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 2: Used to the Darkness
The next morning, Stiles woke to the smell of coffee and food. He blinked, momentarily confused—the Argents certainly hadn't been hosting him at a B&B—before the previous night began rushing back to him. Stiles stared up at the ceiling for a moment, then swept his gaze across the room. It was simple, but surprisingly more cozy than the teen had expected from Peter Hale. Derek's loft was spartan, industrial in a way that was not going to be featured in Architectural Digest anytime soon, but despite the brick wall and exposed, matte black pipes, the elder Hale's room felt warm and inviting.
Stiles' brain finally caught up to the fact that he was in Peter's den, and the wolf had trusted him enough to leave him—pack-adjacent, lanky, awkward, too-nosy-for-his-own-good human Stiles—alone in his sanctuary.
Oh.
Eyes widening as a hand reached up to rub at his chest, Stiles realized that he might be pack-adjacent to Scott, Derek and the rest of the wayward pups, but to Peter he was pack. The thought brought a smile to Stiles' lips as he inhaled the scent of cedar, spice and early morning lake air that he associated with the werewolf.
Peter turned slightly as Stiles shuffled into the kitchen, unsurprised that the teen had been lured by the scent of coffee and the promise of food. The young man didn't seem up to talking, but Peter had the advantage of at least one cup of coffee over him and didn't press Stiles as he slid a plate of eggs, sausage and toast towards him. Stiles took the food with a tired smile and poured himself a coffee from the carafe on the breakfast bar before taking a seat.
"Do you want some coffee with that sugar?" Peter inquired, one eyebrow raised as he watched Stiles fix his coffee.
"Hush, big bad. I need sugar and caffeine to function. Balance," Stiles smirked.
The elder Hale just rolled his eyes, attention returning to his own breakfast. It wasn't until the second cup of coffee that Stiles started to talk about what had brought him to Peter's door the night before. How Gerard Argent had knocked him out after the lacrosse fiasco, dragging him back to be tortured for information on the Pack in the Argent family torture basement. Then the teen had gone on to explain how he had gotten Erica and Boyd free, blowing the breaker and escaping out the back while Christopher Argent argued with his father. That bit had surprised Peter the most—he'd known Chris didn't necessarily subscribe to the same ideals as his extremist sister and father, but he was a hunter nonetheless.
"Anyways, we hit the Preserve and I told the pups to run, to find somewhere safe and keep their fucking heads down if they didn't want to end up dead or back for some patented Argent hospitality," Stiles finished, staring into his nearly empty mug with a huff, "I figure there must be a way to get them integrated into another pack, or something. Like, I didn't want to send them back to Derek if I didn't have to—they just wanted somewhere to belong, not to be running for their lives and getting fucking tortured, y'know?"
Peter nodded, already clicking through his phone as Stiles spoke, "I could contact the neighbouring pack. Satomi Ito is a good Alpha, and her pack are established and have maintained a secure territory. Want me to call her?"
"Really? You would do that?" Stiles perked up, hope shining in his eyes.
"My nephew hasn't really been all that impressive as an Alpha," Peter rolled his eyes, "and the wayward pups deserve a chance to prove themselves to be good wolves. Besides, losing a couple pack bonds might be what he needs to pull his head out of his ass."
The human across from him grimaced, "It might take more than that. Derek is so buried in guilt and desperation I'm not sure he'd recognize daylight."
Peter couldn't help but agree, but at the same time, he couldn't really bring himself to care. Derek had abandoned him after the fire, had abandoned him in his insanity, and then again after his resurrection by pushing him to the fringes of the pack. His nephew wasn't his responsibility anymore.
"I'll call Satomi, on one condition," Peter smirked as Stiles shifted nervously in his seat, eyeing him warily.
"What would that be? We're not killing your nephew."
"Not worth the effort at this point," Peter shrugged, unfazed that Stiles assumed that getting him an alpha spark via familicide was in the cards, "but I would like to know how you knew where I lived—and got my keys, for that matter."
"Oh," Stiles slumped, visibly relieved even as he looked up with a sparkle in his eyes that Peter knew spelled trouble, "well, to answer your first question, I make a habit of knowing where all of the pack lives. Not that hard when your dad is the kind of Sheriff who uses the same password for literally everything."
Peter rolled his eyes, "Of course you pulled my file. Learn anything interesting, darling?"
"Most of it I knew already," Stiles smirked as he jumped down from the bar stool and came to stand next to Peter as he pulled out his phone, "I can show you if you'd like. If I had my laptop I could just send it to you—y'know, as thanks for taking care of me."
"And the keys?" Peter arched an eyebrow at the young man as he took the phone.
"You mean these?"
Peter turned as the glint of silver and brass caught his eye. Stiles was dangling Peter's keys—the ones had been sure were in his pocket a second ago—from one slender finger as he propped himself up with one elbow on the marble bartop, grinning like the cat that got the cream as he rested his chin on one palm. Unable to bring himself to be mad, Peter just arched an eyebrow and held out his hand.
"Sticky fingers, sweetheart?" the werewolf drawled, impressed that the usually clumsy man had managed to pickpocket him in his own home.
Stiles shrugged, dropping the keyring into Peter's waiting palm, "I've always had a talent for it. Got obsessed with learning when I was younger—used one of my mom's old dressforms to practice with bells and everything. Thought I'd have a harder time with werewolves to be honest, but neither Scott nor Derek have caught me yet."
"You pickpocketed my nephew?" Peter couldn't help chuckling at the thought.
"Surprisingly easy, given how many walls he's shoved me into over the past year and a half," Stiles grimaced, "not worth the bruises though—that man doesn't carry anything interesting. Anyways, I got your keys during training," the human smirked, "and copied them before they conveniently fell out of your pocket onto the forest floor."
Peter blinked at the man for a moment—he remembered that day. He'd thought it a little odd, but Stiles had flailed and talked, and Peter hadn't suspected a thing. And here the werewolf had thought the 'token human' couldn't surprise him anymore.
"I, uh…I could return the copies, y'know. If you wanted," Stiles was fidgeting nervously as he looked down at his hands.
Peter put a hand on the back of Stiles' neck to reassure the young man before he spiralled into a panic, "Keep them, darling. You earned them."
As the younger man relaxed and laughed, having never received such a reaction to his lightfingered antics, Peter felt the tether that bound him to Stiles strengthen. The wolf vaguely wondered if the human could feel it too. After the whole mess with Gerard, the kanima, and relocating Derek's wayward betas was sorted, maybe then he would broach the topic. Until then, Peter would do what he had always done with his pack: protect it.
"I admit that I'm surprised you came to me instead of Scott," the werewolf mused.
Stiles scoffed, "Scott can't be bothered with me unless it's to talk about Allison. I doubt anyone even realized I was missing."
Peter admittedly hadn't been making much effort to interact with Derek's pack, keeping them all at arms length since they clearly did not trust, nor forgive him. None of them except for Stiles—he never smelled of anger or distrust around Peter, apprehensive maybe, but not outright hostility or fear. So Peter would not have been surprised if Stiles had not expected him in particular to know he was missing, but to not expect anyone to notice? Not even Scott, his supposed brother and best friend? The wolf guessed that the distance Scott and Derek kept from Stiles wasn't just in his head—and Peter supposed he shouldn't be as surprised that Stiles didn't expect help after he had been forced to wait for hours in a pool while supporting his paralyzed nephew. The anger was burning hot beneath his skin again in a way it had not since before the fire.
"I noticed," Peter admitted in a low voice, "I tried to track you from the field but Gerard used a scent blocker."
Stiles looked up, surprised, "You noticed? Why…why me?"
Peter settled on the easiest answer, "Because I like you, Stiles. We're more alike than you might think, darling."
Stiles looked down, then glanced at Peter out of the corner of his eye, "We are. I don't think that's such a bad thing."
"Don't let Scott or my nephew hear you say that," the wolf smirked.
"Honestly?" Stiles winced as he pulled a stool over and sat down again, "I don't have the bandwidth to care right now. I doubt they would have come for me even if they knew I was missing."
"Luckily you've got me, darling."
Stiles cursed under his breath as the Jeep crashed through the warehouse wall. It had been less than a day since he had gotten free from the Argent's basement and frankly, he would have been happy to continue hiding away at Peter's for the next couple days at least. The universe had never been on his side—not since Scott got bit at least. Maybe not since his mom had died and left him with an absent father. So, if he wanted to stay somewhere he felt safe, then Stiles felt like he had earned it.
It should have come as a surprise that there was not a single message on his phone asking him where he had been, but it didn't. Stiles, Boyd and Erica had traded a few messages back and forth. Even Peter had gotten roped into the group chat, as he was the one trying to set them up with a new pack—the Ito Pack whose territory bordered their own—and despite the wolf's grumbling, Stiles had not missed the pleased glimmer in Peter's pale cerulean eyes at being trusted and relied upon. Between all of that, he and Peter had been comparing notes and consolidating all the research they'd done on the kanima. The mounting evidence that Gerard was now the kanima's master did little to settle Stiles' nerves, but Peter's promise—made with a bloodthirsty grin and glowing eyes—that Gerard would never touch him again helped.
Peter had been in the kitchen making coffee when Stiles got the message from Scott demanding that he pick up Lydia and to get to the warehouse now. No 'where have you been, bro?' or 'hey are you okay?', just an order. Peter had growled over his shoulder, and anger that wasn't completely his own echoed in Stiles' chest. The human filed it away to investigate later—he had suspicions but wanted to be sure before asking the million questions burning in his brain with his very accomodating rescuer.
Peter had wanted to go with him, but Stiles had made the point that Lydia would be a lot harder to convince with the man she had helped bring back from the dead at his side. The elder Hale had begrudgingly agreed, and went ahead to the warehouse to wait for the two teenagers to arrive.
Now, Lydia and Jackson were having a moment that had Stiles repressing the urge to start playing 'The Beauty and the Beast' soundtrack at full blast even as he had to keep from blacking out on the floor where he was crouched next to Roscoe. Thankfully, after Peter's resurrection, he and Lydia had hashed out their differences when, in the middle of explaining that 'yes, werewolves exist' and 'no, you're not quite human anymore—probably a banshee according to my research actually, but my Latin is trash so you might want to check that' that he had used his 'hopeless crush' on her to dispel any doubts about his (not-so-hetero)sexuality. They weren't friends but they could work together, and Stiles appreciated that.
A thrum of anticipation tugged at his chest as Jackson's face began to appear through the scales. Stiles' closed his eyes for a moment, focusing on the feeling. It felt like a thread being plucked, and followed it with his mind as it trailed off. When he opened his eyes, he found his gaze met squarely with the electric blue glow of one which could only belong to Peter. The other man winked at Stiles, something like smug satisfaction mixed with a hint of wonder flashing in the wolf's eyes as they slid back to the group at the center of the warehouse. Stiles let out a breath and went back to watching the scene play out.
In the chaos that followed, while everyone was staring horrified at Jackson's corpse, Stiles was the only one that saw Gerard trying to drag his battered body out of the warehouse. Without thinking, he stalked across the warehouse and planted a foot firmly on the back of the old man's neck.
"Somewhere to be, gramps?" Stiles all but snarled, glaring down the man that had beaten and tortured him.
Gerard could only cough and splutter as his face was pushed into the concrete, black ichor leaking from his mouth and eyes as he tried to struggle against Stiles' sneaker, which was still stained with blood and mud.
A roar signalled that Jackson had woken up, now fully a werewolf, but Stiles only briefly flicked his gaze towards the group to confirm that fact. Shifting his weight, he crouched so that his knee was firmly between the old hunter's shoulder blades. Gerard took a shuddering breath as the weight was lifted from his neck, but let out a pained gasp when the knee hit his spine.
"You won't do anything to me, you insolent brat," the hunter sneered.
Stiles could feel several pairs of eyes turn towards him, but paid them no heed as he leaned down, ignoring the pain that lanced through his ribs at the movement.
"You don't know me, Argent," he hissed back, voice low and deadly, "I am going to ruin you."
Footsteps approached, satisfaction pulsing along the bond in his chest—Stiles had suspected what it was, after all he had done all the research for Scott, and Peter's reaction had confirmed it—and he felt a hand on the back of his neck. Peter was pulling just enough pain that Stiles could breathe comfortably, without making him completely woozy.
Before the wolf could say anything, however, Scott had run up and was practically spitting in his face.
"What the hell, man? Just leave him! He's learned his lesson and gotten what he deserved!"
The snarl that Peter let out mirrored exactly what Stiles was feeling in that moment. He turned to his best friend, eyes blazing.
"Learned his lesson? What lesson would that be, Scott? That he can play everyone like a fiddle, then slink off to lick his wounds?"
"He didn't play me," Scott looked offended, and Stiles couldn't help but compare the face he made to that of a kicked puppy, "Deaton and I planned the whole thing! We got him, my pack took care of it!"
Stiles shot to his feet, Peter's hand slipping from his neck to his wrist. Scott noticed and growled slightly, assuming that the other wolf was restraining the human, ignorant of the black lines snaking up Peter's hand. They had been joined by the others, Allison hanging onto Scott's arm, her father looking worriedly between Gerard, Stiles and Peter, while Derek and Isaac hung back, observing the whole scene play out.
"You call letting a loose end pull a Houdini 'taken care of'? Cause if I hadn't stopped him, that's exactly what you would have done!" Stiles flicked his eyes to Derek, noting the hard set of his jaw and the hurt just behind the anger in his dark eyes, "And since when is it your pack, Scott? Did you even let Derek in on what you were doing? Did you consider that it was up to the Alpha to make that call, to make that decision with the Emissary and, more likely, the Left Hand?"
Peter tried not to revel in Scott's look of utter confusion, and focused instead on the pride that swelled as Stiles' demonstrated, yet again, that he had more brains in his little finger than Scott had in his entire body.
Clever boy, he thought, a wicked smirk on his face as he pressed his foot harder into Gerard Argent's back. Even the blood and ichor getting on his expensive dress shoes couldn't put a damper on the thrill of seeing Stiles' ruthless, protective streak rear its head.
The smell of ozone and petrichor grew stronger around the boy as Scott flashed his eyes in his best friend's face. Stiles didn't even flinch, instead settling on pursing his lips.
"What the hell, Stiles?" Allison piped up, clutching harder at Scott's arm, "Don't act like you know everything just because you read a few articles on Google."
Stiles snorted, "And you know better because you tortured a couple innocent werewolves?"
Allison blanched, spluttering as her father dragged her away with a grim frown on his face. Chris Argent sent an apologetic look back to Stiles, who just nodded in return. Chris had distracted Gerard long enough for him, Erica and Boyd to make their escape, so Stiles felt he owed him at least the chance to talk to Allison himself.
Scott, on the other hand, was not going to let that slide, and lunged at Stiles. The teen found himself pulled out of the way of his friends claws and fangs just in time. Looking up, Stiles saw Peter's eyes flash blue at the other beta, a hint of fang showing through his sneer until a roar shook the warehouse.
Peter turned his attention to his nephew whose eyes were blazing red even after he let the shift fade.
"Enough," Derek's voice was tired, "Peter, let Gerard go. His body is rejecting the Bite—he won't survive."
"You're just going to let a threat wander off, dear nephew? An Argent who kidnapped your pack members and tortured them? A hunter?" Peter's voice was sarcastic, almost mocking as he met his nephew's gaze squarely.
"Stiles isn't pack," Derek growled, ignoring the snarl that ripped out of Peter's throat as the wolf pulled Stiles protectively into his side, "and I need Scott's cooperation. So if he wants Gerard to go, then let him go."
Derek's eyes flashed red as he said the last part, but Stiles was not focused on that as he felt the wind almost knocked out of him again. Even with Peter moving his hand back to his neck to drain more of his pain, Stiles' vision began to cloud with black. Subconsciously, he leaned into Peter for support, the wolf's grip tightening in response.
Peter wanted to rip Gerard's throat out right then, but he felt his foot letting up pressure on the hunter's back. Despite how frayed and tenuous his bond to his nephew was, he couldn't ignore the order. He was about to fight it, when he felt a flash of reassurance from Stiles through their bond—his favourite human sure did learn quick—and there was a hint of something else, mischief and scheming in the young man's honey coloured eyes when he caught them in his periphery.
"Fine, Alpha," he bit out, voice low and cold, "on your head be the consequences."
Derek just growled at his uncle until the latter let up on the pressure, wiping the bottom of his shoe on a clean part of the old man's shirt like the hunter was a particularly offensive doormat.
"Let's go, sweetheart. I can think of better things to do with our time," Peter drawled flirtatiously, throwing in a wink as he slipped an arm around Stiles' waist for good measure.
Stiles just smirked up at the older wolf indulgently, a mischievous gleam in his eyes, "Your place or mine?"
The younger man had to bite back a laugh at the look of confusion and outrage on Derek's face, thankful that Peter wasn't about to let the werewolf slam him into any walls as they turned back towards the Jeep. Scott's spluttering, red face was the cherry on top as Stiles mentally steeled himself for whatever his best friend—former best friend?—would lay into him with. At least he'd been able to change into some of his own clothes thanks to the go-bag he kept in his Jeep. The last thing he wanted to explain was why he was wearing Peter's designer, way-too-expensive for a highschooler clothing after disappearing for a night.
"Where are you going?" Scott finally got his voice back, "Stay away from Stiles! He's mine!"
Stiles stiffened, a shadow passing through his eyes. Peter turned back towards his mistake of a beta—biting the kid was turning into one of his biggest regrets, if the wolf was being honest with himself—and growled.
"You might be that druid's favourite, boy, but don't think that gives you the right to treat people like property."
Like tools, his mind added, thinking back to Talia's treatment of him as Left Hand.
Leaning into Peter and speaking as low as he could, Stiles muttered, "Let's go. My head can't take a McCall Signature Tantrum right now."
Peter smirked as they reached the Jeep, the anger radiating off of Scott practically rolling over them in waves. Stiles held out the keys as he reached the passenger side door.
"Crush them and I'll lace all the coffee with wolfsbane," Stiles said with as much of a smirk as he could muster.
"Vicious, darling," Peter smirked back, taking the keys and walking around to the driver's side.
As much as the wolf inside him wanted to lift his packmate into the vehicle just to make sure he got settled safely, the man knew that Stiles would probably not appreciate that. Not in front of Derek and Scott, at least.
Stiles tried to grin at the wolf, but it came out as more of a grimace as the pain came back full force. He caught Lydia's gaze past Peter's shoulder, and flicked his eyes to the eldest Hale, holding up a finger to indicate he should wait. The teenager opened the door stiffly and clambered up to rummage around in the back until he had pulled out a small backpack. Making his way over to the pair who looked equal parts shell-shocked and starcrossed, Stiles held out the bag to Jackson.
"Here, figured you might not want to be stuck wandering town in all your…glory," Stiles said tiredly, but did his best to offer a supportive smile, "If you need help and Scott or Derek aren't able to, you can give me a call. Just, try not to be a complete dick about it okay?"
Not waiting for a reply, he turned to Lydia, "Same goes for you, Lyds. Figure you don't want to ride with Peter, but just wanted to make sure you can get back okay?"
Lydia's hug took Stiles by surprise, but he managed to keep his balance and awkwardly return the embrace.
"Thank you, Stiles. We'll be okay getting back. You sure you're okay with…him?" Lydia glared at Peter over Stiles' shoulder, while the other man just made a show of inspecting his nails.
"Yeah, don't worry. I trust Peter, he's pack."
Peter looked up at that, quickly masking the surprise and hope behind annoyance and impatience as he rolled his eyes. In his chest, however, his wolf rumbled happily as another thread wove itself into the bond he shared with Stiles. He swore he could feel laughter echoing along it.
Releasing Lydia with a pat on the shoulder, Stiles gave the pair a short wave goodbye and indicated Jackson could keep the bag and the clothes once he'd changed into them. Lydia let him go with a promise to let her know when he made it home safe, and she would do the same for her and Jackson. Stiles nodded, the pain in his chest throbbing yet again as he made his way back to the Jeep. As soon as he had closed the door and slumped into the passenger seat, he felt a hand on his wrist again.
"Thanks," Stiles murmured as Peter started the Jeep and backed out of the same hole Stiles and Lydia had created when they crashed into the warehouse, "And careful, she grinds—"
"—in second," Peter finished with a grin, "I remember, darling."
Stiles hummed in response, a little woozy as Peter pulled more pain than before, "Had to be sure, Zombiewolf. You were a little insane after all. But hey, maybe that insanity is why you actually listened to me. People don't normally remember what I say. Or hear it in the first place."
"I always listen to you, Stiles. You're the only one with anything interesting to say, after all," Peter's voice was soft as he admitted it. Of course, it was true—but he also remembered that night in the parking garage more vividly than most of his time after waking up from the coma.
Maybe it was noticing the duality of Stiles' scent that had cemented it in his memory, or the determination with which the human had stood up to an Alpha werewolf who could have easily killed him. But Peter knew, deep down, that he could not hurt Stiles. Even if he would make the perfect wolf, he had realized recently that Stiles didn't need to be a werewolf to be a wolf at heart—to understand the value of pack, to be loyal and protective of those he cared about, to take care of those that were his.
Peter would always, somewhere, regret not biting Stiles instead of Scott. Well, he would always regret biting Scott, and he would never be able to bite Stiles against the boy's will. Stiles, who was more wolf than even his nephew at this point, who was pack in a way Peter thought he would never feel again after his family burned and he'd killed Laura, who they called the 'boy who runs with wolves' but got left behind when it was truly important. Even when he had been half-insane and blinded by vengeance he had asked Stiles if he wanted the Bite. Peter refused to take anything from the only packmate, hell the only friend he had had in a decade, that Stiles did not want to give.
"Can we stop by my place so I can get some things?" Stiles asked tiredly, as if he already knew that Peter was not about to let him stay anywhere but his home, his den while Gerard Argent was still possibly alive.
Peter tried not to preen at Stiles acceptance of the need for the pack to stay close when there were dangers about, of Peter's need to ensure his packmate's safety. Instead he nodded, re-routing towards the Stilinski home.
When they pulled up to the small, two-storey house it was dark and quiet. The Sherriff's cruiser wasn't parked out front, so Peter assumed the man must be working. Stiles gently pulled his wrist from the other man's grip, and climbed out of the Jeep with a grimace. He was moving a lot easier than the night he had escaped from the Argent's basement, but everything still ached right down to his bones.
It was short work to unlock the door and flick on a few lights before making his way up to his room. Peter stepped into the space and was shocked by how muted the scents were, as if Stiles were the only one who lived here, the Sheriff's scent naught but an afterthought, even as the wolf passed what he presumed to be the man's room.
"Dad is hardly home these days," Stiles shrugged, as if he hadn't just read Peter's mind and offered an answer that made the wolf clench his fists in anger.
"These days?" Peter ground out, trying to keep a lid on his temper.
Another shrug as Stiles continued packing a few things into the duffel bag he had tossed on his bed.
"He was always distant after…after mom died," the boy admitted softly, hands hovering over his laptop for a moment, "Now he's just stopped trying."
Peter couldn't stop the growl that escaped his throat as he thought about Stiles' father just giving up and abandoning his favourite human.
A chuckle escaped Stiles, even though it caused a wince from the teen, "Alright, big bad. We have bigger problems than my less-than-stellar home life to worry about."
With a huff, Peter sat back in the desk chair he had perched himself on and crossed his arms, "I can multitask, sweetheart."
Stiles just rolled his eyes and zipped up the bag before slinging it over his shoulder as gently as he could. Grinning back at him, Peter stood and effortlessly slipped the black canvas bag from Stiles' shoulder and tossed it over his own.
"Aren't you worried about what Scott will say if you go after Argent?"
"Who said Scott has to know," Stiles scoffed, "it's not like he has kept me in the loop since he and Allison got together—he won't even notice. As long as the problem is out of sight it is as good as solved for Scott."
Somehow, that did not come as a surprise to Peter. Contrary to popular belief, the former Left Hand was not amoral, but he had never seen the world in black and white. It was why he could take pride in his blue eyes, even if he had gained them far too young. The lives he had taken in service of the Hale pack had been to protect them, and he would never regret that.
Looking at the grim determination on Stiles' face as they locked up the house and got back into the Jeep, Peter figured that Stiles understood that too.
"Besides, we aren't gonna kill Gerard Argent, big bad."
Peter growled, flashing his eyes and fangs at Stiles—he had thought the human smarter than McCall, smart enough to see the shades of grey, the differences between the way things worked in the supernatural world and the mundane—but stopped when he saw the predatory grin on Stiles face. Knowing an answer was forthcoming, because Stiles could be a dramatic bastard when he wanted to be, and Peter would be damned if he didn't let him have this moment because he had earned it as surely as he had earned the keys to Peter's condo, and Peter was a dramatic bastard too.
"We are going to destroy him."
"We?"
This wasn't how Peter had planned on having this conversation, but the way Stiles said 'we', with the same weight that he had said that Peter was pack, made the wolf desperate to know if he meant it.
"We're pack. I am in your pack, aren't I?" Stiles asked, with a hand over his chest where he imagined the bond he could feel thrumming between him and the older wolf sat.
The emphasis was not lost on the older man. Peter smiled, eyes flashing blue as Stiles tilted his head back and to the side. He reached out a hand, claws pressing against the human's pale skin but never breaking it.
"You are my pack, Stiles."
The hollowness that had ached in Stiles' chest since Derek had told him he wasn't pack dulled to the point of non-existence as the warmth turned into a blazing fire. Peter was focused on the affirmed bond, the way it burned in his chest but didn't evoke the flames that had claimed his life twice over. He still didn't miss the way Stiles' eyes seemed to glow golden for a moment. Not like a beta wolf, but like something other, something more. The ozone and petrichor scent flooded the space around Stiles, and Peter almost felt tipsy from the onslaught.
It was a quiet drive back to Peter's condo, Stiles was crashing from the adrenaline and trying to avoid a panic attack at seeing Gerard again. It wasn't until they were safely behind closed doors that he really allowed himself to ease the lid off of the emotions he'd clamped down on during the kanima confrontation.
Peter looked over at the human with worry flashing in his eyes. Frustration, pain and fear were souring Stiles' scent in equal measure, and Peter was unable to resist pulling the shivering teen into his arms. Without thinking, he brushed his cheek along Stiles'. Stiles stiffened momentarily, before realizing what the werewolf was doing and relaxing slightly. Returning the embrace, the younger man hesitantly emulated Peter's gesture.
"Are you sure you're not a wolf already?" Peter drawled, a cheeky grin tugging at his lips—really he shouldn't have been surprised that Stiles, of all people, understood the importance of scenting pack members.
"What," Stiles chuckled humourlessly, still refusing to let Peter go because he was warm and safe and smelled like pack, "because I actually did my research—well as much as I could with what I had at my disposal at least—and like hell I'd actually let that go to waste."
The scent lingering around the human went from sour to bittersweet. It was the first time Stiles had admitted out loud that he felt as if everything he had done, everything he was doing, for the pack had been for naught. That the sleepless nights, missed assignments and skipped meals had been overlooked because the pack took him for granted and then barely took his advice into consideration. The guilt hit him soon after, and Stiles looked down, refusing to meet Peter's darkening gaze. Peter stepped back and tilted Stiles' chin up to look him square in the eye.
"As long as you have gained knowledge from that research, then it was not wasted."
Peter had all but growled the words, but Stiles didn't flinch, and instead savoured the feeling of another thread twining itself into the pack bond he shared with the eldest Hale. His shoulders slumped, and Peter steered them both towards his room so that they could get some rest. Stiles opted to sleep in Peter's clothes again—he was a broke student and couldn't afford anything of this quality, so he would take advantage of the little things, sue him—and was out almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. The werewolf just chuckled, turning back towards the main living area to arrange some things before changing and crawling into bed, happy to have his packmate close and safe.
When Stiles woke the next day, a stack of books that looked older than anything he had even seen in Deaton's office sat on the coffee table. Next to the books was a new, leatherbound notebook and fancy pen, courtesy of Peter who was not about to let his packmate be discouraged from learning all that he wanted to.
Thanks for reading! See you next chapter!
Chapter title from 'Used to the Darkness' by Des Rocs