He'd always wondered what it would feel like, hearing those words.
He'd thought about it, imagined it, even fantasized about it once or twice before he'd developed a really good grasp of what having a soul mark meant, but he'd never said them out loud, not once.
Never heard them.
Never dreamed his heart would stop when he finally did, had never even come close to feeling the electric rush that followed.
And yet some small part of him had always known that if would be when, not if.
That no matter what he did or what he wanted, one day he would hear those words.
You must be Stiles.
He would wonder later if he had blacked out. It seemed impossible that the world could break itself down into slow motion around him the way it did, or that anyone, even a werewolf could move so fast. One minute those words were pounding in his ears, those four little black words spoken perfectly, exactly, and he was flinching from the sharp pain of his breath catching in his throat, his heart spasming in his chest before it began trying to hammer its way out…
Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh nonononono…
But he didn't really have the time to panic. He'd barely uttered a curse of disbelief, his hand clutching unconsciously at his shoulder when Peter Hale sat bolt upright in his chair, his eyes sparking electric blue and following the movement, narrowing in on the curve of his neck. Stiles only just saw the flash of bared teeth and then the next thing he knew he was being pulled up from his chair and thrown backward, slammed violently against the wall of the gym with a werewolf burying his face in his neck, dragging in a long, uneven breath, as his bare chest visibly expanded and his hot breath bathed Stiles' throat. With one thick forearm pressed against his chest, all he could do was shout in fear and alarm as claws came up and shredded the neck of his hoodie, slashing down toward his elbow, and then there they were, stark and heavy against his pale skin and staring them both in the face, four awful words and the thin, silver scars that fit the fangs snarling just inches from his face.
He couldn't really hear the commotion beyond Peter's shoulder - shouting, snarling, the crash of things being overturned - though some small part of him knew that the world hadn't quite stopped existing. In that moment though it seemed like it had, the only thing left being the wolf before him, the electricity that snapped in the bare two inches between their bodies and stung at his skin, nothing but sheer terror coursing through his blood and burning up his brain.
Yeah, now he had time to panic.
"Get off, get off me!" he yelped, finding his voice as he tried to bring both feet up off the ground to kick Peter away, but the werewolf just surged forward, one thigh shoved between Stiles' knees and his whole body pressing him back against the wall, unable to move or fight or get away. "Get mmph…"
Slapping his free hand over Stiles' mouth, Peter snarled in his face, eyes hot blue and furious, teeth long and sharp.
"What the hell kind of game are you playing," he hissed, and Stiles felt a new surge of panic rush through him as Peter's hand dropped to his throat, pressed him back. "What did you…"
"Peter!"
Talia's roar cut through the fear-fog as easily as Peter's claws had cut through Stiles' clothes, sliding through it as easily as a hot knife through soft butter. Peter froze with a snarl on his half-shifted face, still holding Stiles by the throat, anger practically radiating off of him and then all of a sudden he let go, Stiles' legs buckling beneath him and sending him crashing to the ground as the werewolf towered over him with a look of sheer hatred in his eyes. Shaking his head slowly in disbelief, in fury, Peter pulled his shoulders back as though to attack a second time, making Stiles flinch, but then seemed to think better of it. With one last low growl, he turned around and stalked away, slamming back out through the doors just the way he came.
"Stiles? Stiles! Come on kid, look at me!"
Blinking, Stiles jolted, shocked to find his father kneeling in front of him and gripping him tightly by the shoulders. Even as terrified as he was he'd been unable to take his eyes off of Peter and had completely missed everything else that had happened.
It looked like a bomb had gone off.
There were chairs tipped over, the table shoved to the side sending pens and paper scattering, humans and wolves alike all on their feet. David, Nick, and Calvin stood grouped in front of his father's deputies, their postures more protective than anything, and Talia Hale was standing three paces off with bright red eyes, her face pale and drawn and horrified, but suspicious too.
Stiles took in all of this from a state of completely detached fugue, as if he were no longer inside his own body. He could still feel the fear pounding in his throat, the ghost of Peter's hand still wrapped lightly around it, pressed over his mouth, and he could feel his father's fingers biting into his biceps, recognized the beginning stages of a panic attack.
"Shit Stiles, come on, tell me you're ok," the Sheriff demanded, his voice wobbling as his hands flew - testing knees, wrists, shoulders - and then his hand was gently cupping Stiles' jaw and tilting his head to the side, peeling back the shreds of his hoodie to expose his neck, searching for bites or slashes beneath the blood Peter had left behind, and then he froze.
"Oh no," he breathed. "Oh Christ, not…"
And then it hit.
Stiles' heartbeat went through the roof, pounding against his ribs so hard he thought it might burst inside of him. Clutching at his dad's wrists he began to hyperventilate, his chest heaving as he fought for breath, gulping at the air. He vaguely registered breaking out into a cold sweat, goosebumps sweeping down over his arms as his muscles went weak and his entire body began to tremble. He could hear his father's voice in his ears but it was thick and low and dull, far away as if from underwater, and it didn't matter whether he closed his eyes or not, all he could see was blood and bright blue eyes, staring at him like they could burn him to nothing if they just tried hard enough.
"Stiles… having a panic attack… know what that feels like, right?"
Swallowing again and again, his throat dry, Stiles shook his head rapidly, tightened his grip on his father and whined between clenched teeth, squeezing his eyes shut.
"Come on… breathe with me… need to count, ok?"
Count.
Ok, he… he knew that. Five in, seven out, right?
"…two, three, four, five," his dad counted off, pulling Stiles' hand against his own chest. "That's it, good job. One, two, three…"
A few more rounds and the fear, the panic, the overwhelming certainty that something absolutely horrible was about to happen slowly began to fade. As his breathing evened out he was able to start responding, answering questions with at least a nod, and when he finally came out of it enough to recognize Kyle crouched beside him, to reach for his arm with full trust that the deputy would get him safely if shakily to his feet, he was shocked to find that the room had practically emptied - Talia, David, Nick, and Laura the only wolves left in the room. They were all staring but Stiles couldn't bring himself to meet their eyes, to analyze the looks on their faces. After everything he was too exhausted and drained to try to process whatever emotions they might be feeling, be they pity or otherwise.
Hell, he was too exhausted to process his own.
"All right Stiles?" Parrish asked quietly, letting him go once he was sure that Stiles was steady on his feet.
Nodding silently, Stiles lifted his hand and ran trembling fingers through his hair, tried shyly to tug the tattered side of his zip-up back where it belonged.
"It doesn't mean anything Stiles."
Blinking, confused, he looked up at his dad dumbly, a sudden sense of unavoidable fate hanging heavily on his shoulders.
"It doesn't have to mean anything," he repeated insistently. Stepping up, he put both hands on Stiles' shoulders in a gesture of comfort, but he could still feel his father's hands shake. "We can walk away from this right now. Go home and it'll be like it never happened. It'll be fine Stiles, it'll be fine."
The pleading tone, the tremor in his voice should have been enough to trigger Stiles' protective instincts, to make him grab on to his own control and shift into rationalization, into reassurance, but for the first time in his life Stiles allowed himself a moment of completely selfish freak-out.
"Fine?" he squeaked, shaky and high and scared. "Fine? I'm soul-bonded to a blood-soaked psychopath who just tried to kill me - how is that fine?!"
"Sheriff," Talia Hale broke in quietly, and Stiles' nerves were tangled and scattered enough that he turned in utter disbelief, his eyes huge and round with accusation and dismay.
God, what now?
"I'd very much appreciate it if you would join us at the house," she continued quietly, and the commanding Alpha thrum was entirely absent from her tone. "I would be sure that your son is all right and I certainly have some apologies to make."
"And a god damn explanation," the Sheriff snarled, and to her credit Talia stepped back, bowed to his assertion instead of brushing it off as inconsequential in the face of her larger strength.
"A discussion is certainly warranted," she murmured, and Stiles went cold as her red gaze fell on his shoulder, stuck like she could see through the shredded remains of his shirt to the words, the soul beneath. "But not here."
Straightening up, she brushed her hands briskly over her hips, righting imaginary dust and wrinkles the way women often did, but the way she squared her shoulders read as nothing so much as a battle general. Nodding to her husband, to Nick and Laura, the three of them all eased back like they'd been given permission to relax after standing at attention, three little soldiers all in a row, and Stiles choked on a laugh. Laura met his gaze, raised her eyebrows as if to ask a question but he didn't know what it was.
"Please," Talia said quietly, making a sweeping gesture towards the door. "We'll all be far more comfortable in the library."
Stiles disagreed.
But his father and the rest seemed to take her word for it, because the next thing he knew he was being surrounded by a wall of BHPD olive green and shuffled off towards the house.
XXX
There was something about that kid.
Stiles.
It was quiet, unassuming, whispering to the dark, cold place at the back of Calvin's mind where the wolf lived, alert and constant, but it was there. He didn't know what it was and he wasn't sure it mattered, but he could see and smell and feel it like it was a living, breathing thing young and ripe for sinking his teeth into.
He was… brave in spite of himself, in spite of the situation. Always squaring his jaw and walking right into it even though he reeked of the ozone of fear. It brought out a strange protectiveness in him that wasn't quite like anything he'd felt before, a tug low in his belly that drew him in, pulled him closer. It had pleased him when Stiles had been able to joke with him in the library, had sparked warmth in his chest when the young man looked to him to be there during the negotiations, like his presence would be reassuring, comforting.
He hadn't given the advice he did only to protect his pack. A part of him wanted to see Stiles come out on top of this, oddly enough. He didn't know what the kid was planning, what he meant to propose to his Alpha, but a young human walking into werewolf territory and demanding negotiations all in the name of saving a friend… that showed courage, loyalty, intelligence… real teeth.
He was even more impressed when Stiles finally began to outline the changes he wanted to make to the treaty between his pack and Beacon Hills. It had been difficult to focus on taking his notes at first - that babbling little speech at the beginning just about had him cracking up, but he'd managed to contain it by biting his lip and flicking a glance at his Alpha, only to find her unamused. Laura at least seemed a little less uptight about it than her mother, a smile flickering in her dark eyes, but things had quickly gotten serious when Stiles began stuttering nervously about reintegration.
It was a touchy subject, one that had been coming up more and more often lately. The wolves weren't exactly deprived out here in the Preserve - they'd been known and respected members of the community before the big wolf reveal so many years ago and their subsequent outing by the Argent family. They'd suffered tremendously during the wars of course, but once that dark time had ended and the treaty had been signed, little by little they'd been able to start rebuilding what could be fixed. They had electricity, running water, the internet for god's sake, but it was still hard, being cut off from the town that his pack, his family had practically helped to build. They lived under constant reminder of the fact that they weren't welcome in a place that had been their home for decades, generations, all because of what they were, their very nature.
They were in an interesting place now. Those who had been children during the wars were all on the cusp of adulthood - Derek and Laura and Nicky, Jeff, Steven and Brittany - and it was they who perhaps suffered most. Many of them had been traumatized by the fighting and the deaths, the injuries and scars, both physical and psychological, and beyond that they were now faced with the choice of staying with the pack or fighting their instincts and getting out. Leaving, going on to bigger and better things, cities where werewolves were as common and as welcome as any other. Laura had done that, moved almost seven hours away to study political science and debate, a degree with the potential to earn her a career in her most cherished hobby - arguing. The whole thing had her mother positively terrified that she was only a few short years from losing her protégé, the next in line to lead the pack, and then where would they all be?
So yes, integration, a desperate try for reducing the tension and bringing them all back together, give them back some opportunities a little closer to come had been on the table for some time now.
A bit funny really, that it took a stranger, a clumsy goofball with a fierce heart, to bring the matter right to their front door.
Talia was resistant of course, and rightfully so. The number of things that could go wrong, the risks they would be taking certainly warranted a high degree of thought and an even higher degree of caution. It had shocked the hell out of him when Stiles had offered up himself as ambassador, the word emissary echoed silently beneath the label. He hadn't been the only one - even his Alpha had had to hold back her surprise. The Sheriff, a good man as he recalled, had given off a sharp, violent burst of charcoal angerfright but kept his countenance - Laura hadn't been so quiet. But Stiles had risen to the occasion impressively, defending himself and proving once again his loyalty to his friends, a sense of what was right as he explained about the boy with the abusive father, a story that sent a splash of disgust ringing around the room. An act against family, especially violence against a pup, was once a crime punishable by death if the Alpha deemed it so.
Sometimes it still was.
That Stiles had leveraged that against them, unknowingly though it was, demonstrated intelligence, hinted at cunning, and there had been a dark spark in his eye that Calvin appreciated, that spoke to the wolf in him, warming his belly and rousing his interest.
All in all, he had been impressed. Intrigued. Eager for more and oddly hopeful.
For the first time Calvin wondered if they might really be able to come to an agreement on this, to achieve what three quarters of the country already had - the peaceful coexistence that had been shattered by bigotry and hate.
Leave it to Peter then to come waltzing in at the absolute bloody worst time, emphasis on the bloody.
All the same, you had to hand it to the man - he knew how to make an entrance.
He didn't mind that Peter'd gotten rid of Luca. The whiny little runt rubbed almost everyone the wrong way, and Calvin had certainly had his fill of him. More than that, he wasn't welcome in the negotiations, had made a big misstep in entering the room no matter the reason. The fact that he was only fawning around Peter, yipping about an injury the wolf would consider trivial, just made it that much more ridiculous.
No, it was the fact that he'd burst in looking like a god damned killer from an 80's slasher flick that had pissed him off. The werewolves didn't bat an eye - they all knew that Peter had been sent out to deal with the rather large male panther that had been making a nuisance of itself along the far edges of their territory. A pet that had been released after growing too big for its cage, it had started making aggressive passes at humans and werewolves alike as it began to go gaunt and hungry, and so Talia had dispatched Peter to take care of the problem. It was the cat's blood he'd practically bathed in, that filled up the room with a hot-copper stench that made Calvin's mouth water, but the humans, the Sheriff didn't know that.
All they saw was a snarling, murderous animal - an image that the Hale pack had been working hard to live down.
Of course that hadn't phased Peter.
Swaggering in like he owned the place, he'd taken his seat, mouthed off, and then all hell had broken loose.
Big shock there.
It seemed innocuous enough - a greeting, simple if a little smart-assed - but Stiles had gone as white as sheet, paling violently as his jaw dropped and his eyes went big as dinner plates. He didn't understand, even when the young man reflexively clutched at his shoulder like he'd been shot, but apparently Peter had. He'd jerked upright like a livewire had run through the bottom of his seat, his heart skipping a beat before starting to race, only matched by the terrified kid across the room, and Calvin couldn't remember a time when Peter hadn't been the picture of perfect control.
The next thing he knew, the next thing anyone knew, Peter was across the room and tossing Stiles against the wall hard enough to knock the wind out of him, snapping and snarling and showing his teeth, and Calvin's heart leapt into his throat as Peter buried his face in the curve of the young man's throat. He didn't have time to contemplate that striking fear, too quickly he was out of his seat and leaping forward along with half the rest of them. Peter was the threat, against Stiles and against the pack too, but Calvin knew better than to go for him straight on. He was the pack warrior, known for his scars and his ability to fight, but he'd never been able to beat Peter. Tamping down the instinct, he left the slavering werewolf to his Alpha, instead catching the Sheriff around the middle and holding him back despite the shouting and the swinging fists. In his suddenly maddened state Peter was likely to gut the human, authority figure or not.
On either side of him, David and Nicky had each grabbed on to a deputy, keeping themselves between them and the threat they strained toward, holding them back from certain death. Talia's husband was pale and visibly shaken but Nicky gave nothing away but firm determination, and damn was he proud of that boy. But then Stiles was shouting and Peter was snarling, and over the Sheriff's shoulder Calvin saw Peter's claws shred the kid's shirt and then a cold, dead weight settled into the pit of his stomach.
Oh. Shit.
Talia's roar had him flinching, struggling not to fall to his knees and bare his neck to her, but it got the desired effect in that Peter dropped the boy and backed up, a leaping, tangled mess of emotion.
Not that he could blame him for that, holy Christ. A bond mate…
How did you even handle…
By walking away, apparently.
With one last vicious snarl, Peter turned and stalked back out the door, leaving a blast of arctic chill behind him. Calvin immediately released the Sheriff who went to his knees in front of his son, searching him over for injury before peeling back the mutilated collar of his shirt to expose the silver scar, the black tattooing that left no room for question.
Soul matched to Peter Hale.
Calvin didn't begrudge the boy his panic attack - he certainly wouldn't judge him for it. Fear was a useful emotion, meant to keep you safe - only an idiot would've accepted what had just happened with a sniffle and a shrug.
Still it was painful to see, to hear, his heartbeat skyrocketing and the scent of him going sharp and ashy with an edge of vinegar that stung at his sensitive nose. He thought to step forward, to pull some of it out of him, just to get him through the worst, but his father quickly seemed to be doing that job, keeping a tight, grounding grip on his son's shoulders and speaking to him quietly.
An electric thrum ran down his spine and he looked to his Alpha, who nodded her chin toward the door, her red eyes grave and serious, and he was reluctant to go while Stiles was still in the throes of a panic attack, but he knew his place. Meeting Nicky's eyes, a silent promise passed between them and then he was gone, sprinting out the door after Peter.
He caught him halfway across the valley that ran the length of the Preserve, on his way to his own apartments at the edge of the clearing. He was stalking along slowly, almost stomping, his head down and his shoulders high and tight. He practically radiated fury and want for a fight, enough that Calvin knew to approach cautiously and announce his presence from a long way off.
"Well little brother," he hailed, jogging up to Peter's side, "I've seen you pull a lot of shit over the years, but sending your bond mate into a panic attack…"
"Fuck off Vinny," Peter snarled, the childhood nickname twisted in anger.
"You should go back," Calvin pressed, careful to keep himself out of range of the swipe of Peter's claws even as he kept pace beside him. "Fix this."
"I don't owe that little shit anything."
"What are you so pissed about?" he demanded, coming to a stop, surprised when Peter turned to face him instead of just continuing his march. "He didn't choose this anymore than you did, and neither of you can make it go away. What are you going to do if you don't plan on facing that?"
"I'm going to shower," Peter deadpanned, but there was a hollowness in his voice that Calvin recognized, ghosts dancing behind his eyes. "And then I'm going to go find my boyfriend and fuck him through the mattress."
Calvin scoffed, crossed his arms and looked Peter up and down with skepticism through his one good eye.
"Boyfriend," he snorted. "Luca got a promotion then did he? Last I knew he was nothing more than a good lay, a distraction until Talia gets sick of him and ships him back to Ohio. And that was just this morning."
Slowly, a nasty grin curled over Peter's face and he tapped at the corner of his own eye mockingly.
"Things change Vin. You of all people should know that."
You guys. You. Guys. I wrote, and rewrote and rewrote. Ugh! The angst. Ok, Let's hear it. I'm tough - give it to me both barrels!
