A/N: Canon-divergent AU post-season 2. Canon timeline has been altered because everything happens way too fast for my liking. This work is no friend to Scott McCall, consider yourself warned.
Summary: Stiles has been pushed to the fringes of the pack-he's known this since he escaped the Argent's torture basement all by himself. He goes to the only person he can trust to do what needs to be done, the only one who might miss him when he's gone, and the only one he can really say is pack: Peter Hale. Then, an unexpected arrival opens up a whole new world of possibility-assuming they can survive and escape Beacon Hills. Beyond the borders, however, a larger conspiracy awaits, and they might need some help to face it. Or: A pack consisting of one former alpha werewolf, one Spark mage and one mage-not-otherwise-specified find family, healing and take on the world.
Chapter 1: One to Survive
Peter was surprised no one had ever noticed that Stiles smelled…different. Like the pack's token human had two scents: on that's spice and warmth and human, and a second that hints at more. It was ozone, electricity and petrichor. It was the warning, fury and aftermath of the storm, all woven together in a way that whispered 'power', 'danger' and 'other' in a way that made his hackles raise and piqued his curiosity all at once. There was meaning in the scent, but what that meaning could be remained on the tip of Peter's tongue, forever just out of reach.
After coming back from the dead, the second scent seemed more pronounced—and remained no less intriguing. Yet when Peter had subtly brought it up to Derek with his trademark non-chalance, all he got was a a slightly bewildered look.
"Can you smell the storm coming?" Peter had asked, hardly bothering to look up from the book he was reading from his spot on the Loft's couch.
"What storm?"
Peter had waved his hand in a 'never mind, it's not important' way without bothering to respond. When the thunder rolled in a day later, the older wolf took it as a sign to not bring it up again—and that maybe he should stick around. Because he had not smelled the storm until it was raging around them—and it did not smell the same as the boy who had been reading over his shoulder the day before.
So stay he did. Peter watched from the sidelines, was always ready with a smart remark, ready to suggest the route that 'paragon of morality' Scott McCall was not willing to consider. The motley crew of teenage supernaturals was not pack but it was keeping him sane enough.
There was a kanima loose and Stiles was missing. Peter had wanted to throttle Scott after his nephew mentioned it had taken his idiotic mistake of a beta over three hours to save Derek and Stiles from the monster. Three hours where it was up to the human to make sure the werewolf did not die—all because the kid had been on a date with a fucking Argent of all things. Even then Derek did not consider Stiles as pack, and the teen's friends could not be bothered to look for him—let alone believe Peter when he said the human was missing. Peter could not help taking some of the blame for himself, he should have kept an eye on his favourite human after Stiles had witnessed the kanima at the garage.
"Where's Stiles?" Peter inquired during a rather tense lull in the pack meeting.
Scott glared at him, as did Derek. Isaac looked somewhat surprised, as if just noticing that his classmate was not there. Allison, for her part, just looked disinterested, but Peter could not care less about the little huntress.
"Probably just overwhelmed from the attention after the game," Scott finally answered, but his attention was more focused on his girlfriend than Peter.
The wolf was used to it, and just rolled his eyes with a sneer, "And that would stop him from coming to help when you needed him, right?"
"I don't need him. He's just a human, it's better that he stays out of this anyways."
Peter growled at the beta's snort of derision, eyes flashing icy blue from his dark corner of the loft. The others had returned to their discussion, and no one noticed as the eldest Hale disappeared from the meeting.
Stiles had felt each stair impact his body as he was tossed down into the basement by Gerard Argent. The horror and fear gave way to ice-cold fury when he flicked on the lights and saw Derek's two Betas, Erica and Boyd, hooked up to electric wires and mouths sealed by duct tape. The beating Gerard gave him was painful, and Stiles did his best to hold back the pained whimpers until the older man had once again left.
Stiles took a few moments to collect himself, before turning to try and give a reassuring smile to Boyd and Erica. Their expressions were fearful as they looked at him, but there was a spark of terror that lit moments before the door creaked open and Gerard waltzed down the stairs. Stiles knew, as soon as he saw the glint of steel and smelled freshly oiled leather that this beating had officially turned into a torture session.
"Well, let's see if you're more amenable to answering my questions now," Gerard sneered, punctuating his statement with a crack from the whip that snaked out from his hand to carve a line across Stiles' chest.
Never having much instinct for self-preservation—at least not any that could be overridden by the desire to protect others, even at the expense of his own body—Stiles stood and did what he did best: he snarked, summoning sarcasm and wit like a shield that could protect him from the pain.
"I can do this all night gramps," Stiles coughed through the blood that coated his mouth, determined to keep the man's attention on himself instead of the two wolves.
Even as he was threatened with another lash from the bull whip brandished by Gerard, he did his best to maintain eye contact with the old man. Stiles couldn't hold back the cry of pain as the hunter's knife buried itself in his shoulder, twisting painfully in the hunter's unforgiving grip.
Gerard's gaze brimmed with cold condescenion as he sneered down at the teen, "Don't push me, boy. You might think being human keeps you safe, but you run with wolves—as far as I'm concerned, you are fair game. Now, give me what I want."
"Wow, cliché much? Where do you pick up your monologues, 'Being a Villain for Dummies'? 'Bigoted Assholery 101'? Good thing you don't teach, I bet the reading would be sh—"
Stiles didn't get a chance to finish as a foot connected with his diaphragm, knocking the wind solidly out of him.
The Argent elder just turned and hummed a casual ditty as Stiles lay wheezing on the floor.
"Your resilience is impressive, Stiles. But I won't go easy next time. You will give up Derek Hale."
As much as Stiles wanted to tell his tormentor where he could shove it, he was still trying to get air back into his lungs. As the door slammed once again behind Argent, Stiles managed to take a shuddering breath. He would much rather remain on the cool concrete for a couple minutes, the human knew that things were only going to get worse if he could not get the two wolves behind him free. Without supernatural healing, Stiles knew that his body would inevitably give out, and then Erica and Boyd would be fair game for Gerard's machinations yet again.
Stiles had to blink the spots from his eyes as he rose shakily, trying to give the two wolves another reassuring smile.
"Alrighty then. I know the electricity isn't exactly doing wonders for your wolfy superpowers, but you think you'll be able to stand if I can get you free?" The human was looking for any sort of escape route that wasn't the front door as he made his way over to the control panel for the wiring.
Erica and Boyd shot each other a confirming glance before nodding in the affirmative, determination blazing in their eyes. Stiles had put himself on the line to keep them safe—they would do what was necessary to get the three of them out of there.
"Good. Looks like we might even be able to overload the breaker. They probably have backups, because that's just the kind of night I'm having, but…" Stiles paused and hit a switch to kill the current going to the wolves, who immediately set about getting themselves free, "It might create just enough confusion to give us a chance to book it."
"We've got your back, Stiles," Erica whispered, keeping an ear out for any indication that Gerard was coming back. Boyd was silent but nodded in agreement.
Stiles motioned for the pair to make their way towards the door as he started flipping switches, hoping with all his might that this would work. Vision still clouded from the pain of what he was sure was at least one broken rib and a worrying amount of bloodloss, he didn't notice when sparks coursed from his fingertips into the breaker box. The power flickered, then went out with an audible pop. The wolves could hear at least one or two lightbulbs explode elsewhere in the building as darkness descended.
Peter paced back and forth in his apartment. Even after tracking Stiles' scent across the lacrosse field, he had been unable to follow it past the parking lot. Someone had been using a scent blocker, which meant there was probably some sort of magic involved and implied that wherever Stiles was, he wasn't there willingly.
He shouldn't worry so much. Stiles was, after all, the 'boy who ran with wolves', the human that ran into danger headfirst to protect those he cared about. At the same time, however, the teenager was the only person in McCall's so-called 'pack' that seemed to understand the meaning of the word, and that meant something to Peter. It meant everything. Stiles and his loyalty deserved to be protected, even if Peter knew that he wanted to protect it so that some of it could be directed at him, so that he could have pack in the way he so desperately craved it had once driven him insane. After all, Peter had always known that Stiles would make a magnificent wolf—a packmate whose intensity, intellect and loyalty could match his own.
With a sigh, the werewolf ran a hand through his hair and sat down on his couch. Pulling his laptop closer to him, Peter flipped it open and was about to start tracking Stiles' cellphone when he heard the elevator ping outside his door. Peter frowned at the noise—he wasn't expecting anyone, and given that he owned the penthouse suite in one of the nicest buildings in Beacon Hills, not just anyone had a key to get up to his condo. Still, the wolf stood and approached the door, immediately being hit by the smell of blood, adrenaline and pain.
Peter's eyes flashed blue as he got close enough to the door to hear the slightly too-fast heartbeat and scent of ozone and petrichor that could only belong to one person. When the elevator neither closed, nor did the door to his suite show any signs of being unlocked, he closed the distance to the door in two quick strides and opened the door.
"Stiles, a bit late for social calls don't you think?" Peter smirked, but the expression immediately turned into a frown as he took in the state of the human in front of him and he growled, "Who did this to you?"
Stiles, leaning on the open elevator door, blinked up at Peter blearily as blood ran from his mouth. A trembling hand reached out to grab a keyring from the elevator control panel before the teen stumbled forward slightly. Peter reached out to steady the teen before he collapsed face first onto his hardwood floors and did even more damage to his already bruised face.
"Hey, zombie wolf—sorry to drop in like this," Stiles appeared to be fighting to stay conscious as his knees buckled, "didn't know where else to go."
Peter caught Stiles as he collapsed, wrapping one arm around the human's waist and using his other hand to pull Stiles' arm around his shoulder, already pulling his pain through the grip he kept on his wrist. Manoeuvering Stiles towards the couch, Peter caught a scent lingering around his favourite human that almost made him see red.
"Gerard Argent," the werewolf snarled, eyes glowing blue in the dimly lit living room.
"Right in one," Stiles gasped, finally able to take a decent breath with the pain receding, "had Erica and Boyd too, but we got out. Told 'em to run—preferably back to Derek, or family, at least until all this is over. Shit, my phone—I told them to message me once they were safe."
Putting a lid on his rage, Peter took a deep breath as he sat on the coffee table in front of Stiles, "Do you still have it with you?"
With a nod, Stiles reached a still shaking hand into his pocket and fished out his phone to drop into Peter's waiting hand. The screen was smeared with blood from the teen's hands, which Peter wiped off on his own jeans before looking at the notifications.
"Looks like they made it to Boyd's aunt's place," Stiles sighed with relief so Peter continued, "Now, sweetheart, can we take care of your injuries?"
"Yeah, injuries, taken care of, yeah. I'll do that. Can I just, uh, borrow your bathroom?" Stiles forced his eyes open and pushed himself towards standing.
"Stiles, don't be an idiot. You came to me, I'm going to help you."
Stiles stared up at the older man as if trying to make sure he had heard that correctly. Sure, he and Peter had gotten closer in the months following his resurrection—no one else was as willing, or useful, in researching whatever horror came through Beacon Hills on a weekly basis. But Stiles, for all he had made efforts to include Peter, to treat Peter the way a pack should treat the older wolf, was still taken aback by the ease with which the man was now offering to help him. Looking back at it, however, Stiles figured he shouldn't be surprised. Peter was a born wolf, he understood that being pack went both ways. Something warmed in his chest at the thought, but Stiles didn't really notice as he gave Peter a weary smile.
"Alright, big bad. Let's go stitch up the squishy ass human," Stiles sighed, pulling his wrist from Peter's grasp to push himself up off the couch.
Immediately, the human realized that had been a mistake as pain shot through his ribs and he found himself struggling for breath. Biting down on his lip, Stiles stuck out a hand and thought that he really must look like shit since Peter grabbed it without a single snarky remark to be heard. Thankfully none of Gerard's attacks had been aimed at his legs, so once Peter got his arm around his shoulders the walk to the bathroom was relatively smooth.
Peter made sure that Stiles was safely seated on the floor, propped up against the bathtub before opening a cabinet and retrieving a first aid kit.
"Can you take that off, or should I cut it off you?" the older man asked, motioning to Stiles' bloody and torn lacrosse jersey.
"Can't really move my shoulder," Stiles winced, cradling one arm to his chest, "so cutting might be best. I think it's a lost cause anyways."
With a nod, Peter knelt down in front of the teen who was trembling from exhaustion and quickly cut the fabric with his claws. Being as gentle as he could, the werewolf peeled the fabric away from the wounds, cursing softly as some of them began to bleed again. Another growl rumbled in his chest as he saw the extent of the injuries that had been inflicted on his favourite human. Peter's eyes widened as he saw the deep wound in Stiles' shoulder that was still oozing blood, amazed that the boy had even made it to his place at all.
It took almost an hour for Peter to clean, stitch and bandage all of Stiles' wounds. Stiles had simply sat through it, biting back the small whimpers and cries of pain every time the needle pierced his skin. He had even offered to stitch himself up, if Peter was uncomfortable with it. The werewolf had scoffed at the idea before assuring Stiles that the original Hale Pack had many humans, and he had training to deal with human injuries. There had been no more protests after that, and in the silence, Peter was left to wonder just how many times Stiles had been left to patch himself up over the years.
By the time Peter was done, Stiles was barely conscious, his head lolling back against the edge of the bathtub. The wolf had done his best to clean as much blood as he could from the boy, but his hair was still matted with sweat, blood and dirt. Peter turned on the water to the detachable showerhead and waited until it was a comfortable lukewarm. Stiles woke up slightly at the sound, turning a questioning gaze towards the wolf.
"The cuts on your face might get infected if we don't sort out the mess that's in your hair, sweetheart," Peter smirked before adding, "and I refuse to have my den smelling any more like the Argents than it already does."
Stiles was too out of it to offer a witty retort, but nodded and tipped his head back towards the tub, closing his eyes. The gesture took Peter by surprise, and he swallowed at the display of trust—whether Stiles recognized it as such or not. One eye cracked open slightly, honeyed-gold iris dull with pain but still sparking with the intelligence that had so endeared Peter since he'd first met the boy, and Stiles managed a pained, lopsided grin despite his split lip.
"Yeah, I know big bad. I'm trusting you not to rip my throat out, 'kay?"
Peter let out a breath he didn't know he was holding, because of course Stiles—whose middle name wasn't 'Paranoia' but should be—knew what he was doing by baring his neck to a predator, to a werewolf. And still he had done it for Peter. Peter, who stubbornly ignored the warmth that had been growing in his chest since the youngest Stilinski had said that he didn't know where to go except straight to the big bad wolf's den.
For all that Peter hadn't lied when he said that he didn't want to risk Stiles' injuries getting infected and that he didn't want the stench of Gerard Argent in his den (or on his favourite human), the wolf couldn't deny that he wanted to offer comfort to the young man. To care for his packmate. Because he was, wasn't he? If anything, Stiles was the only pack that Peter had; his bond to Derek was one bad day away from snapping entirely, and Scott had never really accepted him, and the rest of his gaggle had followed suit. All except for Stiles.
Naturally that led to the question of how Stiles had become Peter's pack in the first place. The kid had helped put him in his grave, for gods sake—no matter how temporary. But at the same time, Peter recognized that he had needed it, needed the clarity afforded by a couple months under the floorboards of his family's burned out home.
Then, he came back into the orbit of his nephew's pack, and Peter had been all but a ghost. A shadow who everyone preferred to ignore. He was content to let it go on like that, until one day the lanky teen sat himself down on Peter's staircase and handed him a cup of coffee fixed with a side of sass and chased with surprisingly coherent and thoughtful questions about their latest supernatural interloper.
Sure, Peter had always liked Stiles—had said so when he was half-insane and re-iterated it since. It was after that moment on the stairs, though hardly more than a couple minutes, that made Peter really start paying attention to Stiles. It was then that Peter realized just how on the outside that everyone else kept the human. A kindred spirit.
A notion that became a comfortable, unspoken truth between the two as they spent time researching together more frequently. Research that Peter hadn't even minded ignoring in favour of answering questions related to whatever Stiles' latest hyperfixation was—not like Peter wanted to help McCall's pack of hormonal teenagers anyways. Stiles' questions offered him the chance to share knowledge in a way he couldn't before, because for all the hyperactive, ADHD teen liked to talk, Peter had learned that Stiles also guarded. He hoarded knowledge, sharing what was necessary if asked and sometimes more, but the human also hoarded any scrap of information he could get his hands on, to share with those who deserved it. So Peter shared what he knew, Stiles absorbed it all, and they both got a laugh from watching the 'puppies' get confused when they shot ideas back and forth like they were speaking their own language.
Peter carded his fingers through Stiles' short hair, thankful that the buzzcut had finally started to grow out. The water was finally running clear, and the scent of hunters, torture and pain were slowly being replaced by the human's natural ones. Reflexively the werewolf reached down and cupped the back of Stiles' neck with a firm hand as he turned off the water.
"Stay put, sweetheart. I'll grab you some clean clothes," Peter murmured as he dried the teen's hair and placed a towel beneath his neck so he could have some modicum of comfort.
Stiles just hummed in response, too exhausted now that the adrenaline had faded to even open his eyes. The feeling of Peter's fingers running through his hair and massaging his scalp had nearly put him to sleep, and Stiles wanted to hang onto that comfort for a little longer. He did manage to force his eyes open when Peter returned holding a set of clean, comfortable clothes.
Shifting himself so he was more upright, Stiles pulled on the loose t-shirt—though he was sure that on the wolf to whom it belonged it was anything but—and was thankful that Peter turned around to give him some semblance of privacy while he struggled out of his pants and into the soft sweats. With a tired sigh, Stiles yanked off his socks and added them to the pile of dirty clothes, too tired to deal with them at that moment.
"Hey, Peter?" Stiles' voice was barely above a whisper, "Thanks."
Stiles was almost ready to fall asleep right there on the bathroom floor—the cool tile wasn't so bad, after all—when he suddenly felt himself being gently lifted into the air. Lacking the energy to flail, Stiles instead just leaned into Peter's warmth, letting his head rest on the werewolf's shoulder.
"Anytime, Stiles."
Filing away the uncharacteristic openness and sincerity in Peter's voice to look at when his brain was actually functioning, Stiles tucked his face into the crook of the wolf's neck with a nod. Peter sucked in a breath at the subtle scenting as his wolf preened at the gesture. As he laid the human down on his bed, Peter gently brushed the back of his hand along Stiles' cheek. The boy was asleep before the older man had even pulled the duvet over him.
Thanks for reading! See you next chapter 3
Chapter title from 'The One to Survive' by Hidden Citizens.