Author's Note: I have no excuses for myself. I've lost control. I hope this makes sense and that y'all liked it.
Fate is like a strange, unpopular restaurant filled with odd little waiters who bring you things you never asked for and don't always like.
― Lemony Snicket
There was no other way to say it — it hurt.
Stiles stood on the porch of a house that he was intimately familiar with while still finding all of it new and strange as his eyes traveled across the many surfaces available, trying to take everything in at the same time, maybe afraid it would vanish at any second. Without giving himself time to chicken out, Stiles knocked on the door, perhaps with a little more force than strictly necessary, but his entire body felt unbalanced, and in his condition, it was better to err on the side of caution than to open space for talking himself out of doing it.
So he knocked. And waited, holding his breath and fisting his hands alongside his body. That was it — Stiles had waited for far too long to do that, to be where he was, to knock on that door and wait for the steps coming his way.
The speech was prepared, burning at the tip of his tongue, ready to be unleashed on the Alpha the second she opened the door. Stiles had always been good at talking, explaining, making himself be heard, so he knew he could do it then — when so much was at stake. So he held his breath, opened his mouth, watched as the doorknob turned and the door began to open, inch by inch, revealing a spacious house behind it, filled with noises coming from all corners, and, last but not least, the person he came to see: Talia.
Only it wasn't her. The person who stood there, greeting Stiles with a hesitant 'hello,' as though questioning Stiles' mental health, was not Talia. Definitely not. Stiles was sure of it, even if he had never seen the Alpha Hale in all of his life, and that's because that person, the one he was staring at, gobsmacked and frozen in place, was none other than the person he had come to save.
There, in all his former glory, stood Peter Buck Hale.
He couldn't be more than twenty-five — not with that soft, unshaved look on him. Peter looked nice, and calm, and centered, and put together, and healthy, and his eyes burned with curiosity, but not with madness, or fury, or despair, and Stiles' knee trembled with the truly herculean effort it took to maintain him upright.
Peter was speaking to him, Stiles could tell that. He could see the way his lips moved, opening and closing around the words, which probably meant that Stiles should be answering to whatever question was being thrown in his direction, and he knew how quickly Peter ran out of patience with those he considered to be slow on the uptake, so it was in his best interest to pay attention and respond like a non-pathetic human being. Yet, his brain refused to cooperate.
Instead, in a horrifying move pulled out of a poorly acted third-class movie, Stiles' hand darted forward without any permission on his part, slowly coming closer to Peter's face, while Stiles freaked out internally, screaming at himself to drop it, to stop before he lost his hand to a set of sharp teeth. No matter how much his mind tried to reason with his treacherous body, though, it fell on deaf ears, and after what felt like a long eternity, there he was, pressing his rough, calloused hands against Peter's cheek, feeling the rash stubble growing there.
Peter, who for some unexplainable reason allowed the easily avoidable caress and whose skin felt warm and alive under his touch. God, it was so unexpectedly good, the rush of emotions so powerful, that Stiles could do little else but to flutter his eyes shut and force the air inside his lungs.
How long had it been since he had the chance to do that? How many times had Stiles turned around, ready to speak something to his mate, only to realize he wasn't there? How many panic attacks had he had, blaming himself for all the shit that happened and the times he wasn't there for Peter? How many? How many books had he read, how many sites had he searched, how many people had he questioned, all in search of something that would give him a chance to fix the mess his life had become? How many days had he counted, barely holding his torn, destroyed pieces together, waiting for the moment where he would give all of his future up only so his soulmate could have his?
"Are you okay?" Peter murmured softly, leaning into touch with a tilt of the head.
And Stiles didn't have it in him to lie. Not to Peter, not after being caught completely unprepared. "No," he said, forcing his eyes open just so he could make sure Peter was still there, still alive. "I'm not. I'm not okay, Peter."
Shit, it should've been obvious that he was not okay. Stiles wasn't stupid, he owned a mirror — or had owned a mirror —, so he understood just how grim the picture he painted was, how dirty and beaten he looked, or how unflattering some of his body modifications were. The piercings, the painted runes, the unnatural purple eyes, the scars… Most of them weren't pretty, but at the time it had seemed to be a small price to pay for the chance to be able to be where he was. Stiles wasn't a vain man, and even the highest of prices couldn't compare to the starving need he had of his mate.
Only right then, with said mate staring directly at him, with his sharp eyes and even sharper mind, Stiles felt raw, exposed, and, worst of all, unworthy in a way he had never felt before. The Peter standing inside the Hale house was untouched by the karmic mess that Stiles knew awaited for him in the years to come, so truly, who was Stiles to show up and touch him, forcing his rough touch on his young and pure mate?
Like a snake, Stiles recoiled his hand, taking a step back for good measure. "I-I'm sorry. That was...uh… really inappropriate of me? I'm actually here for Talia-Um... Alpha Hale?" He explained, clearing his throat and sounding too much like a lost idiot.
Peter raised an eyebrow, clearly perplexed by his sudden mood shift, although he said nothing about it, only asking, "what business do you have with my sister?"
Lie, Stiles' mind ordered, and a hundred different excuses ran through his head, ready to be used, only when he opened his mouth, that was not what came out of it. "I have important information I need to share with her. She doesn't know me — if that's what you're wondering."
"Is that so? What kind of information?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?" Stiles teased before he could help himself, the familiarity of the situation overpowering his better judgment.
The corner of Peter's mouth tugged upwards. "I would, indeed, like to know. Why should I allow a stranger inside my home without proper incentive?"
The truth was: Stiles didn't have to indulge Peter's curiosity. He could've pushed the man aside at any point and looked for Talia on his own — it would've been far too simple. Deaton never warded the Hale property and, in that ironic twist of fate, Stiles was actually older than Peter at the moment, with a great deal more knowledge under his belt and no Alpha to answer to. So, yeah, he could storm inside and ignore Peter's threats, only he didn't want to.
Stiles had seen his soulmate die, slowly bleeding to death at his feet with nothing he could've done to prevent it. The pain of losing him was so fresh in his mind that there's literally nothing Peter could do or ask that Stiles wouldn't gladly provide.
"I'm not a stranger," Stiles pointed out, rather unhelpfully.
"You are," Peter denied, his eyes sliding up and down Stiles' body. "Trust me, if I knew you, I'd remember."
Stiles grinned. "I'm flattered."
"No, you aren't."
"You're right, I'm not." Stiles shrugged. "We have met, though. It's not my fault that you can't remember, Peter." He gave him a mischievous look. "Maybe your memory is just not quite as good as you believe it to be, my love."
The words come out of his lips so smoothly, so practiced, that it was impossible to pretend it to be a slip of the tongue, or anything other than what it was, honestly. Which is why Stiles panicked, his eyes widening as he realized Peter's face was now a mask of incredulity. What was his problem? It shouldn't be that hard to keep his goddamn mouth shut.
Suddenly, Peter turned and sniffed the air, snatched his arm and pushed his wrist on his face, shamelessly rubbing his nose against the skin there. His eyes widened. "That's impossible," he said, grabbing the wrist and holding it tight.
Stiles gulped, knowing exactly what scent Peter had just smelled coming from him in strong waves – his own. To be precise, the scent of them both, mixed together in such a way that could only mean one thing, which was why the next place Peter's eyes landed was the base of his neck. Fortunately – or unfortunately –, Stiles' leather jacket was zipped all the way up, covering the mating bite.
"Take it off," Peter demanded, and Stiles knew that 'don't fuck with me' tone. It meant that Peter was about to rip the jacket to shreds if Stiles didn't comply fast enough.
He was torn. On the one hand, he shouldn't expose himself any more than he already had, even though his scent had pretty much exposed the truth anyway. On the other hand, however, Stiles foolishly wanted to show it just as much as Peter wished to see it. He wanted Peter to see the mark – his mark – branded on Stiles' body.
The problem was: Stiles had no impulse control. With the way his body tingled where Peter was touching him, his entire being singing at the proximity after almost two years of grief and pain, it was almost instantaneous. He reached for his zipper with his free hand, not even considering the possibility of tugging his other hand free, and did as his mate ordered. Stiles didn't pretend to not know what he was talking about either – he unzipped just enough to fold the right side outwards and pulled his shirt down, barring his neck to Peter.
"That's impossible," Peter repeated, but he took a step forward, bringing them closer. "There's no way I would've-No, I'd know-How you— " He stopped. "Who are you?"
"I'm Stiles," he supplied, shifting on his feet.
"Stiles? What sort of name is Stiles? Did your parents not like you?" Peter asked, an eyebrow raised, pulling him inside the house and pushing the door closed behind him. Somehow, the action seemed to symbolize more than a simple door being shut, although he hesitated to think what it could possibly mean.
"It's not even my name, to be honest." Stiles managed to say, going on autopilot. "If you think that's bad, I'll spare you of the Polish monstrosity that my mom decided to bestow upon an innocent baby."
Peter grinned at that. "Tell me."
"God, no way," Stiles said, shaking his head. That was an old argument between them; that, he knew. "If you think I'm gonna give you ammunition to mock me for the last of eternity, then you're sorely mistaken. I value my sanity, still. C'mon, you know better."
Only he didn't, of course. Shit, defuse, defuse.
"Don't act like you're better than me, Buck," Stiles mocked, hoping Peter was too distracted to pay attention to his heartbeat.
Peter's eyes flashed. "Who. Are. You?" He demanded that time, fisting a handful of Stiles' jacket and shoving him into the wall behind him. "You come into my home, with my mark on your neck, smelling like me, acting like you fucking know me, and now you want me to believe I somehow shared my middle name with you and forgot about it?"
There wasn't an answer that Peter would trust, so Stiles chose to do what he wanted and fuck the rest. When Peter leaned forward to threaten him, completely bypassing his personal space, Stiles did too, capturing the wolf's bottom lip in between his own. If he was about to be punched, the least he could do was do something to deserve it. So he did, moaning, hoping against reason that the man would respond to his touch.
Weirdly enough, he did. Peter didn't even hesitate, he only tilted his head and melted into the kiss, flattening his body hot against Stiles', his other hand grabbing his thigh and lifting Stiles further off the ground.
"Fuck, Peter," Stiles groaned, shamelessly wrapping his legs around his mate's waist, pressing the heel of his boots on his back. He wanted to melt under Peter's touch and never release him again. "Please."
He had no idea what he was pleading for, but wasn't surprised when Peter did, his hands leaving their places to go to his hips, squeezing so hard there was no way Stiles wouldn't have marks there for days to come, and the sudden flash of bright pain only served to force Stiles to cant his hips, which, in turn, rubbed their groins together. It should be criminal; it was so good.
Who knows what they would've done in the middle of the Hale's living room if someone hadn't cleared their throat behind Peter's back? Stiles certainly wouldn't have stopped them. Had no force to push his mate away, even if he wanted to. Peter was reluctant when he kissed him one last time, turning his head to glance over his shoulder, refusing to release Stiles.
It was Talia. Stiles wasn't surprised – that was the sort of luck he had.
"Is there someone you wish to introduce me to, Peter?" She asked, a quiet expression of amusement on her face.
Peter wasn't so amused. "No, go away."
"Peter!" Stiles chided, slapping his shoulder. "Hey, there. I'm Stiles. You must be Talia Hale, hun? Nice to meet you!"
"Stiles, you say? Are you an… acquaintance of my brother?"
Peter rolled his eyes, and Stiles choked on air.
"I-I mean, not really?" Stiles denied, locking eyes with Talia. "I'm actually here to speak to you, Alpha Hale."
Her whole stance changed in front of his eyes, going from relaxed to grave in a blink. "What sort of business would a magic user have with my pack?"
"All sorts," Stiles said, also dead serious. She might not know it yet, but Stiles was just as invested in her pack's future as she was. Peter seemed to notice the shift of mood, for he released Stiles, stepping back, watching his moves. "I'm here to give you a warning, but mostly I'm here to offer you my services. How would you like an Emissary?"
"Emissary? What makes you think I don't have one?"
Stiles pursed his lips, holding back several words building at the back of his throat. "Ditch Deaton today. Do it now. Whatever it is that you think that man's offering you, I'll give you a hundred times over, and without the cryptic bullshit, too."
Talia ignored Peter's noises of delight, looking perplexed by Stiles' strange presence and knowledge of her pack's internal workings. "You are well informed," she admitted, only it didn't sound like she thought that was a good thing. "And the warning?"
"Hey, I don't just offer my services to anyone, you know? I'm a spark, Talia Ann Hale," he tried to joke, but it came out with a wince of pain as the whole speech he had planned came to mind once again. Was it not enough that he had to hear, witness and live all that shit, must he also pass the information along, knowing how much it would hurt them to know all they needed to avoid? "I-it's a long story." He looked at the open space they were in, where at any minute anyone could interrupt. "Perhaps a more — soundproof place?"
"I see," Talia said, and she, too, was not laughing. "Very well. Follow me."
It went unspoken that Peter would also be present, but they both knew the man was going nowhere, so when the Alpha turned around to lead them somewhere more private, Stiles reached for his mate's hand, holding for dear life.
"I'm sorry," Stiles said, feeling tears gathering at his eyes. Tears he had yet to shed since Peter's death. "I'm so sorry, Peter." It was all he could say – he wouldn't ask for forgiveness, he refused. "I wanted to tell you. I did."
Peter's eyes fell to the place where his mark was on Stiles' neck, staying there for a stretched moment, before he locked eyes with him once again, lacing their fingers together. At that moment, it felt like an understanding, a promise. Something older Peter had once quoted to him in the heat of battle: some things are destined to be — it just takes us a couple of tries to get there.
Maybe Stiles had spent overmuch time on the wrong try, and now it was time to get it right. Even if he had to kill everyone in their way to make it so.
AN2: Comments are greatly appreciated. Like, crazy appreciated! Xoxo.