 

“You're perfect, you bastard.” Stiles sighed. “We're going to be disgusting.” 

“You already are.” Laura and Derek yelled from the kitchen, and Stiles threw back his head and laughed. Peter leaned forward to catch that laugh, and Stiles sighed happily into the kiss for a long moment before pulling back. 

“Come on. Let's help get things sorted.” He took Peter's hand and they walked into the house. “Did you reach out to that designer?” 

“Rhonda.” Peter nodded. “She's got an impressive portfolio and Diane's trust. She'll be here tomorrow, and promises to be done in two weeks, unless anything needs hard scape remodeling. She's got an in at an artisan's market in San Francisco that is known for being handmade - she'll come take a look tomorrow, get an idea of what's needed and get it in front of us, and then she'll go shopping on our dime. The rest is getting it in place.” 

“Well, that's fancy. Great. Sounds good.” 

“Can I go with her?” Laura asked. “San Francisco has such wild places to shop.” 

Peter canted his head to the side, thoughtfully. “Let's meet her. I'm still operating in circle the wagons mode, but, it should be fine. Stiles?” 

“Let's meet her first.” Stiles agreed. “You're a shopping fiend.” 

“I like what I like.” Laura said, and Derek spoke up hesitantly. 

“I could go? They have food markets there that are in my books.” He glanced shyly at Peter. “And a culinary school that's three days a week.”  

Everyone froze, but Stiles bounced back almost immediately. “Yeah? It's a bit far to commute - San Fran’s what, four hours from here? But it wouldn't be a bad idea to have a place in the city. You're almost ready to test for your GED, right? So, next semester, are you thinking?” 

Peter squeezed his hand in gratitude. “You're already a talented cook - culinary school sounds like a wonderful next step.” 

Laura grinned. “I'm going to visit constantly for shopping trips.” 

Derek relaxed, ducking his head down and hiding a tiny smile. “Thank you.” He said quietly. 

“We'll go check out the school later this week.” Peter promised, and, grinning impishly at Stiles, he added, “Wade would love to lend us the helicopter. A thirty minute trip, that way.” 

Stiles yanked his hand out of their hold to throw his hands up in the air in exasperation. “Oh my fucking god. Of course , why wouldn't we just borrow a helicopter. Only peasants drive , how freaking plebian of me to assume otherwise.” He stomped up to a pile of bags and began carefully pulling things out as he ranted. Grinning, Peter followed, taking a few bags and setting up to unload and then sort. 

“Hmm,” he said musingly, knowing he was about to kick the hornet's nest. “Come to think of it, we should probably get our own. Stiles, if you can carve out the time, getting your pilot's license would only be for the good.”

Stiles spluttered at him, his hands flailing as he gesticulated wildly. “Are you serious right now? Just going to buy a freaking ‘copter? Don't they average out at half a mil?” 

“We could build a pad for it in that open space at the back of the property.” He said thoughtfully, and Stiles swatted him. 

“Your wealth is annoying.” He snapped, and Peter laughed. 

“Poor penniless pleib.” He mocked, eyes dancing as Stiles huffed a startled laugh. 

“Okay. Fine. It would be convenient. Ridiculous, but convenient.” 

“The community hangar will be fine to store it, of course. It's a seven minute drive, we'll have to time the run - down the hill that way.” He gestured northward, “mostly out of view of houses or roads. It will be useful for a number of reasons, sweetheart, and worth the cost. Besides, Laura and Derek got their licenses years ago, and mine was renewed a few months before the fire.” 

“Ugh. Fine.” Stiles flapped a hand. “What is my life.” He murmured quietly, shaking his head. 

“I've already got the first load of sheets in the washer.” Laura said. “Derek ordered fajitas from that place you used to go to, Uncle.” 

“Good. Let's get what we can put away until food arrives and then call it a night.” Peter paused. Set down the package he was peeling out cellophane. Laura and Derek glanced up at him and he said gently. 

“Tomorrow evening we should let our wolves run, do a hunt, perhaps.” 

They froze. For all that it was official and a done deal, that they had accepted him as alpha and he had taken them as pack, a hunt woke the pack magic, the one that formed the bonds. It would cement the new dynamic and that would make the odd oasis of safety and good feeling, these insurmountable changes, real. 

Laura's chin tilted up with her particular brand of stubborn tenacity. “That sounds wonderful.” 

Derek ducked his head, but nodded. “Haven't done a run in… a while.” 

“Thank you,” Peter said, voice soft with his own gratitude. He'd always supposed that if he had become alpha, it would have been because his relationship with his sister had deteriorated completely. That if it happened it would be a bid to save his own life, and that the pack would resent his ascension as much as they feared and despised him. That his niece and nephew were so willing to follow him, trusted in his capabilities to protect them, it meant more than he'd ever be able to voice aloud. 

Derek shrugged. “You listen. You always did.” 

Laura nodded. “I don't think I ever thanked you, for listening, for the sanctuary that your office was whenever being Mom's daughter was too much, or she too overbearing. For advising me even when I was too full of myself to listen. I told you in the hospital that I haven't used a single one of her mandates for being alpha over the past year, but your lessons I used every day - Mom was a strong alpha, but she relied on others to protect her pack. You, the treaty with the hunters, Deaton - your jobs were beneath her, and so she never saw the danger to us coming.” She dropped her head, tapping nails that had lengthened into claws idly against the granite countertops. 

“You argued with her constantly about that. Tried to get her to look into so many things. But she'd tell you that was your job, you take care of it, and then condemn you for the way you did it. She was a strong alpha, but not a good one.” Laura looked up, met his gaze with glowing blue eyes, and his eyes flashed red in answer. 

“You will never shirk an alpha's duty. You'll do too much, and we will have to be vigilant about making sure we support you when it's needed. I'd much rather have that kind of leader.” Laura smiled. “I look forward to the hunt, Alpha.” 

Peter smiled back at her, touched and aching in a place he'd walled off years ago. This was a gift he'd never expected, and he sent the rush of joy, overwhelm, pride, gratitude, a slew of emotions he couldn't put a name to. He pushed those feelings at Derek, too, knowing in his own way the boy has been just as expressive as his sister. He had their trust. He would do his utmost to deserve it. 

“Start here.” Stiles said, voice soft and fierce. “Start here with knowing, trusting, understanding your pack. This is your foundation. This is the kind of pack you build.”

 Peter drew Stiles' hand into his, turning to him and saying solemnly, “ We build. Our pack. You are not a wolf, Stiles, but this, all of this, would not be possible without you. You've told us what we became before, without your guidance and aide. You are pack. You always will be.”

Stiles beamed at him, tears in his eyes, and looked at Derek and Laura, who nodded. “You guys. A bunch of saps, the lot of us.” He wiped his eyes on his sleeves. 

“It's a beginning.” Stiles said quietly, a hint of wonder in his voice. “Did you know? I thought I was all out of beginnings.” 

“Me too,” Derek said, almost inaudibly, and let out a startled oomph when his sister came in for a hug. Peter pulled Stiles in with the hand he still held, pressed their foreheads together and settled his hands on the man's hips. They shared that startling intimate gaze, too close, too open, too aware of the information being passed along the packbonds. There was no room for misunderstanding in that space. Stiles smiled. 

“Right here.” Peter said. “We've set the tone for what comes next, for what we build. Thank you.” 

“Gods, Peter, of course. Always.” Stiles did close his eyes then, and Peter changed the hold into an embrace, resting his cheek against the man's wild hair. He looked at his pack. His pack. They were missing Cora. That was a slowly leaking wound that constantly jangled a corner of his mind, but he was determined to make their territory as safe as possible for her arrival. For all of them. 

Stiles drew back, letting out a little laugh. “Okay, sad saps, let's get back to work.” 

***

They ate at the new kitchen table, spoke about what they'd like to do to the house and their rooms. A short break happened when the dryer dinged and they all scrambled to get beds made before coming back to finish their meal. Stiles got expansive over the gardens and landscaping ideas he had. Laura talked about setting up a little corner office in the nook next to the Captain's Walk. The four of them got into a lively debate over the children's rooms, and Peter half expected Rhonda would run screaming from them tomorrow when they got to that portion of the house. When Stiles stood and gathered their trash, they'd escued anything they had to wash tonight, still arguing voraciously about over-theming the rooms, Peter had snagged the man around the waist and dragged him into his lap. 

The move hadn't interrupted the Spark's rant beyond a squeak, and Stiles had made himself comfortable without comment. Peter's wolf was near limp with contentment. Peter… Peter was using every inch of his self control to avoid the stroking exploration- hands, lips, tongue, and teeth- he wanted to make of his mate. That the man was rarely still, even seated, arguing with his hands as much as his voice, didn't help matters at all. 

“Ugh. Fine. You win, I can't take this anymore. Der, come on, Peter got a gaming system for the theater room - let's go set it up so we can make people cry in CoD.” 

“Mm,” Peter rumbled in Stiles' ear as his niece and nephew beat a hasty retreat to the far side of the house. “Lots of noise distractions and soundproofing. My niece is becoming quite the tactician.” 

Stiles twisted around, wriggling until he was straddling Peter's lap, hands coming up to his shoulders, though one hand stroked through his hair like it had been called to do so. “Oh? Are we going to need soundproofing?” 

“A good question. I suppose I'll have to return it with a few more.” Peter stroked his hands down Stiles' sides, tracing his hip bones with his thumbs, fully aware of the pressure Stiles was putting on his dick, and that part of Stiles' maneuvering had resulted in nestling said dick as close to between his cheeks as their clothing would allow. The sharpness of his vision and slight dulling of coloration told him his wolf eyes were shining brightly. Stiles' own eyes swirled white and gold in answer. 

“What do you like, sweetheart? I played in the BDSM scenes, enough to know I enjoy control in the bed, love possession and ordering my partner about. If you’re not getting anything out of it, though, it loses its appeal - your pleasure is everything about the experience. I am excellent at aftercare.” 

“Oh fucking hells.” Stiles stared at him, wide-eyed and trembling ever so slightly. “It's like I created you on SIMS 4™.”

He blinked and shook himself out of it, and took Peter's face in his hands  - a gesture that might have been sweet if he hadn't immediately begun to tilt and twist Peter's head as if looking for something. 

“Are you alright? Blink twice if your freewill is being squandered by a giant asshole tree - or something - you're not playing Go with some creepy shadow fox, are you? No - that amulet has anti-possession protections in it - mmmph!” 

Peter yanked him down to crash their lips together, growling into what could generously be called a kiss. His Spark had done his level best to safeguard him from the myriad of dangers in the world - every time he turned around it seemed Stiles was fine tuning his wards, adding a rune here, a pinch of herbs there. That he had thought, almost from the beginning, to safeguard Peter from possession, it made his blood boil in his veins. His mate whimpered into the kiss, melded as if boneless into his hold. Peter brought a hand up to cup the back of his head, gripping the fine hairs there in an implacable grip that he used to tilt the man's head just… so. Stiles hands were under his shirt, tracing the lines of his abs, his nipples, his pecs, while Peter's remaining hand kneaded Stiles’ ass, stroked his spine, trailed firm touches along the line of his jeans. They kissed until Stiles was grinding his hips against Peter, until Peter was rutting his erection against the seam of Stiles' ass. 

“You have no idea,” he breathed into Stiles' ear. “What you do to me.” 

Stiles eyes were closed, breathing in little pants as he pressed into Peter's touch. “I have some idea.” He replied, his voice still managing to sound dry despite being nearly breathless, and he ground against Peter with pointed intent. 

“ Stiles .” 

“Didn’t really have the luxury of time to explore the wide variety of kink-world, Big Bad. Usually just found someone at a bar and had largely unsatisfying, sometimes hot as hell quickies. I don't like degradation, I don't want to bleed. Liked you marking me earlier, full speed ahead there. ‘Guava’ is my safe word.” 

“You're a ridiculous creature.” Peter surged to his feet, and Stiles yelped and scrambled for purchase before he realized Peter held his legs and ass in a secure grip. “You mentioned being carried to my bed.” 

“Oh fuck yes.” Stiles breathed. “Freaking werewolf strength, mark that in the ‘for it' box.” 

Peter chuckled lowly, and Stiles grinned at him, hands on his chest. 

“Love that sound, goes straight down my spine.” He said huskily leaning forward to nibble at Peter's chin, then in that tender, reactive spot at the seam of his earlobe, which got a growling noise of approval from the wolf. The study doors were open, though Peter kicked them closed when he went through, turned right down the half stair, into the main bedroom, and straight to the bed. 

Stiles let out an ‘oomph!’ when he landed on the bed, before immediately arching up as Peter crawled over him, caging him against the mattress and kissing him ferociously. Peter wasn't quite sure where their clothes went, too busy tasting every inch they revealed. The ripping noise and his mate's strangled whine of ‘oh holy shit, that's hot.’ barely caught his ear as he pinned the Spark's hips and traced his treasure trail with his tongue. He rubbed his nose and cheeks into the crease of leg and hip,where Stiles' scent was strongest; that lightning charged petrichor, honey and cinnamon, sweat, the trace of precum, and found he'd been craving this scent his entire life. He wanted to roll in it for the rest of time. He took Stiles' cock to the hilt in one swallow, as the Spark jackknifed and swore, gripping Peter's hair harshly as he writhed and whined, panted and gasped at each stroke of his tongue, until he he had tears in his eyes and he spent himself down Peter's throat. 

His hands stroked their way down muscular legs, and Peter crooned compliments as he rained kisses and nips down his thighs, on the back of his knees, at his ankles, before setting them gently down. Stiles lay spread out on his bed, eyes glazed, breath starting to calm, lax and languid in post-orgasmic splendor. He had scars, a puckered bullet wound just beneath his ribs and another on his arm, below the shoulder. Long lines showed where skin had been torn by blade and claw, and a bite mark- not a wolf’s, sat high on the back of his calf. His mate had been through war, and his skin held the map of it. 

“Turn over, sweetheart.” Peter crooned, his voice a husky, deep register. Stiles groaned, but did as he asked, whimpering when Peter smoothed his hands over the globes of his ass, squeezing and stroking. “Has anyone ever put their mouth here?” He asked, stroking his thumb over the man's pucker. “Licked you open and loose? Ate you out until you couldn't breath and were seeing stars?” 

“S’that what you're going to do?” Stiles asked, voice slurring slightly as he wiggled that pert butt. “Or are you just going to talk about it?” 

Peter chuckled and blew a stream of air over his hole just to see him squirm. “Have they?” He asked again, nipping the underside of Stiles' cheeks. 

“No.” Stiles gasped, and Peter stroked a broad lick right over his hole. The Spark yelped, then groaned and writhed as Peter kept up an onslaught of sensation, and it wasn't long before he was shouting into another orgasm. Peter moved up the bed, pulled the gasping man into his arms. Stiles was clearly blissed out, nuzzling absently into Peter's chest and draping over his body in boneless satisfaction. Peter was content to hold him, a low, continuous growl rumbling from his chest, happy to have satisfied his mate to such a degree. He was still achingly hard, but that wasn't particularly bothered to rush. He stroked his hands down Stiles' arms and back, left little kisses and nuzzles on his head. 

After several long minutes, Stiles twisted his head up for a lazy, long kiss, lips dancing against one another's, tongues playing in a sleepy, content rhythm. 

“Did I die?” Stiles asked after a while. “I think I died.” 

“Only a little death.” Peter said, making the joke the man had held the door wide open for. “Twice.” 

The look in the Spark's eyes sharpened with humor and intent. “Don't sound so smug about it, you're clearly amazing at this.” He leaned in and kissed Peter with more heat. “I think I've got another in me, if you're wanting to take care of that problem that's jabbing me in the hip.” He stroked a hand down Peter's shaft twice before gently cupping and massaging his balls. “I want this in me yesterday.” 

“As you command,” Peter grinned sharply and rolled them quickly, once again pinning the man underneath him. He reached over to the nightstand, fishing a small bottle of lube he wouldn't admit to ordering several days ago out of the drawer. Stiles was beautiful on his fingers, rolling his hips and making delicious noises Peter lapped straight from his mouth. He panted encouragement and threats both as Peter sank into him, swearing and praising as he bucked his hips, urging him to go harder, faster, just like that. 

“Come in me.” He ordered, spasmodically clutching at Peter's broad back, and Peter kissed him, harsh and demanding, even as he lost rhythm and stuttered into a climax, as Stiles, too, came, his walls clenching around Peter's dick in a way that made him see stars. 

They lay like that for a while, Stiles pressing light kisses against Peter's neck while he stroked his long-fingered hands down his back, Peter's face tucked into Stiles' neck as he nipped and licked and sucked in return. They rode the high with sweat-slicked bodies and breathless, nonsensical praises, until Peter softened enough to slip loose and Stiles grimaced at the gush of cum that came with it. Peter got up and passed into the bathroom to grab a washrag and run it under warm water, coming back to wipe Stiles clean. Amber eyes regarded him with languid satisfaction, and he reached out, beckoning, when Peter came back from hanging the rag up. He smiled, but detoured to the small table in the windowed nook of the room, grabbing the quilt he'd had the foresight not to put on the bed yet. 

Peter wriggled the comforter and sheets free from underneath him, nudging him over covering him in the soft, breathable sheets and comforting weight of the blanket, then draping the quilt over the bed. He crawled underneath the sheets and crowded up against Stiles' back, pleased by the man's happy sigh as he relaxed against him. He kissed the back of his neck, and Stiles shuddered. 

“Gunna want to do that a lot.” The man mumbled sleepily. “Might have an addiction.” He snickered. “A-dick-tion.” 

Peter huffed a laugh, squeezing the arm around Stiles' chest. “Anytime you want, sweetheart. Shattering you into pieces is my new favorite thing. Want to see how many times I can drive you over the edge.” 

“Hmm.” Stiles sighed. “sounds great. Sleep first.”  

“Whatever you need.” Peter promised. He watches the man slip into dreamless slumber, felt the tides of contentment and satisfaction begin to pull him under. Gazing contentedly at Stiles' profile with sleepy , red eyes, Peter thanked every deity ever known for bringing this man into his life. Thanks to him, he had his strength back, a life, a pack, the family he had left, and a mate. He swore silently that he would do his utmost to cherish him from this day until his last. It was that thought he fell asleep on, smiling all the while. 

***

Rhonda was as much of a whirlwind as Diane had been, showing up at the house before the sleepy household had finished their first round of coffee, camera clicking, tablet open and throwing several design ideas at them before whizzing through the house. Laura was a morning person, keeping up with her effortlessly. Stiles pointedly refused to move until he'd finished his second cup of coffee before catching up and restarting the lively debate about the children's rooms, which Rhonda didn't interrupt or even run screaming from. She came up with three designs on the spot that Stiles and Laura loved, Derek shrugged over, and Peter approved of, before she was off again. After about forty minutes she came back to the kitchen, asked questions and threw ideas out, before packing her things up and saying she'd have a completed portfolio emailed over before dinner. Laura asked to accompany her on her trip to San Francisco the next morning, and she was happy to agree. 

Stiles and Peter took lunch in the office while Laura and Derek worked on school stuff and arranged for their things in New York to be shipped to them. Both men had correspondence to respond to. Peter couldn't keep from touching the Spark, a hand on his hip, stroking fingers down his arm, clasping the nape of his neck throughout the day. Stiles in turn leaned into every touch, lost track of his sentences, and brushed his own fingers across Peter's cheek every chance he got. They'd woken to trade lazy kisses early in the morning, slowly heating to a gentle but thorough lovemaking that Peter ardently hoped would be repeated often.

Stiles put his phone down with a sigh. “I need to go into town today. Check on mini-me, for one, but I also need to put out feelers for Deaton. Dude's a serious zealot, so even me severing his connection to the Nemeton and setting the Nogitsune on his trail won't keep him out of our hair for long. Never could figure out why he's gunning for the end of the Hales, but he is. I'm certain of it.” 

Peter's eyes flashed, and he felt his teeth lengthen and sharpen, the bones shift under the skin of his face and his hands and feet. He closed his eyes and forced his wolf back. No matter how furious he was at the druid for daring to betray the pack he swore to, he didn't need to be in wolf form right now. He opened his eyes a few minutes later to find Stiles sitting on the edge of Peter's desk, watching him intently. 

“Are you waiting for me to snap the leash?” Peter asked silkily, unbalanced by the fury he'd choked back, and more than a little worried his clever mate would find him wanting so close to making him his own. 

“You're beautiful.” Stiles said, out of nowhere. “The intensity you feel, your capacity to hide it, your control, all of it. I find you beautiful.” He leaned forward, placing his hands on Peter's chair arms and meeting his gaze, a feral light in his shimmering orbs and a fox’s grin twisting his lips. 

“And, in this timeline, I've snapped the leash more often and thoroughly than you've ever had the opportunity to do, and if you do run into a situation that breaks that formidable control, I can guarantee you I will be right there beside you.” The kiss he initiated was at odds with that swirling vortex of intensity and dark promise, gentle and sweet and chaste. “I don't fear you, Peter.” He promised, and Peter let the tension flow from his body, sensing the truth in breath and blood. 

“We keep stepping into pitfalls we don't expect.” Peter said roughly, looking around the office where nothing has changed, there was nothing to show he'd nearly wolfed out at the mention of a name. 

Stiles shrugged. “Things are startlingly domestic for the high stakes we're playing in, Peter. For all we've got going for us, you've known of me for less than two weeks, dude.” 

“Don't call me ‘dude.’” Peter said, and couldn't for the life of him figure out why he felt so strongly oppositional to the address. But Stiles smiled, like mischief and nostalgia married into one blinding star. He laughed and shook his head. 

“You and Laura and Derek have trauma. I have trauma. We're going to find so many pitfalls, and they're going to come out of nowhere.” He shrugged again. “We're a bunch of jagged edges shoved together by fate and circumstance. Bound to get cut at some point. We'll deal.” Peter cupped the back of his head and drew him in for a more thorough kiss. 

“You have things to do today.” He said, leaning back and releasing the Spark, not without a lingering caress down the side of his neck. He smiled at the shiver he drew from the man. 

“Hm. Hm? Oh, yeah. Jesus. You short-circuit my brain, did you know that?” Peter smiled, preening, and Stiles snorted. “Yes, yes, you're very smug. Yeah, I want to check up on Mieczyslaw, and John, and see if I can't pick up a trace of where Deaton's gone to ground.” 

“Do you want company?” 

“Not yet.” Stiles smirked and leaned back on the desk. “I'm very fond of you when you're on the hunt. After last night, I'm definitely gonna find that menacing prowl of yours way too distracting.” 

Smiling and appreciatively eyeing the man's lanky form, Peter's mind was lingering in the uses he could put the desk to. He ran a hand up the man's calf and lightly raked his nails along the backside of his knees. “So instead you're going to distract me by giving me this tantalizing vision and vanishing to see to your own agenda?” 

Stiles laughed, and gracelessly slithered off the desk and straight into Peter's lap. “Not necessarily. What can you do with half an hour?” 

Peter wrapped his hands around the man's waist, a predatory grin baring teeth. “Make my mate very, very happy.” He promised, before chasing Stiles' laughing lips. 

***

Al. Hale, 

We're relieved to hear of your recovery, your family's situation was devastating news for us as your neighbors to hear. The grapevine is full of what has brought your sudden and unexpected return, and I can only hope that some of them are close to truth, and that you might have an answer to our own sudden and unforeseen predicament. Lady Satomi is unaccounted for. She has not undertaken a task unattended for fifty years, and we fear for her well being. If you have any Intel at all, we will owe you a debt of gratitude.

Wishing this finds you in good health, 

Marget Talbot

Peter frowned. Satomi Ito had been a neighboring pack alpha to the Hale pack for the better part of 70 years - not her pack, Satomi herself. She was nearing ninety years of age and looked like she wasn't older than fifty. She eschewed the typical violence of a werewolf’s life, living a largely passivistic existence. 

But she was a wily and fierce opponent- she hadn't lived so long without learning how to hold her own. That something might have happened to her was… concerning.

The Talbots had been a part of her pack since it formed, their third generation had been born… not quite a decade ago. Maybe not even half a decade. Marget was mated to Gregory, the more sensible of the pair that he remembered. Gregory Talbot had bought into Satomi’s passivism to near rabid degree, and he thoroughly disapproved of Peter. Peter did have some friends among the pack, though. Hm. 

He tapped his fingers on his desk, frowning in concentration. Satomi was old, wise, and crafty. She'd lived through being forced into an internment camp, breaking out of it and freeing others, too. It hadn't stopped the camps, they had built another one in the same site and restocked soon enough, and then it became the building ground for Eichen House… Peter's tapping stopped, and his head tilted as he followed the echoes of a thought. 

He'd been curious as a teenager about Satomi's past. He'd read the accounts of the first camp, viewed through mundane eyes. The soldiers that survived reported the people had gone insane, screaming about a woman with glowing red eyes and reanimating dead soldiers, and the dead's’ eyes glowing like silver moonlight. 

… Silver moonlight. Pearlescent white, even. Peter thought about that swirl of gold and white in Stiles' eyes when he reached for his power. 

He was reaching for his phone when the sound of Stiles' car reached his ears. He frowned. The Spark hadn't expected to return until nightfall, had only been gone for just over two hours. He took a minute to button up his station and close down his computer before heading for the front of the house. 

The door snapped open before he quite got to it, and Stiles came through like a burgeoning stormcloud. His eyes flashed with both temper and power, and he directed the man behind him to go sit in the living room. Peter stopped, barely out of sight at the corner of the hall. The man obeyed, woodenly silent. The scent of bourbon was pungently strong on the man, almost overwhelming the other scents: vomit, fatigue, staggering grief, body odor - all strong scents in their own right. Peter watched as Stiles took a deep, calming breath, and in a gentler tone, said:

“Come in, sprout. I'll get something put together for lunch, how does that sound?” He held a hand out, and a slight figure with flyaway brown curls and familiar warm brown eyes stepped hesitantly into the house. 

“Are you rich?” The boy asked. “You said you're like a cousin? What does that mean? Why are you living here? M-mom never mentioned family here. How'd you get Dad to get up? N-nothing I've done would get him to move.” 

“Long experience and the proper placement of leverage.” Stiles said, wry and grim all at once, answering the last question first. He shook his head. “I just got here a couple weeks ago, my boyfriend and his family live here, and he's the rich one. How hungry are you?” 

“Sooooo hungry.” The boy said, holding his hands out wide in explanation. Derek glided down the stairs and nudged Peter with his shoulder as he passed. 

“I'll make him something.” He offered quietly. Stiles nodded, and Derek turned to the boy. “I'm Derek. What do you like?” 

“Hi, I'm Mieczyslaw Stilinski.” 

Derek smiled slightly. “That's a mouthful. Mieczyslaw? Did I say it right?” 

“Actually, yeah. No one ever does! How'd you do that?” 

“My uncle taught my sisters and I languages, and my great aunt helped.  Neither one of them are patient teachers, and hated repeating themselves. Do you have a nickname?” 

The boy stopped, looked into the room where his dad was sitting stiffly, and then at Stiles. Squaring his shoulders he turned to Derek. “My mom called me Mischief.” 

“I like it,” Derek said softly. “What are you hungry for?” 

“A grilled cheese?” Mischief asked hopefully.

Derek nodded, moving off immediately to start prepping food. “Do you like tomato soup? I just found a recipe I wanted to try that goes well with grilled cheeses.”

“Yeah!” Mischief’s eyes were wide and delighted, and he bounced in his seat. He quickly quieted and said in more subdued tones: “That's a lot of work, though. You don't have to do that.”

Derek shrugged. “I'm making dinner for everyone anyways, might as well do it right. Wanna help?” 

Stiles clasped the boy on the shoulder. “I'll be back in a bit, sprout. Gonna go talk to your dad. Okay?” 

Stiles looked at Peter, who raises a brow. He juts his chin at the study door, and Peter nodded, retreating down the hallway so as to meet the man, Officer John Stilinski, Stiles' father, in a position of authority more recognized by human instincts, for the first time after the fire. He settled into his seat behind his desk with time to spare.

Stiles swept through the door a moment later, temper tightening his shoulders and setting his mouth in a grim line. He went to the window after a glance at Peter, clearly trying to master his anger. John Stilinski stepped after him warily, stopping just inside the door and meeting Peter's hooded gaze stoically. No one spoke, and Peter felt no rush to do so. Stiles held the cards for this act, and Peter would back whatever play he initiated. 

Stiles sighed, still staring out the window. “I'd forgotten how quickly you dropped into the bottom of the bottle after Mom died.” 

Ah , so Stiles had already revealed magic and time travel to the older Stilinski. Peter studied the man, noting John's clenching fists and the grinding teeth. The man was working up to a good lather, it seemed.

“You have no idea -” the man started, and Stiles turned to meet his gaze, eyes glowing white hot, not a hint of gold in sight, a cracked, painful , laugh shredding whatever it was John had been about to say. 

“Before two weeks ago, I'd lost everyone I've ever loved, don't you dare tell me I don't kno w what it is to lose someone.” He shoved his hands through his hair. “Mom, my friends, you , and the man I’d loved for years, the last person in my life who gave a damn about if I'd live to see the next day. So, yeah, Dad. I'd say I've got a pretty good idea of what you're going through. And, fuck, I know it's hard. But I'd forgotten how young I was the first time I had to turn your head to keep you from asphyxiating on your own bile. I'd forgotten how early in my life I'd realized that if I wanted to keep my remaining parent from joining Mom in a hole in the ground, I would have to take responsibility for him.” Stiles pointed at the door, in the direction of his younger self. “For fuck's sake, he's ten. What the fuck are you doing to him? Do you care? Did you ever care?” 

John’s lips thinned even as shame colored his scent, and he looked away, not saying anything. Stiles’ lip lifted away from his teeth in a silent, sneering snarl and he turned violently back to the window. An uncomfortable silence settled on the room, and Peter waited. 

“You owe him better than this.” Stiles said, voice low. “You're his goddamned father, and you owe him the care and consideration he trusts you to have. You won't have that trust much longer, and once it's gone, you'll never get it back. And he'll be worse off for it, having a dad he loves but can't rely on, so here's how things are going to go down. You're both moving in here - shut up.” He snapped when John started to protest, spinning to pin him with a glare. 

“You can't be trusted around alcohol and I'm not leaving any child in an alcoholic’s home. I have an intimate knowledge of how bad you get without intervention, and to hell with you if you think I'm not going to keep that from happening. You both need space from the ghost of Mom in the house, anyway. You're going to sober up here, and then you're going to stay sober. You're going to maintain a relationship with your son, and remember the man your wife fell in love with wasn't a selfish asshole, and that she trusted you to take care of her son. And when that's too much for you, he's going to have Derek, Laura, Peter and myself to support him until you're ready to be a functioning adult again. You'll have us, too, so long as you pull your head out of your ass.” He scrubbed his face, looking tired. “You're on leave?” 

John nodded, teeth clenched, but holding his tongue. 

“Alright. The spell I hit you with is a rough one - forces you into a sober state, but your body is still undergoing the aftereffects of a strong drinking binge. You're going to want to sleep it off for a bit. Before you do that, this is Peter Hale, alpha of the Hale werewolf Pack, head of this household. Peter, this is John Stilinski. Before he was put on leave, he was the one pushing for a thorough investigation into the fire. He's a hell of an investigator, and I'd like him here for those qualities as well as overcoming the emotional compromise.” 

“John.” The two men studied each other silently for a long, frigid moment. 

“Mr. Hale. I'm glad to see you on your feet again.” John said, and Peter nodded. 

“Thank you, Officer Stilinski.” Peter's lips twitched when the man grimaced. He'd irritated the shit out of this man in his official capacity as a lawyer on more than one occasion. They'd respected each other well enough, then. 

“Werewolves, in general, have a very difficult time getting drunk. We don't keep that level of alcohol in a house with children in it - and I expect you to leave whatever rotgut you've been ingesting behind when you're ready to gather your things. You're welcome here, whatever the circumstances. Your neglect and substance abuse is not. We'll talk more once you've had a chance to rest.” 

Stiles nodded and strode for the door. “I'll show you your room. Be back in a minute, Peter.” 

Peter moved into the study when Stiles and John headed down the hall. The door to the living room was closed, so Stiles would have some privacy when he got back. It didn't take him long to return, the sound of the shower going in the only other downstairs bedroom in this wing, the one Stiles had claimed yesterday, running. His duffle and computer bag were slung over his shoulder as he stepped wearily into the study, closing the door softly behind. 

“Didn't think you'd mind me moving into your room.” He said, lifting the duffle slightly. 

Peter stood and crossed the room, pulling his mate into an embrace. “Of course not. If you slept anywhere else, I wouldn't be sleeping, anyway.” Stiles hmmed, pressing his face into Peter's shoulder. “There's nineteen bedrooms in this house, Stiles. You didn't have to give up yours.” 

“The rest are separated from the main living areas of the house.” Stiles shrugged. “He needs his space, but he'll get lost in his own turmoil if he's too isolated. You can hear people in the kitchen and living room from that room, and the front door. He'll be reminded people are around even when he's hiding from everything. And being closer means he won't be tempted to smuggle a bottle of ten in with him. You're okay with me bringing them?” 

“Of course.” Peter slipped his hand under the strap of the duffle, worked it over Stiles head with the computer bag strap, and set both gently on the ground. Then he swiped Stiles up in a bridal carry, and went back to the oversized armchair. Once Stiles was arranged comfortably in his lap, cradled against his chest, Peter continued. 

“You were going to fret over them anyway, and if you were fretting, I would be, too. Better to have them here, where we can fret proactively together.” He kissed Stiles’ forehead. *Thank you Sweetheart, for entrusting me with your family. We'll make sure they're alright.” 

“Dad's going to kick at the werewolf thing. He's numb and overwhelmed with everything right now, but when he's functioning again? The supernatural is going to put his brain in fits.”

“We'll handle it.” Peter promised. “And Mischief will be safe, supported, and loved.” Stiles sighed, and lifted his head for a kiss Peter was happy to give him. His wolf purred in happy pleasure, pleased his mate had brought two more pack members to strengthen their numbers, pleased in the show of trust and in the show of his mate's willingness to be comforted and supported by them. Peter kissed the man thoroughly, languidly, until Stiles tucked his face back his neck, content to hold the man as he began to  cry quietly. He rumbled a comforting growl, threading fingers through the soft hair with one hand while holding him close with the other, listening to Mischief chattering at Derek, to Derek's soft replies, and Laura's livelier responses as she came down to be introduced to the newest pup. The shower didn't quite mask the shuddering sobs from the bereft man in the other room. Peter hadn't lost a mate, didn't know that flavor of desolation. But he'd had his own moments to quietly breakdown over the loss of his family over the last few days. There was a lot of hurt in this house. They all had a wealth of overcoming and healing ahead of them. He would ensure they had the space and support they needed to recover well. 

“Thank you.” Stiles whispered. Peter nuzzled at his temple. 

“Of course.” He murmured back, and closed his eyes. They had work to do. But they had time for this, too. “Whatever you need, love.”