She doesn't send him to Peter but he goes anyway.

Feels like the right thing to do.

It's getting cool and dark, the sky all pale violet as he kicks his way across the lawn, and the little house where Peter lives is all still.

He finds himself waffling back and forth about whether or not he wants the man to be there, odder yet, whether he hopes to encounter Luca. After his talk with Laura he finds himself baring his teeth at the thought of the smarmy young werewolf, the hair on the back of his neck standing straight up. Something tingles in his fingertips that urges him to tear the scrawny bastard to pieces, and not just because he's here as his pack's delegate to make the Hales some kind of messed up integration offer of their own.

He carries a subtle threat, and he's pretending to be in love with Stiles' soul-bonded to deliver it.

'No, not pretending,' his instincts whisper as he trots up the steps of the porch.

He actually believes he has Peter on the hook.

Actually thinks Peter would marry someone like him, the Peter Hale.

Stiles doesn't know where that thought comes from, that inflection, but something deep inside his chest tells him that Peter is important, that he holds status that will follow him no matter where he goes or what pack he becomes a part of.

Perhaps that's why Laura feels so certain, why she seems to want her uncle so badly. Stiles is pretty sure she gets along with Calvin better, but then, who doesn't? For her, Peter is an asset, one to be prized and well-kept for his services.

Stiles wonders if he's meant to be the one doing the keeping.

He doesn't knock, just slips inside the house and closes the screen door silently behind himself. Stupid move, probably, but somehow knocking seems like a dumber one. He figures Peter probably knew he was coming anyway, because the werewolf doesn't so much as move a muscle when he comes in.

Stiles lets out a breath, takes the opportunity to look over his soul-bonded unobserved.

Peter's standing over the kitchen sink, rinsing out glasses with his face lifted to the window, a gentle breeze ruffling his hair. Stiles absolutely doesn't experience a very strong need to run his fingers through it, nor does he want to smooth his palms down over Peter's shoulder blades, nicely defined beneath a thin, grey t-shirt. He doesn't look at his ass in those jeans either thank you very much, because he's an almost-seventeen-year-old guy with complete control over his almost-still-a-virgin libido, and it's stupid to be attracted to Peter Hale anyway.

He repeats these things to himself as he spies the dishtowel tucked in Peter's back pocket, soft house shoes on his feet where he's standing on a braided rug, being all stupidly fuzzy and domestic.

Seriously, it's not fair.

Especially when – aw crap – the guy can probably smell him from across the...

"You reek like dead beef."

Stiles blinks, huffs quickly into his palm and wrinkles his nose.

"Do not."

"Talia feeding you?" Peter asks dryly, turning around to lean back against the counter and look him up and down, drying his hands as he does.

Stiles shakes his head, then, when Peter gives him an unimpressed look, manages to open his mouth.

"I cooked," he says stupidly, staring at the v-neck of Peter's collar, the thick, muscled neck that leads to a strong, broad chest. "I mean, I made dinner."

"A gift for the masses?" Peter asks sarcastically, and Stiles' spine stiffens. "Tribute?"

"Dinner," he corrects sharply. The guy might be hot, and Stiles might be starting to notice, but he could still be a real dick. "For Laura. And the pack. And... the rest of them. If you want any you'd better get your ass up there."

"What, no home delivery for your soul-bonded?" he huffs with a smirk, tsking quietly as he hangs the towel over the oven door.

"Hey man, I already did all the cooking," Stiles says, because wait, what? Is... Is Peter teasing him? Joking with him?

"And walked all the way down here empty-handed."

"If you wanted breakfast in bed," Stiles smirks, testing out this new thing, "You should have gotten a wife."

For all of a second the world between them stops, and Stiles' heart squeezes in his chest at the shock of pain and grief and hurt and anger that comes crashing through him like fire. It burns bright blue in Peter's eyes, and then he yelps as he's grabbed by the shoulder and shoved backward through the screen door, tripping down the steps to land on his ass in the dirt.

"Get up!" Peter snarls, all fangs and claws and fury, and ok, what the hell just happened?

Grabbing Stiles by the collar, he hauls him up onto his feet and pushes him hard in the small of his back, sends him stumbling toward the trees.

"Walk!"

"Any particular direction?" he hears himself ask, shaky and unnerved.

Behind him, Peter just growls.

Swallowing hard, Stiles straightens up and adjusts his hoodie over his shoulders, the one Peter had sliced all to hell. As he takes stock of himself he realizes that it's not really Peter he's afraid of right now, though the suddenness and the violence of his physically rocking Stiles' world is blatantly similar to the moment they'd met in the schoolhouse. No, Peter hadn't actually hurt him either time, just made a big show of it all, and though Stiles certainly doesn't condone his man-handling him around, that thought is stupidly reassuring.

They're going to have to talk about the handsy-ness, only, not now, when Stiles feels like his heart is breaking in his chest and it's very, very obviously not his own pain.

He doesn't bring it up.

Look, he's not stupid alright?

Only a short way into the woods he can already tell where they're headed, and he can pretty much figure out what's going on from what he'd said, the way Peter had reacted.

He doesn't want to do this.

He thinks though, that denying Peter this chance to tell him, to show him what this really all means would be a pretty shitty thing to do, would ruin them, probably forever.

So he keeps going, trudges up the hill and along the edge of the valley toward the back of the Preserve, where the Beacon Hills Cemetery sits, silent and calm as night begins to truly fall.

He knows this place. Better than any teenager probably should. He knows how to climb the stone wall that runs the back side of the lot, where to shinny up the fence when it's after-hours and the gates are closed. He knows all the best places to pick wildflowers between here and his father's house, and he knows how to find his way to his mother's headstone in the dark.

Even now he can feel the letters beneath his fingers.

He's never been past the twenty-third row.

Peter herds him on, all the way to the far side of the cemetery where Stiles has never walked. There's a small, private plot there, off to the side and out of the way, and he doesn't want to think about the fighting and the politics and the hate that had probably pushed the Hale family here when they needed the graves the most.

There are sixteen headstones, two neat rows of eight, and Stiles thinks if it weren't horribly disrespectful he would be sick.

Peter shoulders roughly past him when his feet slow and stop, doesn't look at him or yell at him or anything. Stiles kind of wants him to, even though it had only been a joke, even though he had had no real idea what those words would sound like to someone who had lost...

Shit.

Sarah Hale and Daughter.

A wife and a baby.

Stiles stands like a statue as Peter sinks slowly to his knees in front of the headstone, pale-pink granite and well-tended, just like the others. His hand is steady as he traces the letters of his wife's name, what must have been his unborn child, but Stiles thinks his own would have shook.

He's shaking now, but in that moment he breathes out, accepts the pain and the ache and the nausea, and tries to shoulder as much of it as he can.

Peter makes a sound like a sob caught at the back of his throat, turns it into a snarly growl as he glares at Stiles over his shoulder with ice-blue eyes, but Stiles just stares right back, holds his gaze and keeps his face as calm and open as he can. Peter's lip twitches, a sneer, or maybe he's trying not to cry, because he turns away again without a word and a flood of hurt and guilt and anger washes over Stiles like a baptism.

It shouldn't feel like a cleansing when it nearly drowns him, heavy and rushing like a wave, but Peter's given it to him, let him take it, and that has to mean something if nothing else does.

"We both knew she wasn't my bonded," Peter says, and Stiles startles his words are so sudden, low and hoarse in the quiet evening air. "Hell, everybody knew."

He goes silent again for quite a while but Stiles manages to keep his mouth shut, to wait. He hadn't known wolves knew to expect a bonding before it actually happened, and he doesn't know how he feels about that.

"They told us it was stupid," Peter continues, and anger smacks across Stiles skin like a hot whip. "Told us we were doomed, like some god-damn Shakespearean tragedy."

He trails off, his hand comes back up to touch the headstone, and the anger slowly drains away to be replaced by a heartache and a longing that steals Stiles' breath.

"But I loved her."

He murmurs it, says it so quietly Stiles nearly doesn't hear, and he kind of wishes he hadn't. This is the kind of love, the kind of connection he's never had with anyone, something he can't begin to hope to understand, and a small, small part of him curls up in a ball at the realization that he can never compete with this.

He kind of hates himself for that thought.

"They all acted like it didn't matter," Peter growls between clenched teeth, "Like I would leave her when you came along. Like I would leave our baby... But then the Argents came and set their fires, and they didn't have to say it anymore."

Stiles swallows hard, stumbles a step back when Peter surges to his feet and turns on him with an expression as flat and calm as a death mask.

"I was never supposed to meet you," he says. "We were safe here before you came crashing in. Without you, would any of this had happened?"

Stiles flinches like Peter had slapped him across his face, opens his mouth to say no, he would never, but Peter has already turned away again, to look down all the rows of headstones, count them one by one, then come back to his wife's.

"So this was meant to be?" he asks, quietly, almost to himself. "This was fated to happen?

He spits the words from his mouth, hisses them like a snake, but his anger seems to have exhausted itself because all that's left is that lingering soreness, a bone-deep ache that's been there so long you've learned to accept it as a part of you.

"How were we so wrong for each other?" Peter murmurs, words raw. "She was perfect. But I was born bound, so what, it could only end up this way? With her gone? And now here, have a consolation prize, your perfect little match, like she meant nothing, like it was all a mistake..."

Stiles stares – horrified, sorrowful, sick – as the bitterness and the anger creep back in, only banked to coals, and then he does the absolute worst thing he could possibly do in that moment.

Opens his mouth.

"What a load of crap."

Peter snaps around to look at him so fast that Stiles' neck aches, but he spreads his feet and stands his ground, stares right back at him when Peter manages to scrape the stunned look off his face and lift his lip.

"Stop," Stiles insists, hard and bright and too loud, because holy hell, everything sucks – this can't suck too.

"Who the hell do you..."

"No, shut up!" he snaps, holding up a stern finger and hoping he doesn't get it bitten off. "You had your turn, now it's mine!"

Peter stares, doesn't move, doesn't breathe, and it's the cold waiting of a predator that's stalked its prey to the kill site.

"What. A load. Of crap!" Stiles repeats, slow and heavy and sharp. "You idiot, is this what you've been pissy about this whole time?"

Peter blinks, his mouth dropping open, and Stiles knows he's being too hard, knows he's not being super tactful here, but he doesn't think Peter would listen to anything else and he thinks if he has to feel on more thing right now he's going to explode.

"I am not here to replace your wife!" he blurts out, insistent and high-pitched because jeezus, how could he think... "Peter."

The werewolf flinches away from the sound of his own name, and Stiles' hands come up like they want to touch him, to pet him, even though that's probably the stupidest idea he's ever had.

"Peter," he says again, softly this time, taking a step closer and watching the older man watch him. "I don't want that ok? I don't want to take her away from you. Nothing about this, nothing about us, changes what you had with her."

Peter blinks, rapid-fire like he doesn't know how he got here, and he shakes his head hard.

"Was it real?" Stiles asks, hating himself for letting the words pass his lips, but... "Were you real together?"

Peter's face crumples and he takes a step back, and Stiles thinks it's the first time he's ever seen the werewolf scared, really scared. He follows after, slow and careful, his hands up and open until they touch Peter's ribs, slide around to let Stiles slot himself in against his front, hug him loose and light.

"You loved her," he says quietly, pressing his cheek to Peter's chest so he isn't looking at him, so he can hear Peter's heart pounding beneath his ear. "Everything you had together was real. This doesn't change that, and this, all this, it wasn't fated. War is born of hate, not love."

Letting him go, because his spine is stiff and his arms are out, like he doesn't want Stiles touching him at all, he takes a step back and puts his hand on his soul-bonded's cheek, stubble rough beneath his fingers.

"Now I know you're not stupid or self-absorbed enough to think this was all your fault," he says softly, even though he knows no such thing. "And I didn't... want to make this hard for you. I meant what I said – I'm not here to take her place, or... ask you to forget her, but I... What do you want from me Peter? I mean, I'm just a kid, I don't know how any of this works. I've never..."

He trails off, his eyes wandering back to the little pink headstone. He knows what it was like to lose his mom, to have that person gone from his life, but he thinks this must be different, something he will never understand. He wonders if Peter's heart is buried underneath the sod and earth, would be certain of it if he hadn't felt it beating, heard its rhythm with his own ears.

"Peter..."

But by the time he looks up again Peter's gone.

Sighing, he briefly considers giving chase just to be a jerk, but the sudden exhaustion he experiences nearly overcomes him, and he doesn't really want to do anything but curl up and cry.

The Hale house is closer than his at this point. He doesn't want to go back there, but he doesn't want to go home either. It takes him three tries to get up and over the cemetery fence his muscles are so sore and weary, and he doesn't dare stop at his mother's grave on his way out. He thinks if he does he'll drop there, and possibly never get up again.

'It's too much,' he thinks as he trudges through the woods in the dark, tripping and stumbling left and right as he tries not to die on the little game path they'd walked so easily before. 'It's too much all at once.'

And yet it's not.

It's easy and it's understandable and it makes sense, as awful and painful as it is, and somehow it... makes him feel better.

At least Peter's had a reason for hating him all this time.

Turns out he was right anyway – he and Peter are... very, very different. He's a kid, well, mostly a kid – seventeen in a couple months and then legally at least some kind of adult, but... really just a stupid kid. He doesn't have his life together, doesn't really know where he wants to be in five years, and he'd hardly given any thought to his future before now.

College, he assumed, then law enforcement, maybe the FBI.

But now...

He's taken a position as Laura Hale's emissary, and surely that's a full-time gig. He can't imagine leaving her, leaving their little pack any time soon, let alone for months at a time. As he considers this prospect he realizes that he's not angry about it, not bitter or afraid. He feels like a puzzle piece that's finally slipping into place, and maybe the whole puzzle isn't quite finished yet, but there's a good chunk of it done now, the pieces around him all clicking in beside him.

That's all the future.

The past, the right now isn't as clear.

Peter is a Real Grown-Up, that much is obvious, even if he acts like a ten-year-old throwing a tantrum sometimes. Not that Stiles can blame him. He gets how a guy might come to think what Peter obviously thinks, that he'd bucked the system and subsequently fucked the future. It's ridiculous, of course it is, but he knows exactly how that kind of thinking can grab hold of you and be nearly impossible to shake. He gets too how Peter might think that Stiles cancels out his previous relationship, as stupid as they is, and there's little he can really do to convince the werewolf otherwise.

He'd told the truth.

As much as it hurts to know that he's coming in second place, second best, he doesn't want to replace Peter's wife, doesn't want to erase the memory of Sarah Hale or step into her shoes. Perhaps that's the answer right in front of him, to forge his own place and not even try to compete, but that's easier said than done when his heart hurts so much, when his stupid head is pounding with the possibility of rejection.

It's not fair - he'd never even really wanted Peter, had he? - but the idea that he might have lost him long before he'd even known who Peter was makes him want to puke.

He knows he shouldn't do it, knows he should go over to Calvin and Nicky's and crash in the loft they'd cleared out for him, but instinct drives him up the steps of Peter's house and into the living room, where his legs finally give out and dump him onto the couch. He hurts all over, his body and his spirit, and everything that's just happened comes crashing down on him, heavy and impossible. He curls up against the cushions, pulling his knees in to his chest and tries to breathe, heaving great gulps as the panic attack bears down and he can't do this...

Except he can.

Except suddenly the pressure on his chest is lessening, and his breathing slows as he follows some unheard count, in and out and in and out again. Invisible hands push the anxiety back, slam a door on it and hold it closed, and the tears come stinging to Stiles' eyes as he collapses back against the cushions in a shaky puddle, unable to fight the exhaustion any longer