It feels weird to me when I add backstory to canon characters in fanfic, probably because I don't write enough AUs. I always wanted more on Peter than the show gave us
Chapter Twelve: No One Can Be Perfect
Friday, December 26, 2014
Finch arrived with the sun. Stiles had demanded more dignified clothes and received sweatpants and a plain blue sweater for his trouble.
Much of the pack had other business or guard duty, but Scott and Mason insisted on confronting Finch. They had both looked up to her as a teacher. Stiles had avoided her class since he didn't need more biology or the chance that the hardest class in the school would lower his GPA. Since he hadn't existed for a quarter of senior year, Stiles thought it a good call, doubly so since it would have left him feeling as betrayed as Mason and Scott did now.
Argent stuck to Mason's side, determined not to let Finch injure him, but Parrish had to report to the station this morning, as had Noah. Braeden was out tracking Corinne, both as a backup plan and because she would do what she pleased regardless.
Corey ran in to say Finch was on her way up and hid himself after that.
Stiles had convinced Peter to prop him up in an armchair, and Peter had dragged the other over to lounge beside him. Stiles ran his thumb over the carvings on his new knife. Peter still wouldn't say who it belonged to. Stiles had texted pictures to Derek and Cora, but they both said they'd never seen it before. Besides, what use had werewolves for knives? Derek had reminded Stiles that the Hale family had included humans. Many of them did carry knives, just not that one. Then he had reminded Stiles it was 4am.
Theo escorted Finch to the loft but returned to his post downstairs rather than entering with her. As she walked in, Finch's eyes flickered to Stiles' knife for only a moment before scanning Peter and Stiles intently.
"So it's true," she said, though she didn't sound surprised.
Her veins were swollen and dark with ichor. Winter clothing hid most of her skin, but her hands, neck, and face showed the sickness had attacked her more quickly than Peter or Stiles.
"Holding it at bay isn't the same as a cure," Stiles admitted.
Had Finch known it could spread so quickly? Corinne had claimed it took up to eight days, so to be fully symptomatic after one seemed strange. Stiles was less sick now than Fenris had been when he gave Stiles the bite, which made it unlikely his degree of infection impacted Finch's and Haigh's.
Peter had claimed the purple reishi alone had no impact on Stiles' health. Since Stiles first tasted it six days after being infected, he doubted the mushroom had helped Peter stave off symptoms that were already apparent in Finch, at least not on its own.
"Has anyone used wolfsbane against you or Haigh since I bit you?" Stiles asked.
"No." Finch narrowed her eyes suspiciously.
Stiles nodded rather than elaborate.
Peter's idea—that competing wolfsbane slowed Finch's "cure"—seemed the most likely explanation. Stiles hoped the infection could be countered fully if they used all three ingredients instead of just one. If this didn't work... he pushed the thought aside. It had to work.
Stiles wished he wasn't hungry. It made the queasiness of unease worse.
Finch turned to study Scott and Mason, giving Stiles a better view of the bag she carried: a nondescript drawstring backpack. Stiles hoped Theo and Corey had checked it downstairs. Stiles motioned for Argent to do so now.
Finch stiffened. "You can look, but I keep it until the deal is done." She held the bag open toward him with her claws out. They were black like her blood.
Argent nodded to Stiles. It was a bag of weapons against werewolves, so while it couldn't be called safe, it was at least what they had expected. Stiles was confident Finch would have secured its contents rather than risk them harming her.
"Now you can share the supposed key to your success," Finch told Stiles.
Stiles frowned.
"I'm here because I'm desperate. I need your help." Finch clenched one hand into a fist but had the presence of mind not to advance.
"Duh." Stiles made himself smirk even though he wanted to sneer. "And I'm here because you're an idiot. What did you think conducting human experiments would get you?"
"I know I brought this on myself, but don't pretend you're better than me. I tried to stay out of all this. I even left my pack. You all dragged me back in." Finch's eyes flashed red, darting to Scott.
"You could have suppressed it again," Scott said with quiet disdain. "With no pack, it would have been easier."
"Screw that." Mason stepped forward, but Argent stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "You should have come to us. I see you five days a week, and you couldn't take five minutes after class to ask for our help? In most places, omegas don't last long, but that's not always true here. Peter's been an omega for years, and he's only gotten stronger."
Finch shook her head. "He's alive, but how many others are dead? How many have to die before you all realize you're not heroes? How—"
"I'm a murderer," Stiles interrupted. He wanted his tone flippant, but his guilt hung heavy on that word. He'd tried to move on after Donovan, but now he'd killed Fenris too, and without the excuses he'd had before. "Fenris wasn't the first. I know I'm not a hero, but I'm trying to do better instead of kidnapping and infecting other people. Hell, I'd at least be fool enough to run my experiments on myself."
"Let's not," Peter said. He stood and eyed Finch like he thought she might attack when he left Stiles' side. "I'm going to put on some water. Maybe Mrs. Finch can become her own subject at last."
Finch narrowed her eyes. "What's to stop you from poisoning me?"
"So you like my suggestion to try it on Haigh?" Stiles asked. "Just like you tried the last one on someone else."
She had the decency to flinch but said, "Just like you intend to use it on me," as her eyes tracked Peter to the kitchen.
"It's not the same," Scott said, voice miles calmer than his red eyes. "You're the one responsible, and it's time you took responsibility. I thought you were better than this."
Mason said, "She stood by when Nolan and Gabe attacked Liam. I thought that was the Anuk-Ite's fault."
"Doing nothing when you have the power to help is wrong," Scott agreed. "Causing harm yourself is worse."
Finch spun toward Scott. "He wasn't innocent! We found a monstrous alpha. He killed innocents and hunters, and when his pack slowed his escape, he killed them too. We did the world a favor in stopping him."
"And Fenris?" Scott asked.
"An accident. The alpha escaped and bit him. Fenris managed to stop his escape only by killing him. We tried to find a cure together, but Fenris lost control as he became sicker. I knew instinct would drive him to bite after he ran, to try to build a pack to protect himself, so I went out to find the poor souls he infected so I could save them, even if it was too late for him. I knew no one would agree to come with me because they couldn't understand the threat, and Stiles proved even more difficult to manage than expected."
"Did you consider that you might just be terrible at keeping prisoners?" Stiles asked. "That's like three escapes, if you don't count Peter separately."
Peter had stepped out of the kitchen to watch and nodded his head at that, though Finch's eyes stayed on Stiles.
"We were trying to save you, Stiles," Finch insisted as she turned back to him.
"Then save me now." He motioned to her bag. "Hand those over and drink the tea. If it works, you're free to go with another dose for Haigh."
Finch asked, "How confident are you of this tea?"
Stiles shrugged even though it hurt his shoulder. He held the pain from his expression. "Not enough to want to go first, but it's all we've got, which is more than you've got, since what you've got is nothing and what we've got is an idea about some tea backed up by the lack of ichor we've got compared to the abundance you've got."
She blinked a few times as she processed that. "How did you build your hypothesis?"
"It's based on an Irish legend and past experience with a mutated virus that was lethal only to supernaturals."
Finch frowned. "That's not a lot."
"You're right. After Fenris was infected, did you use wolfsbane to calm him down before he started working with you?"
"We had to. You know firsthand what he was going through." After a pause she added, "You seem to be handling it better than he did, but he retained enough lucidity to help me work on a true cure, sometimes."
Frowning, Stiles asked, "What did your rigorous study and scientific method get you?"
"Nothing that worked." She looked to Scott, then to Mason. "I'm not a villain, and I never meant for this to happen." She turned back to Stiles. "I'll try the tea."
Mason bristled at Argent's side. "If you don't want to be a villain, you shouldn't work with them to do villainous things."
"Isn't Peter Hale a villain?" Finch asked.
"Former," Scott corrected, "and he's trying to do better."
"If he relapses?"
"We'll stop him."
Peter rolled his eyes at that and motioned Mason to fetch Finch's bag. Peter might have been able to handle it himself, even assuming rowan berries could repel the supernatural like its wood, but they didn't have time to take chances.
Argent insisted on taking the bag from Finch and handing it to Mason, who only hesitated a moment before carrying it to the kitchen to brew the tea.
Stiles scoffed. "We won't need to fight Peter again. We'll just send in Malia."
Finch tilted her head too arrogantly for Stiles' liking. "The way I heard it, he's killed his own niece. A man who could do that could kill anyone."
"We know him better than you do," Stiles argued.
"Can you be sure?"
"I had my claws in his spine, so I'm pretty fucking sure."
Her eyes widened in surprise.
"I've heard... disquieting rumors about Peter Hale's mind." Finch spoke slowly, feeling her way through the sentence.
"That I'm insane or that my sister made me so?" Peter asked with a toothy sneer that echoed the malice of his voice.
"Both, and that you weren't right even before she took time from you. I hadn't heard anything about you going soft."
"Is that what you call it?" Peter's measured words each carried its own edge.
Finch looked into his eyes for a long time before answering. "No, it's not. No one really believed you could continue to heal. Some scars are just too deep."
"I came back from the dead, sweetheart. Try not to underestimate me."
Stiles frowned. "Don't call other people sweetheart."
"Sorry, dear." Peter smirked and somehow made it fond. "I'll find another way to condescend."
"I usually find 'heartless, selfish monster' works," Stiles said.
Peter grimaced. "A bit too pot calling the kettle for me."
"Fair." Stiles considered. "'Willing to work with Haigh' might be insult enough."
"He's been useful," Finch muttered.
"He was a deputy who turned bounty hunter. The only reason he never went after my dad was that human names didn't make the dead pool."
Finch's brows furrowed. "So you consider it a greater betrayal for your father's employees to become enemies?"
"His job was to help people!"
"His job was to enforce the law," she corrected. "He failed at that too, but there is a difference." After a moment, Finch added, "I didn't choose Haigh. Fenris was already planning to free him to learn about the sonic weapon, and I got roped into their deal when I approached Fenris for help with the cure."
"Poor you," Stiles growled.
Finch glowered.
"And the Desert Wolf?" Stiles asked.
"Even with Haigh's weapons, we couldn't capture the alpha."
"So you bribed Corinne with power and got her to help you."
Finch nodded. "Her experience more than compensated for her weakness."
"She's not the only one who can fight monsters," Scott said. "Choosing a criminal to help you has to mean you knew what you were doing was wrong."
Finch turned toward him a moment but didn't answer.
Stiles scowled and changed the subject. "How did you hide your scents? The voice boxes were basically a gimmick, but it was like you were completely scentless."
"Some sort of ritual with witch hazel that the Desert Wolf learned as an assassin. It's effects are temporary, so we avoided prolonged contact with you."
"And you and Fenris worked on the main attraction?"
Finch nodded, though her eyes kept darting toward the kitchen.
"What made you think it could work?"
"Weakened werewolves lose access to their power, making them more human. We hypothesized that strategically weakening a werewolf's power could allow us to alter it. The mountain ash was supposed to literally push the power out."
"Did you consider maybe not using poison powerful enough to kill a werewolf?"
"We considered every possibility."
Peter stepped away as she spoke and retuned with a mug that smelled more acidic than the tea Stiles had been drinking so far.
Finch eyed it warily, knees bent, ready to bolt.
"You keep saying we're not better than you," Stiles said, "or at least not as good as we'd like to think. But at least we never blamed the Anuk-Ite to excuse cowardice we'd show without it."
"You weren't even here," Finch spat.
"Stiles is the one who defeated it," Scott corrected.
"Back when I could handle mountain ash normally," Stiles added even though the plan had been Scott's. He had just needed Stiles' hands to make it work.
Finch stared at Stiles, considering.
Scott said, "You told me you left your pack because you couldn't live like they did, but you were just too scared to help them find a better way."
Finch snatched the mug and chugged the hot tea. At least she still felt shame.
With a cry, Finch collapsed.
Peter caught the mug as she fell and carried it to the kitchen without a backward glance.
Finch convulsed on the floor. She stretched a hand toward Scott in a silent plea for help, but he kept his distance. Peter and Mason agreed the process might be ugly and had warned the others to stand back while it passed. With time, the black lines of ichor on Finch's outstretched hand faded. Sweat stuck her hair to her face, but beneath it, the veins on Finch's face and neck had returned to normal as well.
She heaved herself to her feet and swayed before finding her balance.
"It worked," Stiles breathed.
"For now," Finch agreed. "Only time and more thorough examination can tell if it's permanent." She looked to Peter. "I'll take that dose for Haigh."
Peter waited for Stiles' nod of approval before fetching Finch a silver thermos. This time, Mason followed Peter back out of the kitchen. Finch opened it and smelled the acidic contents before nodding.
"He won't let me double cross you," Peter complained, "at least not unless you betrayed us first."
Finch motioned to the thermos. "Habit. You saw the people I've been working with."
Mason scowled, but he'd said what he thought of her alliances already, and Argent moved to his side, motioned him to silence just in case.
Peter, though, nodded. "You're lucky to have failed. Corinne would have killed you to make sure no one could use your cure on her."
He spoke like he knew Corinne even though he'd lost all the memories that should give him such confidence.
Finch narrowed her eyes. "Am I free to go?"
"I'm done with you," Stiles said.
"I'm not." Mason shrugged off Argent's hand.
"You're not a werewolf, Mason. You can't understand," Finch said.
Mason's jaw clenched. "Do you remember the huge, black-smoke werewolf? The one that nearly killed Monroe and inspired her to become a hunter with no code?"
Finch nodded slowly. She had obviously avoided the beast, but only those willfully blind to the supernatural could have avoided knowledge of it.
Mason's eyes were hard with anger and pain.
"That was me," he said.
"But you're not..."
"Not anymore. I was a chimera created to be possessed by the Beast of Gévaudan. So, no, I'm not a werewolf, but I have been much worse."
Finch crossed her arms, but it didn't make her look brave so much as small.
Mason advanced. "I want you to look me in the eye and tell me even a bad man's life was worth so little that you thought your experiments were justified. I want you to say that knowing I was the subject of the Dread Doctors' experiments to revive the most evil werewolf in history."
"I could have helped so many people, Mason. If you could have denied the wolf before it killed anyone, you would have. What if my work made that possible for someone else?"
"It didn't."
"There is nothing to be gained without risk, and every advancement has setbacks."
"Scott and Liam didn't want to be bitten, but how many people would be dead now if they hadn't turned?"
"How many would be alive if they hadn't?" She countered. "Stiles didn't want to be bitten. What if he could return to Scott's pack because I had cured him?"
"You're the reason Fenris bit him!"
"I'm right here," Stiles said.
"We both are," Scott added. "And I did want a cure. That's how I met Fenris. But some costs are too high. Derek made me believe the cost for my humanity would be Peter's life, and I tried to convince myself that because he was a monster, because he was a killer, and because he'd forced this on me, that price was acceptable. I tried to make the same choice you say is justified, but it was wrong."
"Also my nephew was the one who killed me," Peter said.
"You know I wouldn't have done it."
"Unfortunately." Peter grimaced, and at Scott's surprised look continued, "I died anyway. The least you could have done was kill me yourself."
"Am I getting a lecture because Scott doesn't have the stomach to kill his enemies?" Finch asked. "I thought you'd claimed a moral high ground, but you're just a coward."
"Better a coward than a killer, but I don't think either label fits me," Scott said. "I'd rather risk fighting the same enemy again than sacrifice any life for my own ends."
"When the killer escapes, every life he takes is your sacrifice, Scott." Finch's voice was stern, like she was lecturing a troubled student. "When the way you keep from killing unlocks the door to the next monster, its victims are your sacrifices too."
Stiles winced, though Finch faced away from him now.
Kate Argent had begun everything when she murdered the Hales. Then Peter drew in Gerard when he killed her. Derek created the kanima when he bit Jackson. Deucalion came seeking the town's alphas, and the darach followed to take her revenge. To stop them, Allison, Scott, and Stiles had sacrificed themselves to the nemeton, freeing the nogitsune and opening the door the Dread Doctors arrived through. Even the dead pool had technically been Peter's plan, though Meredith enacted it without his knowledge, memory, or consent. When they freed the town from the Wild Hunt, the pack had also freed the Anuk-Ite. Since the pack didn't kill Corinne and Haigh, both had returned to work with the people who made Stiles a monster.
The pack had never wanted or condoned the monsters that attacked their home, but sometimes they created them.
Scott said, "Someone else's actions aren't an excuse for your own. You aren't justified just because he was bad too."
Finch shook her head. "You said yourself: inaction is wrong. How are you better if your inaction is the means by which he acts? We're not so different, Scott. You just lie to yourself more. Most of your enemies wind up dead even though you refuse to kill them yourself."
"He's not like you," Stiles said. "We aren't measured in the cumulative total of how much harm the world suffers. You're just using the help you could offer to excuse what you want for yourself. Scott wants to help others. No one can be perfect, but at least Scott is good."
Stiles felt the shift in himself as he spoke. Peter stumbled back against the dining table, and for a moment, Stiles feared he'd left him behind. Peter's eyes grew wide staring at the same people Stiles felt himself reconnected to. It had been ten years since Peter fully experienced the same connection that Stiles missed after only ten days.
Pack.
Scott was alpha, but so was Stiles. In feeling that, explicitly, as a werewolf and an alpha, Stiles realized Scott had never been alpha the way Peter imagined them or the way Talia had been. He was a leader because he brought his friends together, not because he commanded them. It made him less effective sometimes and gave him room for excuses, but it also left room for his pack to support and better each other outside of his experience or command.
Argent sensed a change, or saw Peter stumble, and pulled Finch away. Mason glared after her but stayed behind. Corey appeared beside him and took his hand.
Scott rushed Stiles to pull him into a hug.
"Shoulder! Shoulder!" Stiles slapped at Scott's back.
"Sorry." Scott relaxed his grip with a wince. "I missed you."
"Yeah, I realized you'd never survive without me." Stiles patted Scott's arm with a lopsided grin. "Can't even convince a mad scientist you're a less terrible person than she is without me stepping in to remind her you literally don't murder people."
"Can't really blame her. I couldn't convince my best friend either."
"He's a stubborn asshole." Stiles half-shrugged with his right shoulder. "He came around."
Peter tapped Scott's shoulder. "We have more pressing business. If Stiles thrashes, don't let him hurt himself."
Scott nodded.
Peter handed a mug to Stiles before retrieving his own from the table and taking a seat on the floor. He raised his mug in a silent toast before downing it. He didn't cry out, but Stiles didn't wait to see him convulse.
Stiles chugged his own magic poison healing tea. It had cooled enough not to burn, but the poisons stung anyway. He nearly spat it out as his body tried to reject it. His throat spasmed in a vain attempt not to even touch it. Scott held Stiles to his chair even as Stiles jerked forward, clawing at his own neck with weak, human fingernails still strong enough to leave raw scratches.
The tea left an itching burn through his throat. Ichor climbed its way up to spill over Stiles' lips onto his lap and Scott's arms, and it stung like dry ice against his raw throat. More ichor, unable to escape, boiled in his veins as the cure spread through his body with supernatural speed. As weak as he was, Stiles was shocked he stayed conscious.
He wasn't as weak as yesterday. He had Scott back. He had his pack.
The pain passed at last. One moment it flowed through his body with his blood, and the next it was gone, leaving an almost familiar exhaustion in its wake.
Mason held a glass of water out to Stiles and explained, "Vomiting dehydrates you."
"Peter?" Stiles asked.
"He's fine," Argent said. He stood over them like a guard as Corey helped Peter sit up and drink from his own glass of water.
"You're both going to be fine." Scott pulled Stiles into another hug.
.
In Peter's room, Stiles lay with his head on Peter's chest tracing the geometric lines of Peter's sweater with a lazy finger.
"It's nicer in here," Stiles said.
The loft's other rooms retained hints Derek's angry hobo aesthetic. This one more resembled the master bedroom of an uptown apartment, fully furnished and styled. There were even paintings on the walls and a cushioned bench below the window.
"Of course it is. It's mine." Peter smirked, though the angle he turned his head to look down at Stiles made him look silly, like he'd turned his phone camera on after telling a self-congratulatory joke.
They weren't entirely alone, but those packmates who hadn't left gave them space for now. Peter had chosen time with Stiles over taking down the decorations.
"Do you stay here sometimes?" Stiles asked.
It made sense to have a backup residence in case Peter's apartment was compromised or, as had happened now, unsuitable for his specific needs, but this room felt too lived in for a mere ten days. Derek's bed hadn't even fully absorbed Stiles' scent in that amount of time.
"I have my own apartment."
"I know. That isn't what I asked."
"I stay here sometimes," Peter admitted.
The smirk faded from Peter's lips, and Stiles moved his finger to trace the line of the frown that replaced it. Peter caught his hand and kissed his fingers.
"You aren't like the others," Stiles said, though he knew full well Peter couldn't know what he meant.
"I'm not like anyone," Peter agreed.
"That's the reason I hesitated, why I was afraid to sleep with you. Casual sex is easy with some people, but you're not one of them."
"I'm impossible to get over?"
"You've both tried to kill me and saved my life more than once."
"In that order, which is a sign of progress."
"I'm trying to be serious."
"I know." The smirk had returned, though it was shallow with Peter's discomfort.
Stiles shoved an accusing finger in Peter's face. "Even before you were important to me, you were an important figure in my life. You loomed over everything starting the night you bit my best friend. You literally changed my life, Peter."
"I'd like to change it again." Peter took Stiles' hand again, this time slipping Stiles' finger between his lips.
Stiles scowled. Peter wasn't taking him seriously. "You like to travel, and I've already proven I can't handle distance."
Peter released Stiles' hand, and Stiles snatched his finger back from Peter's mouth.
Peter said, "I could travel to DC."
"To hang around a college student with barely any time for you?"
"To visit the National Gallery of Art daily."
"I don't understand why you care about me enough to even want to try."
"Malia is not the only person I ever loved. I even learned to love my pack after her birth, despite Talia's theft. Malia was the first person I ever loved, but you were the first to notice I even could."
"Your sister entered your mind to block the memories."
She should have seen them.
Peter half-shrugged one shoulder. "She didn't spend any time with them.
Stiles growled deep in his chest.
Peter said, "She thought she was granting me privacy."
"Like that's even possible while literally reshuffling your memories to her liking?"
"I didn't say she was right." He laced his fingers through Stiles'. "She wasn't great to me, but I wasn't great to her either. For most of the others, she was a good alpha, but I don't want to talk about her right now."
"That's reasonable," Stiles admitted. The only thing talking about her achieved was bringing up old memories. He put on a cheerful expression to say, "The National gallery closes at five. Does that mean you can cook for me?"
"If I feel like it."
"What would make you feel like it?"
Peter leaned over to kiss Stiles, letting his lips linger long enough for Stiles to return the kiss, lengthening it to a perfect moment finally standing still long enough to enjoy before it passes.
"I think I can manage that," Stiles said as a slow smile spread over his face.
Peter slid his hands to the hem of Stiles' shirt and asked, "This too?"
With Finch's serum burned out and the pack bolstering him, most of Stiles' wounds had closed. He could move again, though with stiffness and aches enough to warn him not to move too much.
"Not a lot," Stiles admitted.
Peter pulled his hands back and cupped Stiles' cheek instead. "Later, then."
"Later," Stiles agreed as he pulled Peter in for another kiss.
.
Malia had pulled Peter away for a whispered conversation. Stiles didn't listen in more because Peter had the sound of a thunderstorm playing on his phone to drown out their voices than because Stiles had ever learned respect for others' privacy.
No one else showed up to entertain Stiles, so he fiddled about on his phone for a few minutes. Nothing held his attention no matter how many apps he flipped through. With a sigh, Stiles dropped his phone on the coffee table and grabbed one of the books left strewn about by their research. Christmas hadn't seemed a strong enough reason to put them away.
Stiles flipped past descriptions of monsters both familiar and strange. The handwriting on this journal was cramped but simple enough to read, It had faded only slightly over the years, and even the cover showed only the slightest wear at the corners.
He shoved a page on wendigos aside with too much force; thankfully, Peter couldn't hear the page tear. It was just a little rip at the inside corner. He'd probably never open the thing again to notice it. Stiles turned a thick stack of pages to hide the one he'd damaged, just in case.
The page he turned to had a drawing of a man with a black spiral on his stomach. Most of the notes had question marks next to them. Trickster? Created or born? Afflicted human? With a sigh for the hopelessness of even experienced monster hunters, Stiles continued flipping pages.
Whoever wrote this bestiary hadn't used any sort of order or page numbers, so Stiles didn't have any warning before he stopped on the page for nogitsune.
This had been a hunter's journal originally. Each monster's description included its known weaknesses and guides for defeating it. Under nogitsune, the hunter had written, Pray the oni come and don't want you too.
Stiles ran a finger over the line. The oni had been too weak to fight the nogitsune that possessed him. What would this hunter advise if the oni fell to the nogitsune?
Before learning he was the nogitsune, Stiles had forgotten it, but afterward he remembered facing the oni in the hospital and confronting Noshiko to let her know she and her fireflies could neither harm nor scare him. He remembered driving his fist into the shadowy creature's chest and crushing the firefly that served as its heart. He remembered smirking at Noshiko and knowing if the oni couldn't touch him, nothing could.
He remembered the nogitsune was still out there, trapped in a hidden box because no one was strong enough to kill it.
Stiles shoved the book aside and tugged the bone-handle knife from his pocket to draw his fingers over the carvings.
He knew Peter was lying. A careless gift from Peter would be expensive, like the car he offered Malia before Monroe blew it up. Maybe it would have come from the vault, but it would have value. Stiles supposed he could have the knife appraised, but he doubted it would come to much. Wear on the blade indicated the knife had seen heavy use, so it hadn't been ornamental or collectable.
If the knife wasn't worth money, it had to be worth something more important. Peter was too dramatic to give away meaningless trinkets for the sake of having something to give. He'd given gifts only to Malia and Stiles at Christmas.
The storm stopped playing from Peter's phone, and he returned with Malia to the living room.
Stiles looked up from the knife to ask Peter, "Are you ashamed of the real reason you wanted me to have this?"
Peter rolled his eyes and dropped onto the couch beside Stiles. "Of course not." He didn't sound like he was lying, but Peter never did.
Malia took the nearer armchair and set her feet on a stack of books on the table. Peter shoved her feet aside and moved the books before she put her feet back up.
"Can you at least tell me why you won't tell me about this?" Stiles shoved the knife under Peter's nose.
"What makes you so sure there's something to tell?" Peter set his hand over Stiles' to push it away from his face.
Malia said, "You're a liar, and you said there wasn't."
Peter gave her a flat look.
Stiles snickered. "She's not wrong."
"It's my family too," said Malia, "but you never tell me about them."
"They're dead," Peter said.
"That's not a reason to forget them," Malia argued.
Peter eyed them both suspiciously before sighing so deeply his shoulders fell and his chin sank nearly to his chest.
He said, "My father was human."
Stiles' grip tightened on the knife unconsciously. "This was your father's?"
Peter nodded.
"Why didn't you want me to know that?" Stiles asked.
Peter's shoulder twitched.
Malia said, "You didn't tell me my grandfather was human."
"What difference would it have made?" Peter asked.
Stiles answered, "It makes a difference to you."
Peter frowned. "Being human killed him."
"You mean he couldn't heal," Stiles said.
Peter sneered. "He died peacefully of old age in his bed surrounded by friends and family while my mother still looked barely fifty, all because he never accepted the bite."
Stiles bit back his next question. Peter was thirty-eight. Even knowing there was an age gap between him and Talia, Stiles would have expected Peter's parents to be aging only now if not for the fire. How old were they when Peter was born? How old was Peter when his father died?
Malia said, "If he'd lived, he would have died in the fire."
"At least it wouldn't be something he chose," Peter growled.
Stiles said, "I think it would be nice to choose to die happy."
Peter scowled. "That's why I gave you his knife."
Malia asked, "How do you want to die, Peter?"
"I'd rather I didn't." Peter sneered.
"You can't—" Malia cut off as the door slammed open.
Braeden charged in with all the subtlety of a rhinoceros, swept the room with her eyes, and lowered her shotgun.
She said, "I lost the Desert Wolf. She laid a false trail that I was fool enough to follow. Expect her to come for you." The last she directed at Malia.
Stiles pointed out, "We were sort of in the middle of a thing."
"Just be glad I got here before she did." Braeden leveled too serious a stare at Stiles, which implied she meant the statement wholeheartedly.
"She hasn't come for me yet," Malia reminded Braeden.
Braeden shrugged. "Argent said you cured what they created. That means her allies are through, and she's got nothing left to wait for."
"Assuming their evil cabal disbands once they're better," Stiles said.
Finch hadn't seemed entirely convinced she'd done wrong.
"I'd rather assume the worst than be too late to help Malia," Braeden countered.
Malia said, "I can take care of myself."
"I said 'help,' not 'save,'" Braeden reminded her. "Besides, these two are still healing. She might try to use them against you."
"I'm better," Stiles insisted.
"Doesn't mean you're at full strength," Braeden said.
"Neither is Corinne. Malia took her power already," Stiles said.
"And she still nearly killed you twice now." Braeden took the second armchair, clearly not about to leave without Malia.
"That was the bullets," Stiles grumbled with a growl since he couldn't think of a better argument.
"Amazing how fast you take to that." Braeden motioned to Stiles. "It's not like you were a big grunter before, or whatever the human equivalent would be."
Stiles narrowed his eyes, not sure what she meant to imply.
Malia said, "You never got to know Stiles, did you?"
Braeden tilted her head, curious but not enough to ask aloud.
"He's always been angry," Malia explained.
Stiles turned his squinted gaze on her, though he thought she was defending him.
"Maybe anger isn't what supernatural monsters need," Braeden said.
"I'm right here," Stiles reminded them. "Why do people constantly talk about me like I'm not?"
Peter told Braeden, "Saying we don't need anger is equal to saying we shouldn't have emotions like humans do."
Braeden shrugged, "Some of you just have too much."
Stiles complained, "You all are making me listen to this with my own ears. Can't you protect Malia from outside?"
"I don't know which entrance they'll use," Braeden said with a one-shouldered shrug.
Malia stood. "I can leave."
"You shouldn't have to," Stiles argued.
"She shouldn't have to worry her own mother is out to kill her," Braeden said.
Malia frowned. "If you could track her, you'd be out there now, right?"
"You know it."
"So why don't I go somewhere I can lure her out and get rid of her?" Malia suggested.
Braeden nodded. "Sounds like a plan."
"Scott wouldn't want you to kill her," Stiles reminded Malia.
"I did it Scott's way last time, and she came back." Malia crossed her arms.
"Malia's right," Peter said.
"We're not supposed to kill people," Stiles argued, knowing he'd broken that tenet twice already. He didn't want to get used to killing, to be okay with it.
"That doesn't mean we can't," Peter said.
"I tried not to kill her," Malia said again. "I tried. It didn't work. What else do you expect me to do?"
"Let me do it," Braeden offered. "I'm not part of your pack. I can do what I want."
"Letting you kill doesn't absolve us of responsibility," Stiles told her.
"What about how you let Derek kill me?" Peter asked.
Stiles grimaced. "I mixed the cocktail that lit you on fire, so, technically, I actively helped kill you."
"You two have such a functional relationship based on a history of trust and respect," Braeden said dryly.
"You dumped Derek because you needed to get your murderin' on." Stiles accused, jabbing a finger at Braeden.
Braeden shrugged.
Malia marched to the door, saying, "Call Scott if you have to, but I'm going to stop my mom."
She left with Braeden in tow and didn't seem to notice the satisfied smirk Braeden leveled at the wolves they left behind.
"You're actually calling Scott to tattle?" Peter asked as Stiles pulled out his phone.
"Texting," Stiles corrected and sent, Malia and Braeden just left, plan to lure out DW and kill her.
Scott called immediately, so Stiles answered with a sigh, "I don't know more. I tried to talk them out of it."
"I'll find them," Scott promised. "You stay safe."
"Roger roger." Stiles ended the call with an eyeroll.
"So does that mean Scott's the alpha alpha?" Peter asked, more than a hint of a taunt in his voice.
"He's never been a dictator. I texted him because he can help Malia better than I can right now." Stiles scowled. "Don't think changing the subject will make me forget you sided against me."
"Don't be wrong, and I won't have to."
"I saw your memory. You never loved Corinne, but I think you cared for her. Are you sure you're okay with killing someone important to you?"
"Laura was more important by far," Peter growled, "and I killed her fine."
"You weren't the same person then."
"Corinne gave up what little concern I might have had when she tried to kill my daughter."
"Fair," Stiles conceded.
"But you still think we should do things Scott's way."
"In my experience, killing someone only takes care of the immediate threat. There are always consequences." Stiles studied his claws. The transformation would have been easier if he had let Fenris live, if Stiles had changed into a beta.
"Letting them live has consequences too," Peter said.
"Then it's worth choosing the method that feels more like good."
"Killing feels good to me."
"I meant good like just and right, not pleasurable."
Peter shrugged.
Stiles asked, "Does it really feel good to you?"
Peter's cocky grin faltered. "Power and victory feel good. It's enough."
"It's not the same."
"It doesn't feel bad enough that I care to stop."
"But it still feels bad, doesn't it? Your eyes don't turn blue if you don't feel guilt."
"You're not going to convince me killing isn't an option," Peter sighed.
"I'd settle for convincing you to follow my lead for as long as there's another way."
"You'll accept it if I kill as a last resort?"
"So long as it is a last resort."
"I can handle that for now."
Stiles let the "for now" go, for now.
.
Noah spent most of the day working, but Stiles received a text from him after dinner.
Any chance you're ready to come home, Son?
Stiles tapped idly on the table as he considered.
The danger had been his reason for staying in the loft, but with Finch cured, had she also been pacified? Stiles drank the cure too, so they wouldn't need him for their experiments. With no way to continue, Finch would have to end her experiment.
Or start over.
Stiles had bitten Haigh. The cure wouldn't make him human again, and he seemed the type to lash out.
Stiles sent, Have you found Haigh and Corinne yet?
No.
I think I need to wait a little longer. Sorry, Dad.
Stiles pictured the way Noah would sigh and pinch the bridge of his nose. He'd seen that sigh too often not to.
Be safe, kid. I'll talk to you tomorrow.
Love you, Dad.
Love you too.
Stiles frowned at his phone. Finding the cure and cowing Finch had felt like a victory just this morning, but they hadn't actually stopped anyone.
Peter leaned over the chair back to put his arms around Stiles.
"You miss your house?" he asked Stiles.
"Are you reading my texts over my shoulder?" Stiles squirmed to turn and glare at Peter.
"You left the screen on like you wanted me to."
"You know I didn't."
"And you know I still would." He kissed the top of Stiles' head as he stood upright. "Would you rather watch Netflix on my laptop, or do something more interesting?"
"So you do watch TV!" Stiles accused.
"I'm not Derek," Peter said like that explained everything.
"I assume Netflix and Chill is old enough that you've heard of it."
"I don't know if I'm more offended by your implication or that you're correct," Peter complained.
"Good." Stiles grabbed Peter's hand to lead him across the loft.
