Archive of Our Own ^beta

When Stiles’ mother was a girl, still newly on her own, with enough knowledge to think she could handle anything and not enough experience to know that knowledge is never enough, she got lost in the woods. It sounds like something from a fairy tale, one of the dark old tales, where the main character dies horribly at the end because they didn’t heed the lesson life was trying to teach them. It kind of is.

She gets lost in the woods, and wanders, trying to find her way home, the moon full and bright, but not enough for her to find anything familiar to guide herself by. She knows a few tricks, some charms and hexes, but only silly flashy things, or subtle ones, meant to help her learn more complex things later. Nothing to truly help keep her out of danger. So when the wolves find her, she does the only thing she can. She strikes a bargain.

She looks over the people assembled, their eyes glowingly eerily in response to the magic hovering in the air, gathered and waiting to be put to use. She's still young, young enough to not yet regret the promise she made in exchange for her transgressions all those years ago, but old enough to understand that she might, one day.

She looks at the man with eyes glowing red, the son of the previous Alpha, who had bargained with a girl lost in woods that weren't hers, and to the children standing in front of him, wide eyes glowing blue. There are other children in the pack, but the deal was made with the previous Alpha, and she feels the bargain should be kept as close to the source as possible. Two children; a girl, cheeks still plump with baby fat, and a boy slightly younger, barely out of babyhood himself. The curl of the Alpha's hand on the top of the girl's head is a weighted thing. Less paternal concern and more... official. The heir apparent, then. Best not tie the future Alpha to a promise that may not come to fruition. She doesn't think anything will ever come of this, but if it does she will try and lessen the blow. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, opens them and looks to the Alpha.

“The boy. Would that be acceptable?” He nods, removing his hand from the girl’s hair and picking the boy up, walking to join her in the middle of the circle.

“Because there is no... child to anchor the other side of the bond to we have to use something else. Names are a true thing, and we will use that.” She beckons him closer, looking into the boy's eyes but still speaking to the Alpha. “The bond will be there, but waiting. He’ll need to speak the child’s true name to him or her to complete it.” The Alpha nods in understanding, and the boy is staring with wide eyes at her and the Alpha in turn, too young to comprehend what’s happening.

She grasps the boy’s jaw and leans in close to whisper words to him that he won’t understand or probably even remember and that everyone else will be able to hear regardless. She closes her eyes and feels the gentle knot of the magic forming, feels the twitch of the Alpha and the boy in his arms as the contract is sealed and she gives the wolves the key to her as-yet nonexistent firstborn child. Fairy tales indeed.

She falls in love the next summer. Before two more have passed there is a ring on her hand and a quickening in her belly. She is old enough now to regret, and to realise that hers is not one of the tales where the heroes suffer because of a poor choice, but rather the sort where they are consumed by guilt and regret because their reckless decisions are the cause of a loved one's suffering. Hormones are a convenient excuse for the tears, and pave the way for acceptance of her choice for the child’s name, even if the magic ties her husband’s tongue in knots when he tries to say it.

She has felt her strength fading in the years since she abandoned her old life for her husband and child. She knows she will not last long enough for her son, her darling son, all but wished away before he was even a twinkle in her eye, will be old enough to understand what has been done, let alone why. When fire consumes the Hale house and the surviving children leave she tries to tamp down the fierce joy and relief she feels. Her darling is safe now.

Still, she keeps her secret. Keeps his name close, whispering it into his ear as he's on the edge of sleep, or curled safely in her arms, flushed and warm with laughter and happiness, calls him her little imp where anyone else might overhear. She smiles, fond and exasperated, when her husband attempts to say it, the syllables falling clunky and ungainly from his tongue, not even a colt's promise of grace to come coloring the word, until even he gives up, lets Stiles rule everywhere but on official documents.

He may be safe now, but she has learned that such things are not to be trusted, and her light is fading. When she dies she’ll take his name with her, and hopefully the Hale children will stay far from the memories of both the fire that all but wiped out their pack and of a name whispered in the woods years before that.

“Stiles,” his mother says suddenly and fiercely, more serious than he has ever seen her in his life. He takes her hand, the one not pierced by an IV, in both of his and tries not to think about how thin and light her hand is. The other comes up to grasp his chin, and there is a fire in her eyes that hasn’t been present for months now. His thoughts whirl through the air like embers caught in a breeze and the air is suddenly heavier when his mother cups his cheek and begins to speak, staring not at him but through him, as if reading the words from a long-forgotten book.

“Your name is important. You must keep it close and not use it lightly. It is who you are and everything that you are. One day you’ll understand, or perhaps be made to understand. Stiles is a good name, one for everyone, but your name, your true name- keep it close to your heart, do you understand?” She looks panicked, and Stiles doesn’t really get it. She’s the only one who uses his real name, who can say his real name without it sounding like a car crash, but he nods anyway, clutching her hand.

“I’ll just be Stiles, then. Forever,” he says fiercely. The fire in her eyes is dimming now, and the smile she gives him as she pulls him close is definitely edging toward watery, but he’s gotten at least that much right. He breathes in as she holds him close and he wishes she smelled more like flowers and baking than hospital.

Some nights Derek dreams about when he was small, when the house was still standing and full of happiness and laughter and everyone was alive and Peter wasn’t missing half his flesh and all of his mind. Laura had come home from a school friend’s birthday party and hugged him and giggled and called him Prince Philip, betrothed to an infant, and he didn’t even know what betrothed meant but it had to have been something awful because their mother had snapped at Laura, sent her away, and gathered Derek up in her arms trying to explain away something that hadn’t even made enough sense to bother him in the first place.

Those nights he wakes up with an ache in his chest that he blames on the fire, on himself, but he still doesn’t understand what Laura meant. His mind must be playing tricks on him since she’s died, since he’s lost his last conscious packmate. His sister. His Alpha. His rubs his eyes and gets out of the nest of blankets he’s been using as a bed. He doesn’t sleep after that dream.

The boy smells like pack, like mate, and Peter needs that, needs it as much as food, as water, as air. The half bond inside Peter is desperately reaching for fulfillment, to be whole once again, will tear his sanity apart grasping at nothing. The powers Peter’s gained with his ascendance to Alpha have repaired the damage to his body, and his mind is slowly healing, but the roaring abyss of the bond severed by the death of his mate that dragged him into a coma six years ago is still gaping.

Usually the breaking of such a bond results in death, or insanity to the point where the surviving partner has to be put down for everyone’s safety. Peter cocks his head, thinks of his reaction to Laura finding him in the woods, and supposes that perhaps the latter was still applicable, at least once he healed enough to come out of the coma. He can only assume becoming the Alpha tempered the broken bond sufficiently to bring him far enough back from the edge to gain some clarity. He can still feel it, though, licking at the edges of his mind. It won’t heal on its own, but perhaps he can help it along.

The scent brings a half-formed memory to the tip of Peter’s brain, a debt owed to the pack, carried out in the middle of a clearing the woods, years in the formation. A whisper through the trees, a secret, and a promise, apparently, still yet to be fulfilled.

So Peter needs Stiles, but he needs Stiles to need him back. The broken bond was created out of mutual desire and will only be satisfied with mutual consent in its recreation. Peter quickly shuffles the plan in his mind, adjusting for Stiles, for his safety, his regard. Peter closes his eyes and smiles as the memory of a whisper rolls through his mind, wrapping around the scent still lingering in the air and burrowing into his soul. Peter’s not sure what Derek’s been up to, but clearly he hasn’t decided to fulfill the bond. His loss, Peter’s gain. The howl of the broken bond subsides to a comparatively gentle keening as he heads back to the hallway. Jennifer’s been helpful, but things have changed.

Peter isn’t a fool. He knows that Stiles cherishes this girl. Holds her dear, but out of sentiment, not desire. She's not an obstacle, not really. Still, though, Peter knows that damaging her irreparably would only make it more difficult to make Stiles his. Beneath her terror, Peter can smell that she’s strong enough to survive the bite- it won’t burn through her and keep going, like it does some people. And when she survives, she’ll be his, and by extension, Stiles’. The staccato beat of her heart slows as he lets her fall to the ground, trying not to smile as Stiles sprints onto the field. That doesn’t mean she can’t be leverage.

Peter tries to be gentle with Stiles. He makes jokes, plays off Stiles’ loyalty, uses a minimal amount of force, even considering the fact that Stiles is still human, still fragile. He makes it obvious that he’s manipulating Stiles, uses only things that anyone could, no real harm, no real damage.

Peter doesn’t go out of his way to explain himself until Stiles asks, and oh, how pleased he is that Stiles is clever, that he tries to protect Scott as fiercely as if they were packmates despite the way Stiles fled the medical facility at their first meeting, abandoning Derek with a perceived enemy. Stiles is still human, woefully so for what Peter needs, but he has the makings of a good wolf. A good mate. The ragged edges of the bond swirl in Peter, still restless, but in a different way so near to Stiles, his scent overwhelming the smells permeating the garage.

Peter intends to leave Stiles there in the parking garage, in relative safety, hobbled without a vehicle, until he can come back for him later, cement the bond as it needs to be. But he’s underestimated Stiles, his curiosity, his boldness, and Peter’s caught, half-drunk on Stiles and the promise of a fulfilled bond teasing on the horizon.

“Do you want the Bite?”

It takes all Peter has to limit the contact to the fingertips holding Stiles’ wrist, to not just pull Stiles to him and drown himself in Stiles’ scent, to explain patiently all the reasons everything Peter has done and has yet to do is necessary, murmur the words into Stiles’ skin so that Stiles can just say yes, accept this, accept Peter. He doesn’t have time to be patient, should have waited to do this until he could do it properly, explain everything, make Stiles understand. He locks his gaze with Stiles’, trying to ignore the breath shuddering through Stiles’ open mouth, Stiles’ pulse thudding rampant under Peter’s fingers, the way Peter’s own breathing wants to go ragged in response.

“Yes or no?” Stiles’ pulse is racing, and he can tell that there’s more in that question than the obvious, more than becoming a werewolf, becoming part of Peter’s pack, being party to the murders Peter is planning on committing, condoning the murders he’s already committed.

For all his homicidal tendencies Stiles can tell that Peter’s been incredibly gentle with him, but with Derek as his only barometer for typical werewolf behaviour perhaps Stiles isn’t the best judge. But Peter hasn’t gone for the low blows, hasn’t said anything about his father, hasn’t threatened him. Peter could have killed Lydia, but didn’t, let Stiles get her help instead of letting her bleed out on the field. And Stiles does want this, somewhat. Wants to be more than just the occasional sidekick, but doesn’t really want it on Peter’s terms. Especially when he doesn’t even know what those terms are.

Peter says his name then, and it sounds like towels warm from the dryer and things baking and a million other things that gently curl into his ears and around his brain, a harpoon to his gut and a fist around his heart, and whisper home. Stiles relaxes his arm in Peter’s grip, stares him in the eye and breathes out yes in time with Peter’s breath ghosting across his wrist.