At quarter to three, Peter closes all the curtains and locks the front door, turns off his phone and shuts down his laptop. He knows that the rest of the pack are all gathering together, can feel the heavy tension in the air as they crowd around and scent each other, hope for the best and dread the worst, but he's not interested. He wants nothing more than to be as far away from all of this as he can, to not have lived through any of the things that led up to it, and he thinks if he has to brush pelts with a single member of his sister's pack he'll gut them on the spot.

Locking down, stepping away, isolating himself – these are by far the safer options, for everyone involved.

With his flat screen tuned in to the local news station, he begins to pace, back and forth across the living room floor.

He hates this, hates waiting for his world to change out from under him once more, and knowing how badly it could go doesn't make it any easier. This isn't something he can fight, isn't something he can sink his teeth into and tear apart, and more than anything he wishes it was all like it was before. Laura, his precious niece and heir apparent, had bitched for years about werewolves being kept a secret, but Peter has always thrived in shadow, done his best work from behind the scenes. He would give nearly anything for life to be that way again, for them to be left alone to exist in peace.

Instead he's stuck here, watching the cameras come on and the town hall go live as the Sheriff, Talia, Stiles and Laura and the littlest Argent bitch all file down along a table and take their seats, facing the cameras with shoulders squared.

Peter feels sick.

On the screen, Stiles blinks and pulls back a little, frowns, then turns and stares straight into the camera, narrowing his eyes. Peter feels a wave of scolding wash over him and he realizes he's got his claws out and sunk deep into his palms, as Stiles blatantly lifts his hands above the table and rubs his thumb across his knuckles.

Shit.

Taking a seat, he forces himself to relax, to breathe deep and stay calm, if only because his panicking will trickle on down the bond and distract his soulmate, who currently holds half of Beacon Hill's in the palm of his hand. He gets a little burst of approval for his efforts, and hates himself a little for liking it.

An hour later the telecast concludes and Peter collapses back in his seat, sweaty and exhausted. His heart is pounding, he feels like he's run a marathon on two legs, and he's nearly overcome with a profound sense of accomplishment that leaves him shivery and weak against the cushions. As the cameras turn back to the news crew for a wrap-up, he catches sight of Stiles and Laura standing backstage, standing together wrapped up tight like they're the only thing holding each other up...

They did it.

Not really of course, not forever, but... that hadn't been nearly the disaster he'd thought it would be.

Oh, he's still on edge, still doesn't trust a word out of the hunter brat's mouth, but...

Is this hope?

One thing he will say, he has to hand it to the good Sheriff. He knows that Talia has always liked the man, but he doesn't quite understand why. He supposes he owes him something himself - Talia says he's the one that pulled Peter out of the burning basement that day so long ago. If you ask him that suggests stupidity more than bravery, but he'd done a clever thing today in running things the way he had. Call Peter cynical, but the reports and the stories coming across the TV had been slanted decidedly in favor of all this.

Not that that means anything. There will always be naysayers, always be pushback, always be people like Kate Argent whose fear and hate turn them black and bitter and dangerous. It doesn't matter that the thing had gone so flawlessly – Beacon Hills and the Hale pack agreeing seamlessly to do away with the old treaty, the Argents ostensibly there to back the decision whole-heartedly, and the community just happy that the werewolves were doing a Good Deed in taking in the skinny little blonde that's been tailing Derek for the last week. It was staged, carefully orchestrated to come out that way, with the news crews and the press reporters and the viewing audience all carefully screened ahead of time.

He can't even begin to think what happens now.

Do tourists come flooding into the Preserve, eager to gawk at the werewolves now stripped of their power to protect their territory with threats and fear and violence?

He can't imagine any of his family, save a few young, foolish cousins, rushing back out to mingle with the sheep in town.

So, what?

Do they go on as they have for years now, pretending things are still the same without the guarantee of their safety net?

Peter snarls, drags a hand through his hair.

They hadn't thought this through.

His sister, Laura, Stiles - they were hopefuls, optimists, but not Peter.

No, Peter was a realist, and he's already thought up a hundred ways that this could go terribly wrong.

In the background, standing well behind the news anchor that yammers into the camera, Stiles and Laura and his sister Talia all shake hands; with each other, with the Sheriff, with the Argent girl. She looks hesitant when she touches the werewolves, though not nearly scared enough, but she throws her arms around Stiles like they're the best of friends.

A nasty, killing growl rips out of Peters throat as he watches them all simper and smile at each other, pleased professional masks for the cameras, while he stands here filled with a creeping, emotionless cold that warns of possibilities to come.

Well.

There's work to be done.

His opinion may not have been invited into this, may have been flat-out ignored, but that's fine. He wasn't made his sister's left hand for nothing, and she'll need it before long, if she doesn't already.

There's work to be done.

XXX

"We did it," Laura whispers in his ear, all choked up and shaky. "Stiles, we..."

"Yeah," he breathes, just as stunned and awe-filled and shivery as she is. "Holy shit, we..."

"Time to take this somewhere else," his dad says quietly, appearing by his side to put a hand on his shoulder.

Stiles looks up, realizes for the first time that he and Laura are having a bit of a break down in full view of the cameras, and carefully straightens up.

"Alpha," he says formally, nodding to Laura, who's scrubbed the tears off her cheeks but is still grinning half in nervousness, half in elation.

"Emissary," she nods back, and he's pretty sure his heart has climbed all the way up into his throat. "Let's go home."

He doesn't argue with her.

Doesn't even realize how weird that is until they've walked arm in arm down the gauntlet of reporters outside and climbed into Laura's Camaro, carefully navigating their way out onto the street.

They'd planned it ahead of time of course – that he and Laura will leave together after saying their goodbyes to Allison, that the Argents would go first and that the Sheriff would stay behind, going back to the station to monitor the goings-on.

He'd followed her to the car knowing that they were going back to the Hale House, back to the Preserve, and nothing about calling that place home had felt wrong.

Perhaps he's just in shock.

He's practically silent in the passenger seat as Laura drives them back, babbling a hundred miles an hour about how well it had all gone. She's right – it had gone well – but Stiles seems to be crashing a little bit, coming down off the adrenaline only to puddle in his seat like so much brainless mush.

They hadn't faced as much opposition as he'd thought they would. Sure, his dad had stacked the deck, but there was more ambivalence running through Beacon Hills than active hatred. Most people were more than happy to see the old treaty done away with, some of the werewolves' threat diminished, and there hadn't been a soul present who'd been upset about the Hales taking on Isaac. That part had gone so well that the guy hadn't even needed to come out and speak, had just sat quietly next to Laura trading puppy-eyed looks of trust until it was over and Derek had driven him back, out the door fifteen minutes ahead of everyone else.

The younger Hale was a twitchy bastard – he makes Stiles nervous.

Only, in a kind of way where he wants to pet him and make him feel safe again.

He wonders how long it's been since any of the Hale pack have felt safe, and very, very suddenly, he wonders if he's ruined all that, set them up for something he isn't prepared to help them deal with.

His thoughts go back to the trunks full of assorted junk he'd appropriated from the vet, Deaton, the things he'd read in those old, leather-bound books.

Ways to hurt, ways to heal...

He has a lot of work to do.

His sense of unease grows as they pull into the trees and head up the long drive toward the house. Laura's sat up in her seat, cocked her head like she's listening, and her face grows grim just as a sharp, slicing pain whips its way across Stiles' belly. He gasps, drags his shirt up to stare at unmarked skin, but it stings, hot and deep like a knife wound. Laura's eyes flare, gold that bleeds to red around the edges, and she hits the gas, flying up the gravel path to the house before slamming on the breaks and jumping out.

Stiles doesn't think, just follows her, running around the porch to the backyard only to come on the scene of a melee, a full-on god damn bar brawl.

Stiles hears himself snarl as he takes in the scene before him, sees Peter and Calvin wading through a group of young wolves that outnumber them three to one; four men and two women, a couple who can't be more than teens and the rest who can't be more than thirty-five. They're slashing and growling, shouting and tackling each other, and what in the holy hell is going on? This isn't the sort-of-formal sparring he'd come on in the woods a week ago, this is out-and-out warfare, trying to hurt each other, and what do these fuckers think they're doing coming after his bonded like this?

Stiles wades in without even thinking, grabs the shirt of the guy who's launched himself onto Peter's unprotected back and rips him off. To his great surprise, the werewolf goes flying, landing on his ass several feet away in a snarling heap.

"Knock it off!" he shouts – maybe not the most commanding phrase, but that low, double-echo chases his words, heat rippling down his arms to drip into his fingers.

Everyone stills, stares at him in shock, everyone but Peter because of course not. His bonded's eyes glow bright blue in the sun, his shirt stained with blood, and he takes the opportunity to grab both the werewolves tearing at him by the neck and throw them into the dirt next to the one that Stiles had tossed. Calvin blinks, then turns and punches one of his three assailants square in the face, breaking his nose with a wet crunch. Stiles makes a shrieking sound of disbelief, but then Laura is next to him squeezing his wrist hard enough to bruise and he has to stand there and watch in utter confusion as Peter and Calvin herd the six recalcitrant werewolves into a group, kicking them hard when they try to get up off the ground. There's snapping and snarling but they mostly stay down, and there's a warm glow of pride and (embarrassingly) arousal building in the pit of Stiles' belly as he watches his sweaty, panting soul-bonded literally kick some asses into submission.

"Uncle Peter," Laura says, calm and cool as a cucumber when things finally settle, and when Stiles finally tears his gaze away from him to look at her, she's got her head held high and regal and look of utter superiority on her face.

Peter doesn't answer her, but his head ducks jerkily like he can't help himself, like he's done it before he's thought it through.

"Our young cousins have taken your victory to heart niece," Calvin says, and there's a strange lilt to his voice. "My brother and I have just been explaining to them that there will be no revelry in town tonight."

Stiles feels his spine stiffen – shit, he hadn't even thought...

"You're quite right Uncle," Laura agrees, and all the werewolves on the ground flinch. "We've been gifted great opportunity this day. It would be... quite a shame if we proved unworthy of that opportunity."

Laura's cousins wriggle and squirm, and not a one of them lifts their head to look at her, chins ducked and eyes on the ground. Stiles wonders what the hell they think they were planning, a wild midnight run through the streets, and what they thought that would accomplish. Shit, he wasn't prepared for this, hadn't thought beyond getting the actual law passed to how it would work, and he hadn't realized that half the wolves in the damn pack would want to go partying like drunken college kids let loose after a winning football game.

Peter stands over the group, looming and growling low in his chest, and Stiles takes a moment to look him over, to make sure he's not badly hurt. There's blood running down over his hip from claw marks that have cut him low on his belly, and why does he always have to be bleeding?

It doesn't matter - he's willing to bet money that won't ever change.

Besides, Talia's arrived and instead of overriding her daughter, barking out orders and taking away the moment, the power that Laura's gathered up around herself, she just quietly asks her what's going on and agrees with the decree she's laid down.

Stiles breathes a sigh of relief he hadn't realized he'd been holding. It has to be hard, on all of them trying to navigate a new Alpha coming into her own while the older Alpha still reigns. Like having two queens at one time, and lord knows that's never really worked out in the history of ever has it? He doesn't know if this is normal, this slow, overlapping hand-off of leadership, but the Hale women are handling it far better and with far less bloodshed than he would have expected.

Though maybe that was the point of having a guy like Peter around, a Left Hand to enforce the rules laid down.

Scowling, irritated, but certain that the excitement here is over for now, he strides forward and grabs Peter by the collar, dragging him off in the direction of his house.

"Yes, yes, they're all properly disciplined," he grumbles as Peter thrashes in his grip, twisting around to keep an eye on the group of battered losers, snarling and baring his teeth. "What do you want, a cookie? Come on you!"

A part of him is very, very conscious of the fact that Peter is letting himself be dragged along to the house, letting himself be touched. Another part is spooked by what had just happened. Not the violence, not Peter's role in it, but his own. He'd tossed that werewolf like he was a rag doll, and what was meant to be a yelp of frustration and bewilderment had frozen all of them in their tracks. If his instincts are right, if Laura is right and this Emissary thing is as good a fit as it feels, then he's got some sort of a spark in him, some kind of magic, and it seems to be growing stronger as he settles in to the idea, as he...

Well, as he warms up to his bonded.

Peter rumbles, twists out of his grip as they near the porch and darts up the stairs ahead of him, but the look he casts Stiles is one that's almost playful in its warning, and his foot hesitates on the step as he wonders whether or not Peter's burned through all his energy just yet. Swallowing hard, he straightens his shoulders and heads inside – that doesn't matter either because he's hurt, even if he won't pretend to be a half-way-normal person and act like it.

The werewolf is pacing back and forth in his kitchen but looks more excited than agitated, like a hunting dog that's been called off the trail too soon. Stiles watches him as he moves around the end of the counter, then drags a chair out from the dining room table.

"Sit," he demands, and Peter darts him an irritated look, all grouchy, petulant puppy, but after a minute of silence and a couple more paces back and forth, he plants his ass in the chair.

Gathering his courage, Stiles steps in close and grabs the hem of his ruined shirt, tugs at it.

"Off," he instructs, and at this point he's just glad he doesn't squeak.

Peter eyes him, lip twitching in an aborted snarl, then he's grabbing the fabric and dragging it up over his head, tossing it onto the floor.