Peter was silent for so long. But Stiles didn't know what to do so he stayed sitting next to his mate, one arm wrapped around his, their hands intertwined. He said his name over and over, softly breathed the syllables. He didn't shout even though there was no response. Peter was a werewolf. He heard him. No need to yell himself hoarse. Stiles had the feeling that whenever Peter came out of this thing he was going to need his voice.
"Peter please," he breathed, "you're scaring me." Still no response. Stiles sighed, held him tighter, and waited. It wasn't much longer before Stiles began to tremble. The need to hold still was suffocating him but he knew he couldn't leave Peter. He had to be here because Peter was going to need him. He heard his father's car roll into the driveway and Stiles huffed out a quick breath. It was probably too much to hope for that his father wouldn't want to talk to him. Today of all days. Stiles rolled his eyes. "Peter come on," he hissed, tugging at him. Nothing. Stiles gritted his teeth and waited, listening to his father's feet as they moved to the door. The door creaked open and his father entered, closing it behind him before hanging his jacket and sighing.
"Stiles!" he yelled, "You want pizza for dinner?"
"Uh, yeah Dad, sounds great," Stiles hollered back. Peter still hadn't even moved and for the first time fear crawled over Stiles. What if he was comatose again? What if somewhere in his brain wires had crossed the wrong way and he never woke up? Stiles shook himself. He was being paranoid.

He slowly untangled their hands and flexed his fingers before pulling Peter to look at him. "Come on old man," he whispered, "you gotta give me something here." Peter still didn't move. He didn't even actually look at him. It was like looking at a photograph. Stiles pressed their foreheads together for a few short moments before kissing him almost desperately. Like kissing a statue. Stiles sighed and cupped Peter's jaw. "I'm going to go play family with my dad okay? I will be right back." He was loath to leave his mate just sitting there, wincing at the way Peter seemed to slump when he was released. Stiles stalled again before finally exiting his room.
"How was work?" he questioned, purposely stomping slowly down the stairs.
"Great," his father replied dryly, "got a cat out of a tree and everything."
"Mrs. Cohen?" Stiles questioned. His father simply nodded, grabbing the phone off the wall,
"Mrs. Cohen," he agreed as he crossed to the fridge. "Pepperoni and pineapple?" his father questioned, shooting a quick glance over his shoulder.
"Yup sounds good," Stiles answered, shoving his hands in his pockets.
"Great." His father turned back to the fridge to finish ordering and Stiles' stomach dropped as he heard his window scrape open upstairs. He didn't bother making any stupid excuses, he turned and ran. Of course by the time he got there the room was empty and ice shot through his heart as he struggled to breathe. Where would Peter go? What was he thinking? Stiles gulped in a huge lungful of air before he could start panicking. He launched himself across the room and out the window, running as soon as he hit the ground.

He couldn't see Peter but he could smell him and Stiles inhaled deeply, committing the scent to every part of him. Tracking him was easy enough. After the first twenty miles Stiles stopped trying to catch up and simply worried about following him at all. Peter was faster than him but he had to stop sometime. The path made no sense it wove back and forth and Stiles didn't know if Peter was trying to lose him, not going to happen, or if he'd just snapped. Stiles bit his lip and blood pooled on his tongue without warning. That couldn't have happened. Peter was fine, he had to be fine. There was no other option. After everything their rag tag pack had been through certainly they could withstand killing a few hunters. Stiles' feet nearly stumbled at the thought. Killing a few hunters? Something grim tightened in his chest. Yes. Yes he wanted to kill them. He wanted to kill them for doing this to Peter. Even for doing this to Derek. Stiles imagined for a moment if this pack of hunters had never found the Hale family. How would he and Peter have met? His heart clutched and he did stop then, panting for oxygen. Sweet, charming Peter. Maybe even sweet, non-creepy Derek. Jackson and he would probably still be mortal enemies and that was regrettable but the rest of it… God the rest of it sounded good. He shook his head and willed the pain out of his chest. That could never happen. It was pointless even to think about it. He swore quietly before taking off again. Don't think, just run. Don't think, just find him. Just help him. It was well past sunset that Peter finally slowed and Stiles finally found him on a felled tree. Peter didn't look up as he approached. He didn't even move. Stiles paused and sighed. He let his hands curl and open several times, chest rising and falling.
"Peter," he tried again, shocked at how ragged his voice was.
"What am I going to do?" Peter whispered. He turned to Stiles finally and Stiles nearly wished he hadn't. Peter's eyes were wide and glassy and he looked so lost.

"I killed Laura to get revenge. I killed my own blood Stiles. And it was for nothing!"
"It wasn't for nothing," Stiles argued, crossing to him. "So we're not finished yet. That's all."
"Not finished," Peter let out slowly. He squinted at Stiles as if he was suddenly speaking Latin.
"Not finished," Stiles repeated. "I'm not letting them get away with this. We're not letting them get away with it."
"There's too many of them," Peter denied softly, "I'm supposed to keep you all safe…"
"And what? Fight them yourself? I don't think so Peter." Peter tore a hand through his hair, letting out a growl.
"It's too dangerous. What if I snap on you? What if you have to worry about me and the hunters? You think Derek and Jackson will be enough? They're so stable as it is."
"Stop it," Stiles snapped, letting loose a growl of his own. "I know you're freaking out here and I get that but now is not the time. When we put them in the ground you can run around in a fucking Hawaiian shirt with a rainbow mowhawk and I promise I will still love you but when we put them in the ground." Peter pushed off the tree, invading Stiles' space easily.
"And what if I kill you myself?" he questioned softly. His hand crept up Stiles' throat slowly, gripping just under his jaw. Stiles swallowed, mostly just to push out against Peter's hand and see what he would do. Unsurprisingly, Peter's hand only tightened.
"Don't know," Stiles admitted slowly, "you going to?"
"Don't know," Peter echoed on a whisper.

Stiles moved slowly, achingly slowly. He drew his hands up and slid them along the muscles of Peter's back. They twitched and jumped under Stiles' exploration and he couldn't help a soft exhale. "I think I've just been playing at sane this whole time," Peter admitted after a moment.
"You'll be fine," Stiles told him, forcing his heart to beat evenly. "We will all be fine."
"Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe the last threads of my sanity are going to snap before this is done."
"You'll hold out just long enough," Stiles disagreed, leaning his cheek against Peter's shoulder, "and then we'll be there to catch you." Peter's hand fell from Stiles' neck and he exhaled shakily before pressing them together.
"Promise?"
"Promise."
"I hope you're right," Peter told him, "because I don't think I can lose anyone else."

A/N: Ugh you guys. Peter fricking just ugh. He is really, really hard to write. And I feel like I pushed him too far. And then we both lost our minds a bit. So yeah he's teetering on the edge of sanity right now. Go me.

I really hope this ended up okay because I can't even tell you how many re-writes this chapter suffered. It is honestly sad.

Anyone still out there, truly, thank you.