The woods are quiet.
It's a small, almost unnoticeable fact, but to Stiles the silence is deafening. No forest should be so utterly still, without a hint of life among the trees. It's unnatural.
These woods have been empty for weeks, though, with good reason. Animals are clever that way - far more so than humans. They can sense danger, especially that of a supernatural nature.
They've managed to escape the horror that's decimated his pack - and him.
The only noises in the woods come from him and Malia, and the tarpaulin they're dragging between them. Every step of their feet echoes against the trees, every crack of twigs and rustle of leaves like an explosion to his hyper-sensitive ears. His senses haven't been this bad since his first few weeks after Peter bit him.
Malia must notice his flinches - of course she does - because her fingers slip into his, claw-ended and clarifyingly painful against his skin, squeezing in an uncertain sort of comfort. Her hand is cold to the touch, shivering with tremors that have nothing to do with temperature. He squeezes back - light, fleeting; he still doesn't trust himself - and focuses his hearing on her heartbeat. It thrums steadily, only the odd falter, and the rhythm keeps him grounded, just as it always has.
Suddenly, Malia stops. Her head lifts, sniffing the surroundings with an air of intense concentration. "Here."
Stiles nods, letting the rope gripped tightly in his white-knuckled grasp finally fall to the ground. The plastic of the tarpaulin falls back slightly, revealing the bloody fingers of a hand. He averts his eyes as quickly as he can, but not fast enough - it's imprinted on his eyelids, just like every other time he's seen his alpha since-
"Stiles." Malia interrupts his train of thought, and he shoots her thankful smile. At least, he hopes it's a smile. It probably comes out as a grimace, but he knows Malia can tell his intentions. Her hand still hasn't left his, and he never wants it to. He needs - needs the physical contact to remind himself.
It's over.
They work in silence. It's made so much harder by Stiles' need for closeness, but Malia never rejects him. He guesses she probably needs it too, not that she would ever admit it. He can feel the pack bond between them, pulsing with life, brighter than ever. It warms him from his core, adding to the comforting presence Malia exudes whenever she's near. It whispers softly to him, pack, sister, home.
Beside it is a bloody end, ragged and raw, severed in the crudest and most painful of ways. He can feel it reaching out, searching forwards towards the body in front of him, to the other half that can never reach back. It's pain is like an echo, a phantom - excruciating but elusive. Incurable.
Within an hour they've finally manage to dig seven feet down. Malia stands, tugging the tarpaulin over to the hole so they can tip the body into it more easily.
There's mud caked on his hands and under his claws, and for a moment he sees scarlet rather than brown. His chest constricts, but before he can take a gasping breath to warn Malia, she's there beside him, hands cupping his face in a remarkably human gesture. Her eyes flash that deep crystalline blue, and he feels his own flare up in response.
He hasn't seen them since it happened, but he knows they must be red.
Malia smiles sadly, shakily, and her eyes tell him what neither of them can voice out loud. Despite the body lying at their feet, both of them have had that small, secretive voice whispering at the back of their heads - maybe it's not true. Maybe it's an illusion. There's the smallest, slightest chance that Peter will come bounding through the woods any second, smelling of pack, and family, and home.
Maybe the nogitsune isn't quite finished with them.
But the scarlet in Stiles' eyes tells the truth of the story. There's no denying that the power has passed down to him. Despite Malia being Peter's daughter, there's no bitterness in her eyes - she's always said he'd make a good alpha; all of Peter's cunning and ruthlessness, but none of his cruelty. Malia is too animal, too instinctive, to lead.
The weight of authority sits on his shoulders like the world. Their pack is so small, and he likes to think they've always taken care of each other, but - still. Should he really be the keeper of this sort of power?
"You'll make a great alpha, Stiles." Malia chides, no longer looking at him, but busying herself with heaving Peter's body into the hole they've dug. She doesn't ask for Stiles help - he's not ready for that yet. "You always have been."
"You're remarkably optimistic for a girl who can find fault in Lucky Charms," He snaps back playfully. The tightness in his chest loosens.
"They're pointless and artificial and sugary."
"Exactly."
She scoffs, nudging him with her shoulder. "Whatever you say, alpha."
"Oh my god, no, please, don't do that."
"Do what, alpha?"
"Ugh," he shudders. "I don't think I'll ever get used to that, honestly."
Malia's smile fades, her eyes flickering towards the hole in the ground. "Neither of us will."
They bury the body, in silence once more, but the weight of it doesn't crush Stiles like before. He doubts it'll ever leave him really - grief never goes away, no matter what bullshit people make up about it fading over time to make themselves feel better. The death of his mother is still an open wound in his chest, closely followed by his father.
Peter - Peter was something else entirely. Family, but not. Closer than family. He feels his loss like the loss of a leg, or his eyes. As if dwelling on it too long, letting it consume him fully, could incapacitate him.
The moon, a waning crescent crawling towards shadow, rises just as Stiles places a stone atop the grave. It's flat, square-ish, and pale grey in colour. Simple, yet a statement. It's exactly what Peter would have wanted.
He carves the rune eihwaz - the symbol of their pack - into the rock with his claws, flinching at the screeching sound it makes. In the silvery wash of the slight moon the scene looks almost ethereal. Beautiful, yet tragic.
Malia's hand slips back into his, and the two of the crouch down, free hands resting on the stone that marks their alpha's grave. As they wait the clearing seems to charge with energy. By the time the moon reaches its zenith the air is alive, the wind screaming as trees bow to its will.
And they're howling. Heads thrown back to the moon, throats grating like sandpaper. The mournful sound breaks something in Stiles, and for the first time his eyes begin to blur with unshed tears.
Peter wasn't perfect - far from it - but Stiles never expected him to be, and never judged him for it. Peter was his alpha, his saviour, protector, family, friend.
The sound carries into the night long after he collapses into Malia's arms, sobs and shivers wracking his body.
They return to the flat. Where else can they go?
It seems empty and hollow without Peter. Where is the classical music Peter always played through the speakers? Where's the smell of freshly cooked breakfast-at-midnight, a staple dinner in their quaint little household?
Stiles feels like he's in a daze. Like he's there but - not. Like everything is a second out of sync, or he's seeing the world from behind diffraction glasses. The rooms of their home are cold and unfamiliar. Somewhere under the overwhelming scent of death and the metallic stink of blood is the smell of Peter, but it's so drowned by everything else that it all feels alien to him.
Malia leads him through the house wordlessly. Her grip is so gentle, yet firm. He could easily resist if he could remember how, but his mind is blank of anything. She takes him to the bathroom, helps him wash out the blood crusted in his hair, the mud jammed deep into every crevice in his hands. He scrubs so hard his skin turns raw, but it heals immediately. He wishes, not for the first time, that he didn't have rapid healing.
The sun is rising by the time he feels remotely more comfortable, yet Malia drags him over to the bed. This smells of Peter. Every inch of the pillows and sheets is rich with his scent, and the moment it hits his nose Stiles feels on the verge of breaking down.
But he can't - he can't. He's Malia's alpha - her brother - her strength and guide now that her father is gone. She's been strong for him this far, but now he owes it to her to do the same.
They curl up under the covers together, sharing warmth with a ghost, and it almost feels the same.
When he wakes, light is flooding through the half closed shutters, bathing him in a golden warmth. For a moment everything seems perfectly normal. But Peter - and Malia - are both missing. A whine bubbles in his throat, escaping his lips with a feral hiss.
Malia's on the other side of the room. His eyes catch sight of her the moment his gaze swings wildly around the room.
He watches her. Her shoulders are hunched, head bowed, but there's a line of tension running through her arms that catches his attention. The light of Peter's open laptop illuminates her outline.
"Malia?"
She doesn't turn, doesn't even react, and for a moment he's terrified. He counts his fingers: one, two, three...
There are ten, just as there should be.
"Peter." she says eventually, and he freezes. "He lied."
"Lied? About what?"
Finally Malia's looking at him, eyes swimming with something he can't quite identify. "Your dad, Stiles. He's still alive."
I know this is late, but you try doing A Levels, cueing tech for 5 performances of As You Like It, whilst still updating a chapter a day of fanfic.
This is a lot shorter than I wanted, so I might go back and flesh out the ending more later...
As always, if you see any mistakes please let me know. And review - I love knowing what you guys think!
Come hang with/talk with/prompt me on tumblr: edelwoodsouls - I'm always free to chat :)