Chapter Text
The sky above Wyoming stretched wide and unbroken, the kind of endless blue that made Stiles Stilinski feel both insignificant and strangely at peace. The world out here didn’t care about Beacon Hills, or the supernatural politics that had consumed his early twenties. Out here, everything was just dust and wind and silence.
It had been three years since Peter Hale died. Three years since Stiles had watched Scott’s claws tear through Peter’s chest and Deaton’s spell wash over him like a final, merciful curtain. There hadn’t been a body—there never was—but Scott had insisted it was over. Stiles had buried an empty box beside his mother’s grave, and every day since had tried to pretend he wasn’t still waiting for Peter to walk back through his door with that smirk and that impossible voice.
The hum of the truck engine brought him back. Chris Argent sat at the wheel, eyes fixed on the road like it had personally wronged him. The lines on his face were deeper now, the silver in his hair more pronounced, but there was a steadiness to him Stiles had come to rely on.
“You’re quiet,” Chris said after a while, glancing over.
“Just thinking,” Stiles replied.
“Dangerous habit.”
“Occupational hazard,” Stiles muttered, tapping his fingers against his thigh. “So, remind me again why the Duttons need you? Thought their idea of security was a shotgun and a stare.”
Chris gave a low chuckle. “That used to be enough. But someone’s been taking cattle from their north pasture. Clean kills, no tracks. Rip Wheeler called me last week—said it felt like something he’d seen once in Argentina. Something not human.”
Stiles raised an eyebrow. “Supernatural cattle rustlers? Please tell me this isn’t a chupacabra situation.”
Chris’s lips twitched. “If it is, you can handle the research.”
“Yeah, because nothing says romantic getaway like livestock murder,” Stiles said, but the sarcasm was half-hearted.
Chris had been the one constant after everything fell apart. When Lydia left for MIT, when Scott became someone unrecognizable, when Beacon Hills became a graveyard of bad memories—Chris had been there. He didn’t fill the hole Peter left, not exactly, but he gave Stiles something to hold onto. A reason to breathe.
They reached the Yellowstone Ranch near sunset. The air smelled like pine and smoke, and the sprawling house stood against the hills like a fortress. Rip Wheeler met them at the main gate—dark eyes, darker expression, the kind of man who’d seen too much and didn’t have patience for small talk.
“Argent,” Rip greeted, shaking his hand. “Appreciate you coming.” His gaze flicked to Stiles. “Friend of yours?”
“Stiles Stilinski,” Stiles said quickly, offering his hand. “Research consultant. I help with, uh, patterns.”
Rip nodded slowly, unconvinced but too polite to press. “You’ll be staying in one of the guest cabins. Dinner’s at six. Dutton likes to meet anyone working his land.”
Inside the house, the Duttons were exactly as Stiles expected—commanding, intimidating, with a family dynamic that felt one argument away from implosion. John Dutton was a force of nature, his presence filling the room. Beth’s gaze sliced through Stiles in a single glance, and Kayce was quiet, watchful.
After introductions and a terse meal filled with talk of cattle, fences, and trespassers, Chris and Rip headed off to review the security feeds. Stiles, restless, took a walk toward the stables.
The world outside was bathed in the gold of early evening, dust swirling in the light. He heard laughter—low, rough, familiar—and froze.
A man was leading a horse out of the barn, the animal snorting softly as he murmured something soothing. His hands were steady, his posture graceful in a way Stiles had seen a thousand times before.
“Peter?” Stiles breathed before he could stop himself.
The man turned.
He wasn’t Peter. Or rather—he shouldn’t have been. His hair was shorter, sun-bleached at the edges. His eyes, though—they were the same impossible blue.
“Sorry,” the man said, his tone polite but distant. “You talking to me?”
Stiles’s throat worked uselessly. “I—uh—yeah. Sorry. You just…look like someone I knew.”
“Must’ve been a hell of a guy,” the man said with a faint smile, then turned back to his horse.
“Yeah,” Stiles whispered. “He was.”
Chris found him an hour later, sitting on the fence line, staring into the dusk.
“You look like you saw a ghost,” Chris said, settling beside him.
“Maybe I did,” Stiles replied.
Chris followed his gaze toward the barns. “The ranch hand?”
“His name’s Ryan,” Stiles said quietly. “But Chris—he’s Peter. I swear to God, he’s Peter.”
Chris’s face tightened. “Stiles…”
“I know what you’re going to say. I know how crazy it sounds. But he looks the same. Talks the same. There’s just—something missing. Like someone took the edges off him.”
Chris sighed, running a hand over his face. “People have doubles. DNA’s weird. And you’ve been carrying Peter’s ghost for three years.”
“Chris, I’m not hallucinating. Please just—look at him. Tell me you don’t see it.”
Reluctantly, Chris did. The ranch hand—Ryan—was walking across the yard, head tipped back in laughter at something one of the wranglers said. The sound, rich and familiar, hit Stiles like a knife.
Chris didn’t speak for a long moment. “He looks…a lot like him,” he admitted finally. “But that doesn’t mean it’s him.”
“Then why,” Stiles said softly, “does it feel like it?”
That night, Stiles dreamed of fire and claws, of Peter whispering his name from the darkness.
When he woke, the world was quiet—but outside, through the cabin window, he could see Ryan walking toward the stables again. The horses shifted restlessly, snorting and pawing at the ground as he passed.
And for just a second, when lightning flashed on the horizon, Stiles swore he saw gold glint in the man’s eyes.