They don't talk, not really.
Maybe it was the look on Stiles' face, or the way he didn't jabber and joke like he normally did the next morning. Maybe his father just didn't know what to say.
Whatever it was, Stiles didn't mind. He wasn't ready to talk about it, to think about what it meant for him that he'd found his bonded. He'd spent so long walking around like it wasn't reality, like it didn't exist, that it was incredibly hard to remember that people knew - that his father and Tara and Jordan had all seen those words, heard those words out of someone else's mouth.
To their credit they'd kept it quiet. When he went into the station with his father the next day he was ribbed good-naturedly by the other deputies and detectives, even one of the sergeants. It was the kind of teasing he'd get after any other stunt he pulled, not the tense, heavy silence you heard when a domestic violence victim got walked through the hallways or when somebody took a bullet. They knew he'd gone out to the Preserve after Scott, but that was all, and that was nothing they wouldn't have expected or understood.
Speaking of Scott, he hadn't been at the station for more than an hour before the guy showed up, crashing into him for a hug that felt too long and too confining for comfort. He babbled, asked again and again if Stiles was ok before running off at the mouth without leaving Stiles time to answer, and he didn't mind that so much either. He admitted that he was ok eventually when Scott finally ran out of steam, admitted that he'd talked to the werewolves a little about Isaac, but nothing else. Not about the reintegration, not about the lack of decision, and definitely not about Peter.
Scott knew he had a bond mark, always had. They'd been friends for so long that there was no avoiding that. They'd met in the kindergarten sandboxes, years before Stiles came to realize what the scar on his shoulder meant, before he realized that it wasn't something everyone would accept. He knew too that anyone with a mark like that would eventually find words inked onto their skin, the first words their bonded would ever speak to them, and Scotty being Scotty, cheerful and curious and naïve, had spent years asking after them, asking if they'd appeared and what he thought they would be, how he'd feel when he met his bonded, how he'd feel if he never did.
It took a long time, too long, but eventually he'd learned to stop asking. Years of questioning, years of not getting any answers in return, and finally he'd learned to stop. It was a habit that had stuck once he'd picked it up, thank god, so he didn't even think to ask Stiles about it now. Really, the only reason he would was if he made the connection that Stiles had finally found himself in the presence of a werewolf for the first time, and for him there were more important things to think about.
Isaac.
The 'adventure' that had been their little foray into werewolf territory.
It made Stiles feel sick.
Knowing what he did it was hard to see the shiny sparkle that the experience seemed to have taken on for Scott. Hard, to sit there at the Parrish's desk which he'd commandeered for the morning while the deputy was out working the speed traps and listen to the retelling of Scott's side of the story, the marveling and the speculation and the fear that it was so easy for his friend to brush off now that he was safe at home with the whole ordeal behind him.
For Scott, right now, it was over, and he didn't even have to think about the werewolves anymore, safe under the restrictions of his mother's punishment, unable to sneeze without her glaring in his direction and demanding to know the cause. Stiles thought the hardcore grounding was warranted and the far lesser of the two punishments suffered between the two of them, because despite the threats, Scott's would end eventually. Melissa was no monster, not like…
Stiles swallowed, glanced away from Scott's complaining only to see his mother staring at him with wide eyes and a pale face from inside her father's office. He'd told her, he could read it in the way she was looking at him, but that was all right. He couldn't begrudge his father that. He needed someone to talk to and without his mom, well…
He was glad that his dad had someone, and he'd rather it be Melissa McCall than anyone else. She'd taken on as much of a motherly role as he would allow over the years, and she truly cared about him, as much as she cared about her own son. She'd seen him in the ER enough times to know that he needed it, had no doubt held a lot of impromptu emergency parenting sessions with his father late at night. Now she walked calmly to his side, took his face between her hands and pressed her lips silently to his forehead before collecting her son and dragging him away again.
"She's taking him home," his father said when Stiles slipped into his office a moment later and pulled the door shut behind him. "He's not leaving the house unsupervised until school starts."
"Ouch," he muttered, more because he knew he should commiserate than because he really felt it.
"She said you're welcome to stay over for a few days if you want. Alpha Hale asked us back on Saturday, that doesn't give me a lot of time to get things together. I'm gonna be stuck here, and I don't know if it's… a good idea for you to be alone."
He said it in a rush, in a calm, flat, normal voice, but it was just a little too fast to hide his apprehension. It made Stiles hunch up a little bit, pull his shoulders up and tuck himself into his hoodie, trying to make himself smaller as he sat in one of the hard wooden chairs in front of his father's desk. He felt cold and unsettled and strangely hungry, and as much as it sucked he agreed with his dad.
"Yeah," he said gruffly, drawing his knees up to his chest as best he could and resting his heels on the edge of the chair. "I don't… I don't know. I feel…"
He still didn't know, frowned, then shrugged.
"It doesn't matter. But I'd rather stay here, if that's cool. I mean, I love Scott, and Mel, but I just don't…"
"That's fine Stiles," his dad replied, and he was watching him the way he did when he suspected him of something. "Whatever you want, ok? I just need you to stick close to somebody ok? We don't know how this is going to affect you yet, and with what she said…"
"No, I know," he agreed, nodding and leaning forward, putting his feet on the floor and his elbows on his knees, rubbing his hands together. The fidgeting felt good, felt normal. "I get it. Honestly though I think I'll feel better if I can just hang around you guys for a while."
"Of course. You should probably be a part of this anyway, since you offered yourself up as some sort of juvenile ambassador…"
"I couldn't think of anything else!" Stiles snapped, anger flashing through him sharp and hot, and his stomach rolled up into his throat when his dad physically flinched on the other side of the desk.
"Holy shhhh…" he hissed, immediately leaning forward to duck his head down between his knees, willing the emotion out of his body and away. It felt foreign, strange, too big, like the edges didn't quite line up with the cavity inside his chest where it was trying to gnaw on his soft places.
"Stiles?"
"I'm ok," he gasped, waving a hand casually but not ready to sit up yet. "I'm ok. I'm… shit, sorry dad, I didn't…"
"Jesus kid," his father breathed as he dragged himself upright again. "I know she said you might share some emotions but I didn't think…"
"Not this soon huh?" Stiles huffed half-heartedly. "Not this… intense."
"Not any of this at all," the Sheriff frowned. "I hoped she was wrong, since…"
"Since Peter seems more interested in gutting me than anything else?"
And ok, wow, he hadn't meant for that to sound so bitter, but hell. He was entitled to a little bitterness at this point wasn't he? He'd pretty much just signed his life over to a werewolf pack that half the town had it in for and he'd been soul-bonded to Freddy frickin' Krueger in the process. If anyone had ever earned an existential crisis it was him!
And his dad must've agreed, because he wasn't calling Stiles on the comment, just looking at him with concern and a little wariness, the way he looked at the occasional jumper they got up on the Beacon Hills' water tower, and didn't that just piss him off?
"I just need a nap," he muttered, scrubbing a hand through his hair and biting down on the anger that was bubbling up in his chest. "I'm gonna go sit at Parrish's desk until he comes back, ok? Maybe curl up underneath it…"
"Stiles if you need to go home…"
"No, it's fine," he shrugged, brushing his father off. He wouldn't sleep even if he did go home, and at least if he stayed here his dad could get some work done. "I'm just gonna work on some stuff for… all this, and if I really start to crash I'll come back in here and commandeer your couch."
This time he was met with silence, and maybe that was just as well, because he didn't exactly know what to say and that just wasn't like him. It was actually kind of freaking him out a little bit, so he made a safe retreat while he could, danced between desks and deputies back to the other side of the station floor where he curled himself up in Parrish's chair and spent the next ten minutes spinning himself dizzy in an effort to forget.
XXX
Peter woke up with the taste of blood and earth in his mouth, and a cold, demanding howl ringing in his ears. Something was poking him in the kidney and there was a thin layer of morning dew clinging to his bare skin, making him shiver as he rolled over and pushed to his feet. It had been unseasonably cool the last few days, too cool for late July, but the chill and the damp was only one of the reasons that sent him searching for the sweats he'd lost the night before.
He had to backtrack, trace his own trail because he didn't remember much after snarling out his rage at the midnight sky. Luckily his own scent was easy enough to follow, and there was a sharp, bright tint to the air that promised a quick return to sunny days. He scanned his surroundings as he walked, sure of where he was but surprised by how far he'd come, until he caught sight of a splash of black waving from a low hanging branch.
Snatching the sweats down, he dragged them on over his mud and blood smeared skin, heedless of the utter wreck he must be as he began piecing together last night's events. He'd ditched Jake shortly after his little temper tantrum in the clearing, that much was evident from the scent trail. This was a good thing – not only was it insulting that his sister had sent a babysitter after him, but his cousin was a loudmouthed bastard who couldn't keep a secret to save his own life, even when Peter was the one threatening it.
And Peter would have threatened him, because the fact that he could achieve a full shift, one that went all the way to the animal blood and bone, the natural pelt and instinct of a wolf, was a secret that he guarded jealously. Not even Vinny knew, and all appearances to the contrary, he was actually quite close with his older brother. They'd shared some damned good times between them before he'd gone and cozied up to Talia like an ass.
Peter scoffed, bared his teeth to the empty woods around him.
Just because their emissary had been killed during the wars, that was no reason for Calvin to go devoted beta soldier on him. Hell, Peter had been Talia's left hand for years, even before the battles, before the Argent's and the deaths, and he'd never let it affect him. He'd stayed snarky, snarly, surly, disobedient almost to a fault just because it was fun and because he could. But Calvin, no, he'd had to step up to play drill captain to Talia's general, and lose his entire sense of humor in the process.
Dick.
Though he supposed he couldn't put it all on his brother – his sister had an equal share in the blame.
She certainly had a way of demanding things from people.
Like she was doing now, her howl echoing up out of the valley a second time, harsh, entitled, threatening. She'd light into him when he finally got back, for crashing her little parley the way he had, for staying out all night…
For…
Peter snarled, his fangs sharp in his mouth as he scrubbed clawed hands over his scalp. There were leaves in his hair and bits of flora stuck to his back and his chest, rust-colored smears that smelled like rot and old copper flaking away from his skin when he moved, but screw it – if her highness was requesting his immediate presence she'd just have to suffer the sight and smell of him or she let him go to shower.
And eat.
As he bounded up the steps to the main house his stomach did a little tuck-and-roll, twisted angrily with neglect and Peter let out another irritable rumble. He was not looking forward to the dressing-down his sister and Alpha was about to dish out, and where normally he would just tune her out entirely, he had the feeling that this time his infraction had been bad enough that he might actually leave her library with some stripes.
Of course, he supposed he could always play the Bonded card - she'd have to shelve the claws and her pride then.
Peter stumbled, froze in the middle of the hallway with the sounds of a pack breakfast clattering away only steps from where reality had caught him, sunk in its teeth into him and shook.
Bonded, hell.
He hadn't forgotten, of course he hadn't forgotten, at least not while he'd been occupying his human brain. How could he forget, the skittish, skinny little human, the child that was all pale skin and slender, fragile limbs, huge, dark, damp eyes who locked up in front of him like a fawn tucked into the grass.
Sweet, tender, silent.
Prey.
God, how he hated him.
Walking around with those words under his shirt like they would change things, like they made any difference at all…
Well fate could just kiss his perfect ass – Peter made his own damned destiny and had since day one. If Talia wanted to play house with the local Sheriff then let her, but he wasn't about to…
"Get in here Peter or so help me god…"
Chuffing out an irritated sigh, Peter rolled his shoulders, limbered up like a boxer and stepped into the library. Talia and Calvin were waiting for him, and tucked quietly into the corner his great aunt, who'd had taken on the responsibility of raising them after their mother's mental trolley went careening off the track in Peter's mid-teens. Though in her defense, she'd always been a few cars short of a full train… Perhaps that was why she'd loved Peter most.
"Oh good, all of us together again," he sneered, strolling over to one of the wingback chairs. "It's like Christmas."
"Sit in that and I'll kill you," Talia hissed as he walked two fingers along the back of the pale blue linen upholstery. "God Peter, you smell like road kill."
"I wasn't the one who called a meeting before the sun had even risen," he countered smugly, pleased he'd already gotten one up on her, as small as it was. "What ungodly hour is it anyway?"
"Not that early," Calvin murmured. He was propped up against the wall between two of the bookcases, his arms folded tightly over his chest, and Peter narrowed his eyes in his brother's direction, put on alert by his unusually withdrawn demeanor. He opened his mouth to make a scathing comment but before he could even draw a breath his sister ruthlessly cut him off.
"Shut up," she snarled, her eyes flaring red. "Not one word out of you. You did enough damage yesterday – today you're going to stand there and be silent until I'm done and then you're going to do what I tell you and nothing else, get it?"
Peter arched an eyebrow, stayed silent, and bit back a grin when steam practically poured out of her ears.
Well she'd told him to be silent hadn't she?
"We're doing this," she said, and it came out of her like a flood, those three words. "We're doing it. We need it, have needed it, for a long time. We have a chance now, a real chance, and damn it Peter, you are not going to fuck this up, do you understand me?"
If it had been a flood in her it was like a tidal wave in Peter then - the anger. It flowed through him hot and powerful, something thick and sticky and searing in his veins where his blood should be and he felt it curl up in the pit of his belly and fill his chest and batter against the inside of his ribcage alongside his heart in a desperate bid to escape into the world and do some real damage. His claws and fangs unsheathed before he even called them, his beta half-shift sweeping over him and twisting his frame, lowering his forehead as he bared his teeth and snarled a challenge at his sister, lunged against his brother's hands that were solid and steady against his chest.
"Fuck you!" he growled, the words thick in his mouth as his higher thinking fought to beat back his instincts for even that much control. "What the hell do you know about it Talia? If you think I'm going to stand around playing pawn on your chessboard…"
Talia roared.
Calvin flinched, jolted so hard that he let go of Peter to lower his arms, duck his head in submission. In the corner Great Aunt Cilla did the same, her long white braid twitching in the corner of Peter's vision like a snake but he held firm, stood tall, didn't bend.
He never had.
"Damn it Peter, I know this is hard for you, but you're not the only one with something to lose!" she snarled.
For a minute an icy silence burned between them but it did nothing to cool the fire beneath his skin, the rage-hate-denial eating at his insides. Hands shaking, Talia scraped her hair back from her face, visibly collected herself. She almost never did what she'd just done, forced her will on the pack by putting the Alpha timbre into her voice and taking. It had clearly upset her, Calvin and Cilla too, but Peter couldn't possibly care less just then, and he didn't think he would anytime soon.
They'd gotten along just fine the last few years without Beacon Hills – he wasn't going to be the martyr his sister thought she needed to bring them together again.
"I'm not throwing myself on your cross," he bit out, fisting his hands at his sides, letting the pain of his claws cutting into his palms ground him.
"You're going to show up on Saturday and do your duty as my Left Hand," Talia hissed right back, her eyes still burning red. "You're going to apologize to the Sheriff because I said you would, and then you're going to sit and you're going to behave, and you're only going to contribute if you have something useful to say about the plans to reintegrate. You'll do so calmly and respectfully and I swear to god Peter if you so much as look at that poor boy you traumatized yesterday I'll shred your ass right there for him to watch."
Taking a long, slow breath, she spread her fingers out across the top of the desk that stood between them, resolutely ignored the low rumble that he couldn't stop from bubbling up between his clenched teeth.
"I know this must be hard for you," she said again, and this time her voice was the low, soothing murmur she used with the pups, with injured pack members. "I know you must be confused. Angry. Maybe even a little… nervous. But Peter, we'll find a way to deal with this that doesn't involve you scaring the Sheriff's only son and your soul-bonded to death, all right?"
Holding back a flinch at that phrase, those words, Peter glowered at his sister with gleaming blue eyes, all his anger and misery and betrayal burning hot in his stare.
"You don't know anything," he said quietly.
Then without another word, he turned and left.
