Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The woods should have been quiet. They weren't.

The moon shone bright through the treetops as Stiles stumbled away from the sound of gunshots. He'd only caught a faint glimpse of the armed hunters who were casing the area more like a small paramilitary group than a bunch of guys out for a recreational night of shooting deer before he booked it. Wasn't all of that incredibly illegal? But Stiles couldn't imagine Tom the old park ranger facing down these men with guns and no qualms about using them, or worse, bringing his dad into this too. This wasn't some dude getting drunk or high and doing a bit of animal mutilation after shooting a deer. This was something far, far worse.

Stiles left the hunters far behind as he scrambled through the trees. He stopped, panting, once he could no longer hear them, catching his breath with his hands on his knees. All he could see around him was the forest; the Preserve was extensive and he had no idea where he was.

He'd scraped his elbow already from stumbling over a fallen tree and barely managing to catch himself, and he gingerly stretched it out as he pulled out his phone. In the night, the screen was astonishingly bright, and Stiles quickly covered it with his hoodie as he tried to get a signal for his location.

"Come on, come on, come on," he murmured, restlessness making him start to pace in place. He turned down the brightness as far as it would go, but even at the lowest setting it still outshone the moon. A single bar popped up and Stiles watched the slow circle of the map app trying to load. "Come on, map, you can do it—"

A branch cracked; it wasn't him. Stiles' head jolted up and he lifted his hands—they might not shoot an unarmed teenager—but instead of the hunters he had expected it was a woman, staggering toward him. For a second Stiles thought he saw something else, a dark shape, a long shadow—but she was just clutching her chest, a viscous dark liquid dripping from her fingers to the forest floor.

They'd shot her. Holy fuck, they'd shot her.

Stiles must have made a noise because she looked up, the shine from her eyes eerily crimson in the moonlight. "You," she started, and then started to cough, dropping heavily against the nearest tree. "You're…"

"I'm not with them!" Stiles said quickly, stepping closer with his hands clearly raised. Under the light from his phone screen, she looked as pale as a corpse; her blood was red-black and the bleeding wasn't stopping. "Can I—shit, I should call 9-1-1, you need an ambulance, I need to—"

"No," the woman said, and grabbed his arm in a flash. She was much, much stronger than Stiles expected; her hand was a vice grip around Stiles' wrist, the hand that was holding his phone. He tried to tug his arm back but it wouldn't budge. "No, you can't, the hunters…"

"Okay," Stiles managed, barely restraining his panic, "okay, lady, I'm not going to call them, okay? I'm just gonna try call emergency services—"

"No," she gasped, "no, I'm dying, I'm dying, they can't help, they can't…" Her grip loosened a little as she coughed, dark blood splattering across her other fist.

"Hey, hey, take it easy, you're not dying, you'll be okay. You—what's your name?"

"Laura," she said, her eyes darting around. "I need to—Peter can't have it, he can't, he'll kill Derek if he has it—"

"Laura, that's great, could you—could you let me go?"

Suddenly, she stilled and looked at Stiles. He felt strangely pinned under her gaze, eerily red-tinted under the moonlight.

"You," she said, abruptly. "You're not… you're not a hunter. You're…"

"Stiles," Stiles said, his smile feeling more like a grimace. "That's me. Laura, would you mind—if you let me go, I can get you an ambulance, a doctor—?"

And then, like a nightmare, her face shifted and she leapt at him. Pain erupted from his shoulder as his back hit the ground, and all he could think was oh, great, I can't believe I'm the first person dying in a horror movie.

He shoved her away, but the damage was done. To both of them.

Stiles clutched at his bleeding shoulder as he scrambled back. Laura had fallen to the forest floor, hands clutching her chest, and she was still watching him with strangely glowing eyes. Her face was—it was a monster's face, fangs and strange growths of hair, and Stiles couldn't, Stiles didn't—"What the fuck?! You bit me!"

A sound rose from her: a growl. But then—she coughed, dark and bloody, and she was a person again, a regular human-looking woman. Stiles couldn't help but think of the hunters in the woods. Hunting her. Whatever she was.

"You—you'll take care of Derek," she said insistently. "You have to—you have to protect him. From Peter, from the hunters, they'll kill him, they'll kill you like they killed me, like they killed all of us—" She choked, then turned her head to cough again as dark, viscous liquid dribbled from her mouth. "The wolfsbane. I'm dying. You have to—you have to kill me."

"What?!" Stiles scrambled to his feet, warily keeping his eyes on her as he stepped toward his phone; it had slipped from his grip and was now face-down in the dirt. He kept one of his hands pressed to his shoulder, trying to stem the bleeding from his own wound. "No! I'm not killing you! I'm not killing anyone! I don't know what you are—a werewolf, whatever—shit, you bit me, am I a werewolf now?!"

She stared at him fervently. Her eyes were shining red. It wasn't a trick of the light or Stiles losing his mind. They were actually glowing, the color as deep as blood. "Promise me," she said, "promise me, you'll take care of Derek, you have to protect him"—and something about her voice shifted, going deep and reverberating, piercing through Stiles' panicking brain—"promise me!"

"Okay, okay!" Her voice felt like a kick to the ribs and Stiles had a strange urge to agree, to appease her, to say yes. "I really need to call you an ambulance first, okay? Then you can protect Derek yourself!"

"No," she choked out, "no, you agreed, didn't you? You promised…"

As she trailed off, hacking black-tainted blood, Stiles quickly grabbed for his phone, abandoned on the ground. The screen had a crack running down the front, but it turned on when he held it, flickering slightly. It even had a single bar of signal when he unlocked it, which was frankly a miracle this deep in the Preserve.

Laura's eyes were fixed on the glowing screen. "No, you…"

"Look—even if you're a werewolf or whatever, those guys literally shot you! You're dying! Unless you have a vet or a werewolf doctor or something, I'm still calling emergency services, okay?"

"A vet…" she repeated, her voice starting to falter. "No, I can't, I can't trust…"

Stiles got the number in quickly and raised his phone to his ear, keeping an eye on her as he backed away—but all his caution was for naught in the face of overwhelming supernatural power.

Stiles' phone was on the ground. His hand was warm and wet. Laura was holding it—Laura was holding him, her hand around his hand, her nails digging in his injured shoulder, clutching at him as if he were the only thing keeping her upright. Stiles would never get the blood out of this shirt.

Laura's face was too close. And her eyes—

Her blood gushed against Stiles' fingers, down his hand, down his arm. At his fingertips, he could feel the faltering beat of her heart. Her grip on his hand was strong enough to leave bruises but it was loosening, it was fading, she was—her eyes—

Dead. That's what it was. She looked dead.

It hurt to breathe. Was this a panic attack? Was he—was this—he had, he had something for this, didn't he? The therapist he went to after his mom died, a kind face who was still someone to be wary of. Someone who could take him away. But she'd said some good things.

Counting. That was it.

Five things. Five things Stiles could see.

Laura's face, falling slack. Laura's eyes, dimming. Laura's blood on his shirt. Laura's blood on hers. The gaping hole in Laura's chest where she'd carved her heart with her claws.

This wasn't helping. This wasn't working.

Four things—four things he could touch. The dirt under his feet. The—the hot, wet stickiness of Laura's blood. Laura's body, the weight starting to crush him. Laura's heart, the muscle faintly twitching.

No. No.

Three—three he could hear. Stiles' own breathing, sharp and short. The ringing in his ears. And under that. The faint rustle of leaves from the breeze.

Two. Smell. Blood. Copper and rust.

And taste. Iron. Blood here, too. Stiles'd bit his tongue.

Stiles could feel himself breathe, chest heaving. He shoved Laura away. She fell to the ground with a soft thump.

He was covered in blood. His hands were shaking as he bent down to grab for his phone in the dirt. It slipped from his grip and his nails scratched the dirt as he tried again. The screen was still on, flickering on and off. There was a lightning-web of cracks running across the glass.

He needed to—he need to call…

Stiles looked at his hands. He looked at Laura, on the ground.

She'd bit him. He'd bled all over himself, and she'd bled all over him. Some distant part of him was thinking—was thinking about crime scene contamination, about forensics, about a dead body in the woods—

Stiles couldn't get in trouble for this. Stiles couldn't bring this back to his dad. He couldn't, he couldn't—

His breath was starting to catch in his chest. Stiles tried to breathe. He needed to—he needed to think.

They couldn't blame this on him. They couldn't find out he was here.

He took off his plaid shirt and wrapped his hands with it, then grimly inspected… the body. It'd fallen onto its back and her face was blank and—Stiles brought up his phone light and checked her mouth. It was full of blood and that black gunk she'd been choking on. She didn't have any fangs. Any DNA of his might have been coughed out already, and considering how much she'd coughed out they probably wouldn't test the blood.

And there was the hole in her chest. She'd—she'd torn out a huge chunk of flesh with her claws. It looked like an animal had tried to rip out her heart. That—that had bled a lot too. Stiles' t-shirt was splattered and the front of his plaid was soaked. That meant—it wouldn't be a problem, right? Stiles couldn't remember. Stiles couldn't—

He swallowed. He breathed out.

So, he… he couldn't do anything about the body. What about—what about his phone?

He looked at his single bar of signal. He didn't have location sharing turned on—but the data would still be there. Here. It'd put him here. Next to—next to Laura's body.

But signal triangulation was shit in rural areas, he remembered belatedly. Though he still couldn't… He had to find somewhere else to call the police.

He'd make an anonymous tip. Stiles' jeep was incredibly recognizable and it wasn't like he had a burner phone, but… yeah, there were still some working payphones along the quiet roads around the Preserve. Stiles would… he'd go back to his car. He'd go to a payphone and call the police.

Stiles wiped his fingers on his shirt, then opened up the map on his phone. It was stuck loading for a worryingly long time, but as Stiles bit his lip and starting thinking about just heading in any direction away from here, it finally showed him where he was. His car was an hour away following the trails, but going through the woods should get him there in thirty minutes. Exhaling, Stiles spared one last, flinching glance back—then oriented himself and started walking.

It took nearly two hours for him to clean up. Stiles had dug out his gym bag and changed into his uniform, dried blood cracking on his skin and clothes as he balled them up and tossed them into an old plastic bag. Then he'd found a half-full trash can on the side of the road near the payphone he'd found and tossed them in, adding a bunch of scrunched paper and setting it on fire.

Stiles watched it burn, his mind strangely empty as the flames crackled and the plastic and cotton and garbage burned. He poked around in the ashes afterward with a stick and couldn't see anything with the torch from his phone.

Then, he called the emergency line, changing his voice enough not to be recognized as he told them he'd found a dead body in the woods.

Walking in his own front door again felt like a dream. Stiles took a long shower and put his gym clothes in the washing machine. It was two in the morning and his dad was on night shift and wouldn't be home for hours yet, but Stiles found himself restlessly cleaning everything he'd touched that night, his keys and the door handle and the upholstery of his Jeep. His shoulder ached under the bandage Stiles had slapped on it, but Stiles couldn't imagine going to sleep and seeing—

He stuck his gym clothes in the dryer once he was sure they were clean of blood. Then he laid in bed, staring up at the ceiling, until his eyes closed from exhaustion.

~

Stiles felt like he was dying.

His head was pounding, his ears inundated with relentless noise, his nose with a multitude of disgusting smells. His brain felt like it was melting out of his ears and Stiles let out a weak groan and curled up in the fetal position, burying his head under his blankets and squeezing his eyes shut. What was happening? Why did everything hurt?

…Right. He'd gone out and—he'd gotten himself bit by a werewolf last night.

He hadn't recognized her last night, but in the clarity of daylight it didn't take a genius to realize it from everything she'd said. Laura, Derek, and Peter Hale—apparently all werewolves. Werewolves who had their family killed by werewolf hunters.

Werewolf hunters who had hunted down and shot Laura. Werewolf hunters who, based on their history, would probably have no qualms in hunting down a newly-lycanthropic Stiles.

Which left—what? Peter and Derek Hale? Stiles remembered Derek, vaguely; a shell-shocked teenager in the Sheriff's station immediately after the fire, one who was gone the very next day. But Peter… What had happened to Peter? And why had Laura thought he would be dangerous to Derek?

Stiles extracted himself from his blanket cocoon just enough to grab his laptop and bring it back to his bed, starting it up to look up the Hales as he jogged his memory for details about the Hale fire. The fan clicked on and whirred as the hard drive spun. The internet was clear: the fire had killed basically their whole family—eleven people, according to the news reports. And while it looked suspicious that it had happened so suddenly and literally none of them had gotten out, it had been quickly signed off as an electrical fault accident.

Considering what Laura had said, he'd have to look up the official files at the Sheriff's station. He could also check out the house, but who knew if the hunters might be staking it out? Would they have given up after killing Laura, or would still be scoping out Beacon Hills for werewolves? From Stiles' very brief acquaintance, they all seemed to be the shoot-first ask-questions-later sort.

And then there was Peter Hale: he'd been in a coma since the fire and should still be in Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital's long-term care ward.

Stiles still had no idea why Laura would be so afraid of a coma patient. She'd said something about Peter killing Derek. Had Peter been involved in the fire somehow? But that was absurd, wasn't it? Stiles didn't really have any rose-tinted ideals to speak of—too much time spent sneaking looks at his dad's case files growing up—but wouldn't Peter make sure he wasn't caught in the fire if he knew about it? No one would undergo being literally burnt alive when he could have just not been there like Laura and Derek clearly had.

And again: coma. The aftermath hadn't exactly worked out well for him. In Stiles' opinion, that meant he'd either been working with the hunters and been betrayed (which made him an incredibly shitty person, but one who'd probably still be up for helping Stiles catch the perpetrators) or hadn't actually been involved at all.

Which made Laura's fear of him even more strange. Had he just been an awful person? Was he stronger than her and physically abusive? Or… she'd been worried about Peter hurting Derek specifically, hadn't she? Had Derek been involved in the fire and Peter was just a vindictive asshole who would kill him for it?

Stiles needed to do so much more research. But maybe it was best to start with a primary source: he already knew where one person was. It seemed like a pretty good day to visit Peter Hale.

Though… Stiles looked at his fingers, where his fingernails had shifted back from claws sometime after he'd stopped panicking and gotten lost in research. He really needed to get a handle on the werewolf stuff first.

It was still early. He could—no, he had to—get himself under control.

Claws first. Then he'd work on the face thing and the glowing eyes. And then the—hearing everything, and smelling everything, and…

Stiles pursed his lips and stared at his fingers, where sharp claws were already emerging from his nailbeds. It was incredibly creepy; it felt unfathomably weird. But this was Stiles' life now, and he wasn't going to let Laura Hale—or the hunters who had shot her—win.

He'd learn how to control himself. He'd visit his dad at work. And he'd meet the mysterious Peter Hale.

~

Melissa had once taught Stiles a common nurses' trick when he was younger: if you're having trouble with the smell of the hospital, you should put a spot of peppermint oil under your collar, so you can duck your head, breathe it in, and clear your nose.

Stiles was reeking of peppermint. His newly sensitive nose wasn't thanking him, but it helped a lot to just overwhelm it rather than think about everything in the world that stank to high heaven. He'd cleared out the trash in the house and put on a load of laundry, but even Roscoe still reeked of old gas and takeout, of blood and cleaning supplies and everything else Stiles had ever spilled on the upholstery.

After parking in his usual spot, Stiles walked into the Sheriff's station with a confidence he didn't quite feel. But it wasn't too overwhelming; he knew everyone who worked here, had spent hours here after school growing up, and his dad's office was even more familiar. "Hey, daddio," he called out, hefting the lunch he'd packed as he peered in, "guess who? Guess what?"

"A burger and fries?" his dad suggested hopefully, glancing up from his computer. "Come on, kiddo…"

"Nope! It's your favorite, a heart-healthy salad!" Stiles dumped it on his dad's desk and peered over his shoulder. "Ooh, what's this, gunshots…"

"In the Preserve," his dad finished, giving him a sharp glance as he closed out of the report. "Don't stick your nose into this, it could be dangerous."

It could be dangerous! Stiles barely managed to hold in his hysterical laugh. "…Yeah, sure."

His dad gave him a quelling look. "I mean it, Stiles."

"Yeah, yeah," Stiles said, "I mean, what, animal mutilation? Gunshots? This sounds like there's some hunters getting drunk off their asses—"

"Language."

"Er, butts? Drunk off their butts. I mean, gotta be careful with gun safety and all that, right?"

His dad finally seemed to believe him. "Let the professionals handle it, okay?" He opened Stiles' salad and frowned at it. "I really can't get some fries?"

"If you have fries at lunch, mister, I'm not even making garlic bread to go with our vegetable lasagna tonight." Stiles pointed at him. "Don't push your luck."

His dad sighed but started on his lunch. "You're going over to Scott's today?"

"Uh, no, I thought I'd get a bit of spring cleaning done. Winter cleaning? Scott's busy with lacrosse practice and I just noticed there was this huge pile of dust on top of the cabinets…"

Stiles rambled on for a little while about the mess their house was in while his dad ate his salad, then jetted before his dad could question him any further. He detoured past the bullpen and walked straight into the empty records room, then beelined for the records of the Hale fire.

He pulled out his phone to take photographs of the paperwork. The incident report, the insurance report, the brief investigation which had been shuttered by the Sheriff at the time. He'd have to look up the names involved on the system to see if they had any priors, but Stiles didn't think he'd be so lucky. He'd do some legwork first, but if all else failed he could probably trade in a favor with Danny to get the information he needed.

Slipping the files back into place, Stiles stopped at the sole computer in the archive, quickly logging in using his dad's ID. The insurance investigator was currently a dead-end, but there were two witnesses mentioned in the initial report that hadn't been followed up on who had priors for arson. Stiles took quick photographs of their contact details and current addresses before he logged off, then headed back outside.

Stiles had hung around the station so much growing up that he was practically part of the furniture; no one here balked at seeing him, and he even waved goodbye to Tara, coming back from lunch, as he left. When he got to his Jeep, he reapplied the peppermint oil until he couldn't smell anything over it and headed to his next destination.

The burn of peppermint was better than reliving the lingering scent of death in the hospital corridors. He'd specifically waited until he knew Melissa wasn't on shift, because he'd have no explanation for why his Jeep was in the parking lot, and he'd changed into a nondescript hoodie to cover his face from the security cameras.

Peter Hale lived in the long-term care ward. It had been years since Stiles had last been here, years since he'd spent hours after school here with his mom, doing his homework and being largely ignored by the busy nurses, watching her slow and inevitable deterioration in real time. They hadn't told him she wouldn't get better at first, but eventually, Stiles had understood. He'd figured it out. The mom that hated him, that screamed at him, that called him a monster and tried to kill him—that was all that was left of her in the end. The mom that loved him had died long before.

Stiles wondered if he was a monster now. He didn't feel much different—more sensitive, more restless, with a strange empty hole in his chest. Laura had been paranoid, crazed, but she'd been dying. She'd—she'd clearly bit him as insurance for her brother, hoping Stiles'd be a shield to protect him. It wasn't nice. She hadn't been nice. But even monsters could be human.

And Stiles remembered Cora from primary school. She'd been ten at the time of the fire. She'd just been human, too.

Or—a werewolf, maybe. But a person, still.

After a brief knock on Peter Hale's door, Stiles let himself in. Peter was sitting in a wheelchair and facing the window.

Stiles' mind blanked. He couldn't think.

He needed him.

He needed to bite him.

His gums itched. His nails dug painfully into his palms. Stiles just managed to stop himself from leaping.

"Get a hold of yourself," Stiles swore through a mouthful of teeth. His eyes were probably bright red. Breathing in didn't help—he could still smell him under the persistent hospital reek, iron and grass and fur—so Stiles pressed his nose to his peppermint-soaked collar and tried to remember his calming exercises. Five things he could see.

Stiles counted backward slowly, pulling himself together one sense at a time. Was this why Laura was so afraid of Peter—this urge to bite him, to keep him? Or was this just Stiles' new instincts, reacting to seeing another werewolf for the first time?

"Get it together, Stiles," he told himself, pulling his fingernails—claws—from his palms as they retracted. The pain from the small wounds was dull, and they healed over in front of his eyes. He took a tentative step forward, then another. "Okay. Peter Hale. That's you, right?"

Peter's heartbeat was a little fast, but when Stiles rounded his chair, his eyes were dull. Stiles winced at the burn scars stretching across half his face. How could a werewolf get so hurt it would scar instead of heal?

But he knew, didn't he? Hunters. It seemed a pretty common thread with werewolves so far.

"Hi," Stiles said, after a moment. Peter was a handsome man even with the scars, but the blankness in his eyes was incredibly off-putting. "I'm Stiles. And you're Peter Hale. I… I know you're a werewolf. I'm one too."

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut and focused on them for a moment, letting them bleed red. Peter's heartbeat jumped and a second later, his own eyes turned intense, shining blue. Stiles let his eyes fade as Peter's turned back to a more human shade.

But—blue. Why were they blue? Was he not a werewolf after all? Was he some other sort of were-creature? Or was it just based on their original eye color?

Stiles really should have looked up more about werewolves before visiting. But then again, he had no idea which sources were legitimate and which weren't. What had he learned from Laura? She'd been shot by wolfsbane. She'd bit him. Stiles' memory jumped to her face, the warm wet thump of her heart—

Five things. Stiles breathed.

"Okay," he said quickly, before he could overthink it, "look, I don't know what's going on, or why you're here, or why…" He glanced around at the empty room. It didn't have a single ounce of personality; no flowers, no photographs, not even a get-well card. It was… awful, actually. Stiles had hated visiting his mother in the hospital, hated seeing her die by inches, but at least they'd—at least she'd known she had Stiles' dad. At least she'd known she was cared for.

"But," Stiles picked up his train of thought, "Laura was killed by hunters yesterday. They shot her and she bit me and it was—it was pretty fucking traumatic, actually! It sucked. This whole thing sucks. And… and if they're hunting down Hales, if they're killing the rest of you off, you… dude, you are in big trouble. So, I wasn't sure how conscious you were but it looks like a little wolfy escape is a no-go. Uh…"

He pressed his tongue to his teeth as he mentally retraced his steps, thinking about the few working security cameras. Luckily for him, there weren't that many, just one at the entrance, and there were none at the side exit. If he could just slip a stamped release form into the system with a faked copy of Laura's signature, he'd completely cover his tracks. He'd need to get into a nurse's account for the forms—he didn't want to link this back to Melissa—but if he needed to he could blackmail Danny into helping him out.

"Maybe we can do a little heist tonight? I don't know where I'd keep you, though… the attic? Dad never goes up there. I'd have to dust."

Peter wouldn't care about that, though. And Stiles… Yeah, Stiles could manage it. He was sixteen now; far more capable of looking after an adult than he had been at nine, or ten, or eleven.

And Stiles—wanted to take care of Peter. Wanted to keep him. Wanted to bite him. He breathed out and tried to focus.

Whatever it was, werewolf instincts or a link to Laura's wolf-pack or the strange ache holed in Stiles' chest, sympathy or empathy or both, he couldn't leave Peter here to be killed at anyone's mercy. The ward was underfunded and understaffed; considering how easily Stiles had gotten in it would be child's play for someone with an agenda to get in and get out clean.

"Yeah," Stiles said, "yeah, all right, let's do it. Wait for me, okay?"

He couldn't help but reach out, his hand landing on Peter's face. Peter's heartbeat jumped again, and Stiles wanted to—wanted to lean in, wanted to—

His teeth itched. God, what was wrong with him? Why were his new instincts so…? Stiles shuddered and forcefully pulled himself away.

"Sorry," he said, awkwardly, "um, I'll just—I'll see you later, okay?"

He backed away and hurried out, only just remembering to pull his hood up as he left the building and took a long, steadying breath of fresh air. It wasn't great, really, with the smell of car exhaust and the nearby trash can, with the lingering hospital smell and Stiles' own overbearing reek of peppermint oil, but it still helped clear his head. For a long moment, he stood there and breathed. Then he hopped back in his Jeep.

Stiles winced at the rattle of the engine turning over when he started it. Should he try to figure out what was wrong with it now that he could hear the problem? Maybe he should dig out the manual again. Maybe he should focus on the problems he already had instead of creating new ones.

…Maybe he should buy a new phone before his dad asked any pointed questions about what had happened to his old one.

After grabbing a bunch of new scentless toiletries, laundry detergent, and cleaning supplies—and a new phone, an older model that wouldn't break so easily—Stiles headed back home with the beginnings of a task list in mind.

If he was going to bring Peter home, he had to have some sort of plan for it. The attic in their house had been left abandoned for years; his dad used to do a twice-yearly cleanup but after his mom died, it had trailed off to nothing. Stiles pulled down the ladder and climbed up, immediately sneezing at the dust.

Some of his mom's stuff was still up here; the boxes they'd packed away after the funeral, the books she'd collected after they'd gotten too damaged to be in the library rotation. There was even an old bathtub in here, the one they'd gotten removed from the main bathroom after—

But the space was large and largely empty. Perfectly fine for a room.

Stiles breathed in, then coughed, scrunching up his face in disgust and covering his nose with his sleeve. Dusting, then cleaning. And the cobwebs and spiders in the rafters needed to go.

~

His dad stopped by for dinner and then headed out for night shift. Something had come up, he'd said. Stiles couldn't help thinking, again, about the body he'd left in the Preserve.

Then he stopped himself from thinking about it. He had other things to do.

Once he was done cleaning, the attic looked a lot better than it had. He hadn't gotten it sparkling, but Stiles had moved things around and even laid out the spare mattress they had up here on some old packing crates. There wasn't any running water, and the only window was small and could only be opened halfway, but it was somewhere someone could stay.

And Peter wasn't even fully conscious, Stiles reminded himself. Anything would be better than that blank, sterile hospital ward.

They'd even had an old fold-away wheelchair up here. Stiles had already dusted it off.

It wasn't great. But it was the best he could do.

Stiles shut up the attic again and cleaned up the dust he'd dislodged from the ladder and door. Then he checked the time, grabbed the wheelchair, and headed to the garage.

The hospital shift-change was at nine. Stiles was careful not to park anywhere near a security camera. He'd thought about contacting Danny, but when he was cleaning, he'd remembered another option: years ago, a nurse named Mildred had had the afternoon shift by his mom's room and had let him log onto her hospital account on the computers so he could use the internet for homework. Stiles had checked her account password, logging in remotely, and found it working just fine.

Knowing the shifts and how busy the nurses were, it wasn't difficult for Stiles to sneak in and print off a release form from a free computer. It helped that he could hear them coming from half the ward away. And with the form filled, backdated, and filed—and after a thorough perusal of the filing room—Stiles only had one thing left to do.

Peter was just as supernaturally captivating as he had been in the afternoon. Stiles had brought in the wheelchair from home and he couldn't help breathing Peter in as he moved him, burying his nose in the man's shoulder before he caught himself.

His teeth itched. He wanted to bite him so much.

Stiles forced himself to focus on bringing Peter home. Keeping him safe and under his nose. It settled Stiles' wolfy instincts and kept them quiet as he wheeled Peter out, avoiding running into anyone the entire way home.

"So, this is us," Stiles said, wheeling Peter through the front door and closing it behind them. "Well, me and my dad, and now you. I cleaned up the attic for you, but we can hang out anywhere when I'm free—are you thirsty? Hungry? I made some food earlier and there's plenty of leftovers…"

He continued chattering as he set Peter by the kitchen table, moving a chair aside to make space. "I guess it's probably after dinner for you already, huh? I read your file and saw they had you on a semi-liquid diet; you must be okay with swallowing, right? Let me see how you are with straws…"

He poured some water into a glass, dropping a straw into it, and passed it over, holding the straw to Peter's mouth. Watching him carefully, a moment later Stiles saw him swallow. "Oh, great! It'll be easy to make everything at home, though I'll have to clean the blender… Do you want to watch something with me for a bit? I bet you're not caught up on new media at all. But maybe it's better to watch some classics. Do you like Buffy? I mean, now that I'm a werewolf I feel like I should watch it again. At least it's better than being a vampire—imagine burning up in the sun. Or sparkling—I bet you've never heard of Twilight. You're really not missing out."

Stiles queued up an episode of Buffy on the TV, then reluctantly abandoned Peter for a moment to grab his laptop. The opening credits were over by the time he came back downstairs, and if his nose was right Peter's scent was—just a little different. Could Stiles smell pheromones now or something? That would explain some of the constant urge he felt to bite him, right? Compatible pheromones? Stiles was pretty sure he'd skimmed an article about that somewhere.

Topping up Peter's water and getting some for himself, Stiles settled down next to him before he opened a tab for the query and switched back to his original search: werewolves.

Wolfsbane as a poison was a common theme. Red eyes showed up occasionally, but amber was more common, and blue barely at all. Mountain ash and silver also showed up as weaknesses, and Stiles noted it down in the notebook he'd started on his latest research. His mom had had some silver jewelry; he could dig through that box in the attic to check.

By the time the end credits were rolling, Peter had basically finished his water and was blinking slowly, visibly tired.

"Right," Stiles said, wincing, "it must be weird for you to be up this late, huh? Sorry, I get really caught up on research binges and pull all-nighters all the time, but I shouldn't make you follow my weird ADHD schedule. Come on, let's get up to your room. Do you usually wash at night or in the morning?" Stiles considered his own schedule as he picked Peter and the wheelchair up to take them up the stairs. "You know, actually, let's just change it to the evening, I won't be up early enough before school."

They stopped by the bathroom first; Peter's file had said that was working fine, which was a relief. Stiles helped him clean up, then gave Peter a quick sponge-bath and opened a new toothbrush to brush his teeth with water. Then, he dressed him in some of Stiles' old clothes that he'd already picked out for the occasion. He'd separated them into day and night clothes, but all of them were loose on him and easy for Peter to put on. There was something viscerally satisfying about having Peter in his clothes, making their scents mingle—

Wolf instincts were incredibly weird. Stiles wasn't sure if he should be concerned.

It was much easier than Stiles had expected to carry a grown man up a ladder, but then again—werewolf. And Stiles felt… satisfied, tucking him into bed in his house, right where Stiles lived. Having him nearby. Having him safe.

Stiles really needed to look up pheromones again. Was it supposed to be this intense?

"Good night," Stiles said warmly, instead of voicing any of that to the object of his many new concerns. "I'll just be downstairs, and you'll be safe here, I promise. I'll see you tomorrow!"

Even leaving Peter alone felt like a trial, but Stiles reassured himself with the knowledge that no one knew he was here, that no one could get to him without going past Stiles. And Stiles' new senses would warm him if there was any danger. He'd be fine.

He was just upstairs. Stiles focused on Peter's heartbeat, slowing down as he fell asleep, and only then did he drift off, too.

~

It took the whole weekend for Stiles to have a decent handle on his senses and shifting, not to mention his extensive pile of research on how to take care of coma patients. Well, he'd found out that Peter—who could eat and drink, had a sense of day and night, and could also shift into a werewolf face—was classified under 'catatonia with vegetative indicators', but Stiles had printed out the care information they referenced at the hospital for him and figured he'd work it out from there. Peter was easy to take care of, anyway. He'd eat and drink whatever Stiles gave him and Stiles had spent more than an hour occasionally flashing his eyes at him and watching Peter flash his back.

It sated that part of him Stiles was more easily able to separate into 'wolf instinct', to take care of Peter and spend time with him. And while the urge to bite him didn't fade, exactly, Stiles could push it back behind the need to make Peter smell like him. There was a lot of hand-holding and incidental, awkward hugs; since he was picking Peter up anyway, it wasn't wrong to touch him gently, right? Stiles' human brain still felt weirdly creepy about it, but his new wolf instincts completely overrode him, and well, it wasn't the worst thing they wanted him to do.

(And who knew? Maybe Peter needed the contact too; maybe his wolf instincts wanted this just as much. He'd never hurt Stiles with his wolf eyes and wolf face and sharp wolf teeth, just made soft, nearly imperceptible whining noises that had Stiles unable to repress the urge to stick his nose against his jaw.)

And in spending time with Peter, Stiles also made extensive use of his googling skills and scoured social media for information on the people linked to the fire. He dragged out a board and carried it up to the attic to start putting the case together, much like he'd done for cold cases he'd borrowed from the station before: the fire, the reports, the survivors. Concerningly, a woman's body had been found on Friday night, but only the lower half, which meant… sometime after Stiles had left, someone had come across Laura and done that. An unfortunate flush of relief had hit Stiles, knowing the scene had been disturbed; it had taken a lot of restraint to not immediately head out to investigate the Hale house.

But the hunters bisecting Laura meant he probably should still stay away, at least until he was sure they were definitely gone. He couldn't get caught. He couldn't bring that back to his dad.

With the new turn his life had taken, Stiles had ended up brushing off Scott when he called on Saturday, asking Stiles out to practice lacrosse with him. Scott was planning on going to tryouts, Stiles remembered, and Stiles had agreed to go try out with him as moral support. Now, though… Stiles would see how Scott's tryouts went, but Stiles'd probably have to quit or fail them on purpose.

Stiles didn't even like lacrosse that much; it was full of assholes and he was too clumsy for shooting. It still made him feel a strange, distant regret.

(If he hadn't gone out into the woods that night—

If he hasn't gone, he wouldn't have Peter.

Stiles of a week ago would think nothing of that. But Stiles now—Stiles couldn't imagine giving him up now.)

School was, frankly, terrible. It smelt awful, everything was loud, and Stiles found himself taking deep peppermint breaths the moment he got to the vague reprieve of his locker. In the classroom was a little better, without the press of students setting off Stiles' prickly instincts, and Scott was as familiar as always.

"Are you ready for lacrosse tryouts?"

"Dude, you know how bad I am at shooting," Stiles said, rolling his eyes. "You brought your inhaler? I still have your spare."

"Yeah," Scott agreed, "but I have a good feeling about it this time."

"Yeah," Stiles echoed, his attention split as he noticed a strange girl walking into the school, just a bit late. A new student? There was something about her that caught Stiles' wolf's attention when she walked into their classroom and the teacher directed her to a seat, but not in a good way. If Stiles' wolf had hackles, they would be raised; there was an undertone to her scent that was… strange. Earthy and slightly musty. Familiar, somehow.

Scott snuck glances at her with stars in his eyes. "Wow."

Mouth quirking, Stiles nudged him with his foot. "Hey, it looks like she needs a pen."

"She what?" Scott asked, but realization dawned on him quickly and he rummaged through his pencilcase for a spare. After he passed it off, Scott gave Stiles a grateful look. "Thanks, dude."

"Yeah, no problem," Stiles said. "Hey, maybe she'll come to tryouts and you can show off how much your practice has paid off."

"Yeah," Scott said, visibly lighting up as he stared dreamily into the distance. "And then…"

Stiles wet his lips and smiled despite himself. Sure, it wasn't entirely selfless of him—if he encouraged Scott's crush Scott would have way less time to be worried about Stiles—but he hoped, despite everything, that it would work out for him.

School dragged on, but Stiles made it through, at least until the moment he walked into the gym changing rooms. Instantly, he knew there was no way he was going to sign up for any extra time in this humid pit of sweat and dirt and hormones and body spray; Stiles barely made it out of there without looking like he was running.

In the end, he told Coach Finstock he was just there to cheer Scott on—"Sorry, Coach, but lacrosse really isn't for me"—to Finstock's clear and vocal disbelief, but Stiles kept his stance and Finstock eventually relented when he saw Stiles wasn't going to be moved.

"Then let's see how McCall does, Bilinski," Finstock said, clapping a hand on Stiles' shoulder, and Stiles managed a smile as he followed him out.

Scott was having a great time in the field. It made Stiles a little melancholic; he and Scott were childhood friends, of course, but they didn't share all their interests and, especially this year, Scott had fixated on becoming a full-fledged jock—or at least as much as he could be with his asthma. Stiles kept an ear out for Scott's breathing, but the training had helped and he was doing a good job pacing himself without triggering it; or at least he had been before he spotted the new girl—Allison Argent—sitting with Lydia Martin and watching them play.

And that was another thing being a wolf had changed: his impression of Lydia. Stiles didn't know why—pheromones? He'd looked them up but any explanations were incredibly vague and unscientific—but his crush on her had faded to absolutely nothing; he'd tried examining his feelings for her when he saw her outside school in the morning and found only his wolf's slight wariness. Was it something to do with how Peter was his pack and his wolf wanted him and his attention alone? Was it something to do with how Lydia was disdainful at best when it came to Stiles? It had never really bothered him before—his ten-year plan to become her boyfriend was perfectly well on track—but maybe his wolf wanted more immediate gratification than that.

Stiles had still absently agreed with Scott at lunch when he tried to imagine them double-dating, but it was more out of habit than actual desire. And, well, without his crush telling him Lydia could do so much better than Jackson… He was still thinking it. But it was also increasingly clear that Jackson was, for whatever reason, who Lydia wanted. It didn't take long watching them to understand that she really did like that asshole, and Jackson even liked her back; Stiles didn't know how that made him feel but it did make him less demoralized about losing those warm, bubbly feelings and daydreams.

(And he could admit to himself—at least in the privacy of his own mind—that even with a sudden revelation of Jackson's unsuitability, there was no way Lydia would break up with him and immediately start dating Stiles.)

As they did shooting practice and Scott finally got a chance to play outside of being pummeled by lacrosse balls, his training started actually showing itself—Stiles could see the ball heading directly for the net, and it was only Jackson's decent goalkeeping stopping him from scoring. Stiles whistled for Scott when he glanced over after the third catch in a row, and hyped up, with Jackson distracted with looking over at Lydia, Scott actually managed to score.

Stiles jumped up and cheered. Scott's gaze turned immediately to Allison as he grinned at her and waved wildly. Stiles rolled his eyes but smiled regardless.

No matter what happened with Stiles and the mess of his new supernatural life, Scott would always be Scott. At least that was something Stiles could count on.

~

Over the next few days, school fell into a mostly easy rhythm. Stiles found the hardest part, despite his worries, was leaving Peter behind. In the attic, Stiles would set him up in a comfy old armchair by the window and leave his laptop on playing pirated TV shows quiet enough it didn't carry downstairs, but without him being there, there was always a part of Stiles that itched to head back and watch over him. Stiles'd eventually puzzled out that it was because he saw Peter as vulnerable; his wolf wanted him to hole up and watch out for danger while his packmate healed.

Stiles couldn't, of course. But his wolf still grumbled every morning when he said goodbye and left Peter there, alone.

More notably, the full moon was coming up on Friday, and Stiles was already starting to feel the pull of it. His wolf didn't really have the urge to run—not with Peter there to take care of—but Stiles found himself eyeing the woods with more than a little longing when they had gym outside, tugged between warring instincts when he headed for his Jeep after school.

It was there in the school car park, digging for his keys, when Stiles' instincts prickled and he looked up. His gaze landed unerringly on a man standing in the shadows of the trees bordering the concrete.

Stiles recognized him instantly: Derek Hale.

Just as instantly, Stiles saw Derek's nostrils flare, and he knew Derek knew he was a werewolf.

Derek approached at a slow lope. Stiles put his keys away and kept his eyes on him, stepping away from Roscoe just in case things got hairy. There wasn't a word for the confusing mess of emotion Stiles felt on seeing him, and when Derek stopped a foot away, Stiles still didn't know what to say.

"You're a werewolf," Derek said flatly.

"Uh, yeah," Stiles said, "I am. Oh, hey, is this a welcome to the club? Do we have badges or something?"

"You killed Laura," Derek accused, and Stiles reeled.

"Okay, dude, no—" Stiles got out, and then Derek jumped forward, claws outstretched. Stiles darted away as Derek landed next to Roscoe, eyes shining blue and growling. "Hey, watch the Jeep! Dude, calm down, I didn't—well, I didn't mean to—it's complicated, okay?" Somehow, Stiles' wolf wasn't that worried; it made him flash his eyes and growl at Derek like he was a misbehaving pup. Derek growled back, deeper—and then Stiles snarled at him, teeth bared and entirely wolf.

Derek's growl trailed off as his face shifted back to human, the light in his eyes fading back to green. Stiles' instincts made him wait just a moment longer before he did the same.

"…You," Derek said, his face drawn into a heavy scowl. "You don't deserve it. The Alpha spark. Her spark."

"Okay," Stiles said, holding up his hands, "I think we've got some sort of misunderstanding here. I didn't—I didn't kill Laura, okay?"

"Werewolves can hear lies," Derek said.

"Uh, maybe, but…" Stiles trailed off. "Haven't you ever heard the data on polygraphs? They don't actually work. What are you listening to, my heartbeat?" He couldn't help his nervousness, which was probably throwing Derek's senses off, but… he wet his lips and swallowed. "Look, dude, she was shot."

Derek's eyes widened and something helpless dawned on his face. "…Shot?"

"Yeah," Stiles said. "Wolfsbane. I mean, there were hunters out—and didn't you hear she was found cut in half? That must be a hunter thing too, right?"

Derek's expression shifted slightly, and Stiles pressed his advantage. "I was just—in the wrong place at the wrong time. I'm sorry. I didn't even know who she was. I still don't know who shot her."

Mouth pressed in a tight line, Derek assessed him keenly. "She… bit you?"

"Yeah," Stiles said, awkwardly. "It really freaked me out."

Derek nodded silently and he took a step away from Roscoe, back toward the woods. "You… you should be careful. On the full moon. Don't get caught by hunters."

"Yeah," Stiles agreed, "don't worry. I'm calling in sick and staying home."

He didn't think his wolf would end up wanting to leave the house, anyway, not when Peter was there, but Stiles would be taking some precautions regardless. He had a set of handcuffs he'd stolen from his dad, and he didn't think his wolf would want to cart an unconscious packmate away from their den.

Wait. Peter.

Stiles looked at Derek again, appraising him. His wolf disdained to even think of mentioning Peter to Derek, not after Derek had left him, but Stiles reminded it that Derek had been a teenager when he'd left town. But had Derek visited him? Would Derek ask about him? Did Derek even know he wasn't in the hospital anymore?

…Was Derek just as afraid of Peter as Laura had been?

Instead, Stiles ended up saying, "…You'll be okay? Do you want to…"

"I'm fine," Derek said gruffly, and took another step back, and another. A moment later, he was gone.

"…Okay," Stiles said to himself, "I guess he… won't be a problem anymore?"

Stiles should probably keep an eye out for him anyway—it wouldn't be good if Derek got himself caught. But at least it seemed like he didn't have worry about him. Derek was an adult, anyway. Stiles would take the win where he could get it.

~

Stiles felt the moon as soon as the day dawned, and he knew it was only going to get worse. His dad was on night shift but had been called in to consult in the morning, so before he left for work Stiles convincingly played sick, helped along by holding a little of the wolfsbane he'd procured over the internet—a serious irritant to his wolf and an extremely dangerous poison to keep nearby, but who knew if he'd need it one day? It made him feel awful just being in contact with his skin, so Stiles couldn't imagine how terribly it burned if it were ingested or contaminating his bloodstream; it was a testament to werewolf healing that Laura had had enough energy to—

Stiles quickly stopped himself from finishing that train of thought.

Anyway, Stiles got the day off and when his dad headed out, probably to spend a few hours at the station before he cheated on his diet for lunch, Stiles headed up to the attic to visit Peter. Just being nearby helped settle the restless yearning under his skin, and Stiles helped him through their morning routine before he settled at Peter's feet by the armchair, taking out his laptop to do more research for the murder board. "I met Derek yesterday," he told Peter. "Weird guy. He attacked me—hey, don't worry, I'm not hurt"—he reassured, as Peter's eyes flashed blue—"but I think I cleared it up, that I didn't kill Laura or anything. He didn't seem to want to get to know each other, though. And he didn't ask about you. …Actually, that's weird, now that I think about it. I mean, I must smell a lot like you. You smell a lot like me." It sent a warm thrill up his spine to say as much, his wolf pleased and content.

"I guess, maybe he doesn't know what you smell like? Were you close before? No, you must not have been, not with…" Stiles trailed off, then changed the subject. "Okay, so I got Danny to look into Garrison Myers' financials, and this dude definitely got paid off. Not sure if his supervisor just rubber-stamped it or if they convinced him too? But there was this first report—it mentioned a chemical fire? So they must have sourced them from somewhere. I mean, I'm kind of hoping it was Harris, what an asshole, he'd totally help someone get away with murder. But I haven't found any big stock purchases in the school records from back then, so maybe not. It must have been unusual activity, but it's pretty tough tracing back purchases from six years ago when the police just brushed it off."

They spent a few hours together like that, together. Stiles' wolf prickled even worse when his dad came back and Stiles holed up back in bed to appear as though he was sick but improving when his dad checked on him; luckily, his dad went to bed himself immediately after that. When Stiles was sure he was asleep, he wrote up a note—'Gone for a walk, leftovers in the fridge'—and stuck it on the top of his dad's paperwork on the kitchen table, then headed upstairs as quietly as he could and settled back on the arm of Peter's chair, pressing his nose to Peter's shoulder.

"I mean, it's not like I don't want to tell him," he confessed, barely loud enough to hear. "But it's so dangerous. They don't—they don't care about innocence or whatever, they just…"

But Peter didn't need to be told. His very existence here told the story better than anything else ever could.

"What if—what if I tell him and they kill him? I couldn't—it can't happen. It can't."

Peter didn't say anything back, but Stiles got the feeling he understood. Stiles' roiling emotions calmed slowly as he breathed Peter in, the scent of his wolf and the familiar itch to bite and keep him comforting in its familiarity. Pheromones, pack, whatever Stiles called it—Peter was his now and Stiles was keeping him.

They'd be safe together, in this house where no one knew Stiles was a werewolf and no one knew Peter was even here. Stiles pulled himself back after a while, but he didn't go far; he sat next to Peter in the armchair instead, squished up against his side, and went back to his research.

There wasn't a lot Stiles could do with just a list of names. And he'd already called in a favor from Danny; he wouldn't be convinced to do any more without Stiles paying him back somehow, and it wasn't like Stiles was rolling in money after he'd had to replace his phone. But Stiles was a werewolf now—there was a chance he could start investigating in-person, discreetly tracking them from their houses, as long as he was careful about it.

He put a pin in the idea, collating the address information of the suspects and adding it to his board. It was starting to look a little more comprehensive, colored strings tying together suspects and sources, all leading to one specific mastermind designated with question marks. Stiles had added in Derek and Laura and space for the hunters who might have killed her, and he'd spotted something weird in the morgue files that he wasn't sure what to make of that led to another question mark linked to them and Peter both.

As the evening rolled around, he shuffled back to Peter as he heard his dad get out of bed and find his note. "Oh, kiddo," his dad said, sighing, and Stiles pressed his lips together and kept an ear pricked as his dad reheated the leftovers and ate them before he got ready for night shift. When he left, Stiles couldn't help his sigh of relief; it felt awful, lying to his dad about all of this, but it was better than the alternative.

It was better than putting him in danger.

Finally free of surveillance, Stiles headed back down to the kitchen to grab food and drinks for him and Peter before starting to set up their full moon night. The moon calendar he'd looked up—thanks, internet—showed it would be highest at around 1 in the morning, which meant Stiles would probably be staying up all night. And Stiles wanted to convince his wolf that it was best to stay here and protect Peter rather than go running in the woods where he could get shot and killed, so he had a full plan laid out: he'd make them as comfortable as possible, set up some old TV reruns on his laptop, and handcuff them together. Apart from the biting thing—definitely a wolf instinct—Stiles' wolf recoiled at the thought of hurting Peter, so just having that obstacle should make it stop and hopefully consult his human side before doing anything violent or reckless.

And that was it. Him and Peter, his packmate, whose wolf seemed more active as the full moon approached. It wasn't just Stiles aggressively cuddling Peter anymore; Peter's wolf, blue eyes focused on him with an animal intelligence behind them, managed to slowly lift his arms and grasp Stiles' hand, leaning in himself to scent Stiles just as thoroughly back.

Then they settled in to watch the next season of Buffy on Peter's bed. Even as the moon and Stiles' restless wolf rose, his emotions settled at the presence of his pack.

~

The next morning, Stiles woke up warm and sated, his entire existence one of perfect contentment.

"Oh, so you're awake now?" said a rumbling voice that was close to his ear. A voice he didn't recognize.

Awareness jolted through him. Stiles shot upright and leapt back as he looked at his pillow.

It was Peter Hale. Peter Hale who was looking at him with his eyebrows raised and a sharp clarity in his brilliant blue eyes.

Also, they were both basically naked.

"What?! Oh my god," Stiles blurted, grabbing the nearby blanket to cover his exposed boxers as he edged away, "what the fuck happened last night?"

Peter also sat up and had moved to lean against the roof, directly across the mattress from him. The sweatpants he was wearing were significantly more tattered than they had been yesterday, but at least they preserved his dignity. He raised his eyebrows. "That's what I'd like to know."

Astounded, Stiles gaped at him. He had wondered what Peter might sound like, might look like awake and conscious, but this was—incredible. Overwhelming. A dream. A warmth had bloomed in his chest, filling a void he hadn't even realized was there. It felt a little like Peter—like suspicion and scrutiny, like rough fur and the deep woods. Was this what it was like, to know another werewolf? To be part of a pack?

Peter's eyes narrowed as he looked at Stiles. He was so alive.

"It was… the full moon last night?"

Stiles swallowed. "Yeah. Yeah."

"And you…" Peter looked down at his wrist. Without even realizing, Stiles had clamped his hand around it; he flushed and quickly let him go. "You bit me, didn't you?"

"Uh, did I? …Maybe?" Stiles scrunched his face and pressed his tongue to his teeth, trying to think back and remember what had happened. His mouth tasted of iron. What had they done, after the moon was high? "I'm sorry, I tried to… anchor myself, I guess, on protecting you but holy shit, my wolfy instincts want me to bite you so much, I have no idea why but I really should've expected it. It's weird, actually, I didn't get it with Derek at all, so it can't just be a wolf-pack thing…" Stiles stopped himself, abruptly realizing that persistent, near-overwhelming urge was now gone. "…Maybe I bit you once and now it's okay?"

During Stiles' rambling, Peter's expression had shifted to something close to nonplussed. "You're… very newly bitten, aren't you?"

Stiles winced. Was that how he was coming across? "Uh, yeah? How much do you remember? I mean, the last few days, not after the…"

"The fire?" Peter's gaze went briefly distant. "Hmm. I have some impressions. You… kidnapped me from the hospital?"

"…Okay," Stiles said, awkwardly, "I know it looks bad, but it was for a good cause! I was worried about you! You were, you know, alone and vulnerable and I had to take care of you and keep you safe…"

Unable to come up with any more justifications, Stiles trailed off. It wasn't as convincing an argument as he hoped, but at least it made Peter's mouth twitch.

"You mean, your instincts told you to."

"Uh, no," Stiles insisted. "Logic told me to, my instincts just… pushed me along."

Peter watched him for a long moment. Stiles couldn't tell what he was thinking.

"Um. Sorry?" he offered.

"Are you?"

"Uh, probably not. I mean, you're awake now, right? You're—you're better. So I don't really regret it."

"Better…" Peter sighed. Something in him had shifted; he now seemed more resigned than concerned. "I suppose. How long ago were you bitten?"

Stiles quickly counted the days. "About a week?"

"That explains… a lot. And what's your name?"

"Oh my god," Stiles blurted, heat rushing to his face. "Shit. I'm sorry. I'm—I'm Stiles. Stiles Stilinski."

"Stiles." Peter studied him. "…You mentioned Derek. And Laura? But they haven't been here."

The cold ice of reality crashed down on Stiles. He pressed his lips together with a grimace. "Uh, okay, so, this is kind of a long story and maybe we should, like, get dressed and do this properly—do you want coffee? Breakfast?" He scrambled to his feet and held out a hand to help Peter up, still clutching the blanket like a lifeline. "Oh, do you want the wheelchair? Does werewolf healing help with muscle atrophy? How about if you're poisoned? I mean, that's what happened to you, right? Aerosolized wolfsbane? Or—volatilized?"

Peter looked at his hand for a long few seconds, then took it and rose to his feet. He let go once he was standing; Stiles ached to reach for him, but he held himself back.

"I'm fine." Peter said, gingerly taking a step forward. Stiles could see the exertion it took him, but Peter persisted in taking another step, finding his balance with a stubborn determination. "It's fine. I'll meet you there."

With the distinct impression Peter was feeling self-conscious, Stiles quickly left him and headed downstairs. It was fine. Peter wasn't going anywhere. And Stiles needed to grab some clothes.

Detouring by his room and rummaging through his drawers, Stiles couldn't help but feel guilty at being happy his dad had taken another double-shift. It had kept Noah out of the house during the full moon and meant he still wasn't here during the day today. It was bad for his dad's health to overwork so much, but growing up, Stiles had nagged him into cutting down on so many other indulgences work seemed like the least worst thing his dad could do.

So. Coffee. Breakfast. After getting dressed, Stiles set himself up in the kitchen to brew some coffee and, considering how hungry he was feeling, finally decided to mix up a batch of pancakes. By the time Peter joined him, Stiles had the coffee poured and pancakes frying.

He looked up as Peter walked into the room. Honestly, Peter looked amazing. Even though he was occasionally brushing his fingers against the walls for balance, and his steps were still a little wavering—Stiles' sharp eyes couldn't help but notice it—he'd clearly gotten changed by himself, one of Stiles' old t-shirts fitting tightly across his broad shoulders, and even run a brush through his hair, curling at the ends.

Stiles couldn't help the way he lit up when he saw him. It made him unaccountably happy to see Peter fully conscious, to see the light in his eyes. It was a little sad Peter didn't have the same reaction to him, but Stiles couldn't bring himself to be too bothered; he was persistent and he was gonna grow on Peter like a fungus. A part of his mind was already drawing up another five-year plan.

"Hey! This is for you." Stiles dished out some pancakes onto Peter's plate and took that and his cup to the kitchen table, where he'd already laid out some cutlery and syrup—the proper kind. Peter carefully sat down as Stiles hovered. "Do you want anything else?"

"No," Peter said, "this will do." He picked up the fork; his hand shook a little as he held it, but it looked like he'd be fine with it. He met Stiles' gaze and raised his eyebrows. "Now, I believe you offered me an explanation."

Stiles scrunched his nose. "Okay," he said stiltedly, and stepped back to his cooking pancake batter. "Um. So. Where do I start?"

"The beginning is usually a good place," Peter said dryly.

"Right. The beginning." Stiles pressed his tongue to his teeth and exhaled. "Okay, so, a week ago, last Wednesday, I saw my dad—he's the Sheriff—and his notes about some weird animal mutilation in the woods, like a satanic cult thing? So I was bored and I thought I'd check it out. Only, ah…"

"That wasn't it."

"That wasn't it. Well, maybe it was, actually, I don't see those hunters doing a bit of deer carving in their spare time. Anyway, there were a bunch of paramilitary dudes shooting in the woods and I realized I was in way over my head and ran away, but, like, woods. Me. I got lost and then…" Stiles still couldn't think about it. But he had to. He bit his tongue; his claws pricked his palms. "Uh. I ran into Laura. She was—she was bleeding. Dying. Coughing black gunk and shit. She—she…"

"She bit you?"

Stiles glanced over at Peter. His expression was unreadable but his eyes, sharp and blue, were focused on him intently. "Uh, yeah," Stiles said, and turned back to flip his pancakes. His heart was pounding in his chest. "Yeah, she bit me. And… killed herself."

Peter made a considering noise. "That's… interesting. Are you the Alpha, then?"

"As in, the leader of a wolf pack?" Stiles asked, quickly turning back to Peter. "Is that actually a thing? Derek said I was an Alpha but what does that mean, exactly?"

"Come here," Peter said, instead of answering any questions, and, curious, Stiles walked over. Peter set aside his cutlery and placed his hands on Stiles' shoulders, and Stiles bent down with his gentle push until their faces were level. Peter's eyes brightened, then, turning to an icy blue; Stiles felt the warmth of his own lighting up in response.

"Incredible," Peter murmured, taking Stiles' face into his hands, his thumbs at the corners of Stiles' red eyes. "I'm amazed you didn't go feral. But no—you found me the first day, didn't you? And immediately brought me back here, to your den."

A blush was rising to Stiles' face at their proximity. Peter's blue eyes were fixed on him and no one had ever looked at Stiles like he was. "Um. Are we calling it that?"

"Wolves, packs, dens," Peter dismissed, "the terminology isn't important." He let Stiles go; Stiles nearly swayed into him but managed to pull himself together enough to pull back. "Either you're incredibly lucky or Laura was incredibly unlucky—perhaps both. Let me guess, she said she didn't want the Alpha spark to go to me."

"Well," Stiles said hesitantly, "she didn't… say much. She seemed to have a weird impression of you? And—wait," he interrupted himself, "the Alpha spark? Is the 'Alpha' like, transferrable?"

"Whoever kills the Alpha, becomes the Alpha." Peter said it like a mantra. "Alpha, beta, omega. It's what we learned as children, that any wolf can rise. Or fall."

Stiles froze. Whoever kills. No wonder she'd—so that was why—

"Are you letting those burn?"

Stiles startled back into awareness. "Oh, shit!" He dashed for his pancakes and managed to rescue them before they passed the edible stage, though they were darker than he liked. He put on a last batch to finish the batter. "So, Alpha, beta, omega—if the Alpha is the leader, what are the other two?"

"A beta is a wolf in a pack under an Alpha," Peter explained. "And an omega… it's a warning. Without bonds, without pack, it's only a matter of time before you lose yourself."

"Oh," Stiles said, "but you…"

"Yes," Peter said, something unidentifiable in his tone, "so the bond between us—however unintentional it was on your part—has helped me in more than one way."

"That was… because I bit you? Doesn't that mean I, like, forced it on you?" Stiles couldn't help but say. "Because… I didn't have a pack, and you didn't have a pack? Are we pack now? Do you even want to be pack?"

"…Yes," Peter said, after a long moment. Stiles could feel Peter's eyes on him and when he looked back, Peter met his gaze. "We're pack. You should be able to feel it."

"That's…" Stiles pressed a hand to his chest, where that foreign, familiar warmth lay steady. "That's what this is? This connection?"

"A pack bond," Peter said.

"And…" Stiles wet his lips. "And you're okay with it?"

Peter's mouth pulled into a wry half-smile. "…It wasn't what I expected. But I can't regret the results."

Stiles let out a breath of relief and managed a smile of his own. "Great! Great." Plating up the last of the pancakes, he took his breakfast to the table, taking the chair beside Peter.

Peter looked at him thoughtfully. "So tell me the rest of it."

"Right," Stiles said, his mood dropping as he looked at his plate, "right. So, um. After—after Laura, I started looking into what she said, about hunters and the fire, and you and Derek…" He stopped and looked up, facing Peter head-on. "Do you know why… She said you'd kill Derek. Would you?"

Peter's eyebrows rose. "She did, did she?"

"Yeah. So? …Would you?"

"If he had something to do with the fire? It would depend on just how involved he was." Peter's expression was curious, testing. "Does that scare you?"

"Uh," Stiles said, biting his lip, "I mean, I get it, you know? If someone killed my dad… But honestly..."

"He doesn't seem like the type?" Peter said. "No, he doesn't. But…" His gaze went distant. "He had a new girlfriend. Kept trying to cover up her scent. That could've been their way in."

Stiles worried his lower lip with his teeth. "So, what are you thinking? Derek accidentally revealed you?"

"No, this wasn't a crime of opportunity. They knew when we would all be in the house, they blocked off our escape routes, they had us trapped. But if a hunter targeted Derek on purpose…" Peter's eyes closed briefly as he sighed. "What an idiot."

Stiles chewed on his pancakes as he considered this new information. "Okay, so," he said, swallowing, "what I found was, the insurance investigator was paid off, and there might've been some sweeping under the rug happening. My dad wasn't the Sheriff back then, just a deputy, so no blaming him," Stiles added, pointing his fork at Peter before going back to his food. "They actually found traces of a chemical fire in the initial report, so I've been following that up, purchases around the time of the fire, but I haven't gotten anywhere yet. Uh, there are a couple guys who were accomplices who got off as well? I was thinking I could track them down and blackmail them into talking, maybe, but…"

"Why blackmail when you can threaten?" Peter said, flicking out his claws.

"Uh, hunters?" Stiles said. "I mean, they don't—shouldn't—know about me and I can't… I can't bring this back to my dad. He can't get caught up in this. I can't let him get hurt." He chanced a glance at Peter, who was watching him with something approaching sympathy.

"You don't have to," Peter said plainly. "This isn't your fight."

"Hey, dude," Stiles said, "I'm not saying I'm giving up or anything. And what do you mean, it isn't my fight? I'm still a werewolf. And your… your pack."

"Stiles," Peter said, "you've done plenty. And… while Laura's opinion reeks of the delusional self-justification she must have told herself as an excuse for abandoning a packmate, for leaving me to rot—" Peter's eyes were bright and his last words came out as a growl around his fangs; he took a moment to compose himself. "Well. I was the left hand of the pack. I took out threats when necessary; I meted out necessary justice. And make no mistake." His voice turned cold and sharp. "Everyone involved will die by my claws."

"Uh," Stiles said, forcefully resisting the urge to raise his hand like Peter was a class teacher. "But probably not Derek, right?"

Peter gave him a look that bordered on incredulous, then sighed. "Probably not Derek. Is that really your only objection to this?"

"I mean," Stiles said. He took his time to think it over. "It's not like I can convince you otherwise, right? And the statute of limitations for arson is six years, and considering how the investigators dropped the ball… It'd be pretty hard to prove in court."

And it was impossible to tell Peter to let it go. It was impossible to see the scars on his face, to see the way he had barely recovered from his coma even with werewolf healing, to see the way his mind was still stuck in that house with his burning family, and tell him he would never pay back the ones who had done this to him, that they'd never experience even a fraction of the hurt they'd inflicted. Stiles wasn't blind to the faults of the justice system; even with a good lawyer, none of the accomplices would get a jail sentence longer than the one the fire had forced on Peter.

"I could do it," Peter said, with the arrogance that came with certainty. "But I don't want to."

And, also… who was Stiles to say what he could or couldn't do in revenge? If it had been his dad—if someone had purposefully trapped his dad inside their house and burnt it down around him…

Stiles knew himself well enough. He would never let them go.

"An eye for an eye?" Stiles said quietly.

Peter met his gaze. "Blood for blood."

Stiles was the first to look away, back to his plate as he finished the remnants of his pancakes. "Still," he said, after a moment, "Peter, you can't—you should be careful."

"Don't worry," Peter said, "I won't let them hurt you. Or your father," he added, when Stiles was about to interject. "You're right. We're pack now. I should… I won't forget."

Stiles wet his lips. "Uh. Well. Good."

"Good," Peter echoed.

When Stiles rose and reached for Peter's plate, Peter caught his arm. Stiles stopped, frozen in place, as Peter lifted it, pressing his nose to the thin skin of Stiles' wrist. Stiles' heart was pounding, and there was a warmth flooding through him that felt entirely instinctual; it was that dormant urge to bite Peter and claim him and mark him as his own.

That urge to possess him, to keep him. To protect him and care for him.

Peter looked up at Stiles. The quirk of his mouth was unreadable but Stiles thought he was both bemused and smug. "Come here," he said, after a moment, reeling Stiles in close, and Stiles followed his urging, bent down until their noses were nearly touching. Peter's breath puffed warm on his face and then he leant forward, brushing their cheeks together.

Stiles' instincts had him nearly purring in sheer delight. Stiles couldn't help himself; he rubbed against Peter's face and his neck and stuck his nose behind his ear, breathing in his familiar grass and iron scent.

"God," Stiles mumbled, "why is this so good but so weird?"

He felt more than heard Peter's soft laugh. "I'll be happy to show you more of the delights you have in store."

"That is such a creepy way to say that," Stiles said, reluctantly pulling back. "All right, I'll do the dishes. And then maybe you want to see my murder board?"

"'Murder board'?" Peter repeated, eyebrows rising.

"I mean, my dad and Scott always call it that," Stiles said awkwardly, grabbing their dishes to take to the sink. "Though it's more like a… investigation board? Though I guess now it is actually a murder board, I probably should keep all my research in the attic so my dad doesn't get suspicious…"

"I look forward to it," Peter said, and Stiles could feel himself blush as he hurried back to the kitchen to clean up.

"It's not much, really," Stiles said, turning on the tap. "Just, you know, the research I've been doing…"

He kept filling the space between them with words, unable to keep quiet now that he knew Peter was aware and listening, and Peter did listen. As Peter brought up his own thoughts in response to Stiles' information and suggestions, offering answers to his many, many questions, their conversation smoothed out from its stilted beginnings to a more companionable back-and-forth. Stiles' pack-bond sense of him deepened, the bare sketch he'd had of Peter filling in with color. Peter was a man with rage and care and passion and a charming, sarcastic veneer. He was entirely unique. He was Stiles' pack.

He belonged to Stiles now. And Stiles would never let him go.