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Stiles wandered down the hospital corridor, guilty, hungry. He saw how Melissa and all the remaining doctors and nurses were running themselves ragged, just to be able to provide for the sick and suffering despite how understaffed the hospital personnel were. There was no relief in sight, not with the recent developments; no one wanted to transfer to the small town with the now bloody reputation. As he walked forward, Stiles saw how there were still a few corridors out of order, flickering lights and doors kicked open, showing signs of desperate attempts at running away. Even the repairmen were wary of entering the space, or they would be, if the hospital had the money to spare for all the repairs.
All because of him.
It was all because of him.
(He was so hungry.)
Stiles slipped into a room, drawn to it like it was a beacon and he was lost at the ocean, in the middle of a storm, with nothing there and no one in sight. There, before him, on the bed, lied an old lady, possibly one of the people who no one had even been able to evacuate during all the chaos, forgotten on her own. She was barely breathing, skin a sickly pale shade and eyes half-lidded, distant. He had no idea who she was; the only things he did know was that she looked older than she probably was and that it was her who was calling for him. Quietly he sat next to her. He watched her but nothing changed in her appearance. There was no acknowledgement, no sign of recognition, not even a twitch of fingers. He knew – sensed really – that she didn’t even realise he was there.
With shaking hands and tight mouth, he reached over, taking her hand on his own. With instincts that weren’t entirely his own, he-
He pulled.
The effects were immediate. The woman’s eyes fluttered and closed, face seemingly relaxed even more from its previous state. She looked like… like she was resting easily, peacefully, perhaps for the first time in weeks. Her breathing deepened until she fell asleep, without all the pretty coloured pills she was forced to swallow, the ones meant to drive her into an artificial sleep past all the pain and enforced hopelessness. Her hand fell slack in his grip, black and purple lines twisting up his arm, and Stiles shuddered as he felt full in ways he never had before.
It felt like his soul was singing but it was sick, it was so wrongwrongwrong-
He startled when he felt a hand on his shoulder, head twisting around and finding Melissa there, smile tired and the lines on her face more pronounced now that she faced him.
“No matter who might tell you otherwise, it is still you there, kiddo,” she told him. His heart clenched and his gaze dropped.
“You heard Scott then.”
“Sweetie, he’ll come around,” she assured him, grip tightening ever slightly. “I could talk to him.”
Stiles slowly shook his head.
“Don’t ruin your relationship with him for me. Please.”
“Stiles…”
Stiles abruptly stood up. “I found out what I needed to. I’ll be on my way then.”
He avoided Melissa’s eyes as he stepped around her, leaving her and the old lady sleeping peacefully behind.
“You’re always welcome here,” she called behind him.
Stiles didn’t falter in his steps, dark and self-deprecating smile spreading on his lips. Even if no one remembered the face of their attacker, they subconsciously recognised his gait and stepped way, making space for him to walk past them like a shadow.
“No, I am not.”
***
The drive home was lonely. The sun was twinkling past the horizon, colouring the sky in the rich colours of reds, pinks and yellows, but if it was evening or morning, he couldn’t tell. He was lost, so lost he couldn’t recognise east from west, his inner compass going round and round and round. His fingers tapped the steering wheel, the rhythm following the lingering tunes of his mother’s favourite records. Everything was just… gone. The chasm inside him cut him open deeper than the combined graves he was responsible for. There was no pack left. There was no hope to regain.
Allison was dead.
Kira was gone. Her parents had taken her away the moment they realised the nogitsune wasn’t truly killed off, only taken a different form, afraid it would return ever stronger.
Malia was going off rogue, unable to understand what made a human a human and even more reluctant to do so, stuck between the seventeen and nine-year-old she was.
Allison was dead.
Isaac left with Chris, both of them broken to the nth degree.
Lydia couldn’t stand being close to him. Death and screams and AllisonAllisonAllison lingered in his aura and were driving her insane, making all the voices inside her too loud, too much, too-
Derek left to find Cora the moment he could, escaping the hell hole that was Beacon Hills, reaching for the comfort only she could give.
Allison was dead.
Scott-
Stiles choked up. He hit the wheel, hearing it crack underneath his power. He took a deep breath and exited the already parked vehicle – when had he arrived home? – and fell forward into the front door, the only thing keeping him upright. He was exhausted despite how, inside, there was something dark and joyful, almost energetic in its eagerness. He was tired of fighting it. He was close to giving up but if he did it might mean the end of him. He had already made concessions but it was now taking over him, this dark pleasure, it was- it was-
There was a heartbeat pulsing inside but it did not belong to his father.
Three shaky breaths later, Stiles opened the door he had left unlocked when he had left in his hurry to the hospital, hunger and panic driving him. He must have been a sight with his wild hair, dark circles under his eyes and gaunt appearance.
He hadn’t slept in three days.
There stood a figure inside their living room, and Stiles’ almost sluggish heart picked up its pace. Peter was well-dressed as always. He had abandoned his eternal V-neck into a crisp dress shirt and slacks that looked like they were tailored to fit him and only him. They probably were, the posh bastard. His goatee was well-kept, soft-looking, Stiles thought absently as he took in the wolf he hadn’t really seen since-
Since.
Peter’s winter blue eyes were transfixed on Stiles but he couldn’t muster up any fear. All of it had been drained when he had been locked in his mind, seeing the world through the nogitsune’s - his own - eyes. His heart slowed again, returning to the sluggish pace the numbness had left him with.
Peter frowned.
“I thought I’d warrant a better reaction than that,” he commented airily. Stiles shrugged, closing the door behind him.
“Maybe I’ve gotten used to you.” He tried to take off his jacket until he realised he hadn’t grabbed any when he left earlier. He sighed, rubbing his eyes.
Now that he was ‘sated’ he just felt tired, no matter the mess he was inside. When he had been hungry he had just enough energy to go look for something to consume but now…
It was like someone had cut his strings, tied him with them and left to be eaten alive, and he was fallingfallingfalling-
There was no pack, there was no one to catch him-
“-les, Stiles!”
Stiles blinked. The lights hurt his eyes. He would have scowled but it required energy he didn’t currently have. Why was he looking at the lights anyway? He slowly realised he was lying in someone’s arms, head tilted towards the ceiling.
Someone. Peter.
“Oh, you’re still here,” he said, dumbfounded. Peter let out what Stiles could have described an exasperated huff.
“Where would I have gone between your arrival and consequent zoning out?” Peter lifted him up but Stiles’ legs were uncooperative. Peter seemed to cut his losses and just kept holding him up. “You’re so light. Have you eaten anything?”
Stiles’ heart clenched. “I- I just did.”
And it was delicious-
“Food, Stiles,” Peter lectured and lifted him up enough for Stiles’ world turning around again and coming back when he was seated in the kitchen. “You may have become a supernatural creature like the rest of your little circle but you need concrete sustenance as well.”
Stiles’ face crumbled. “But- I didn’t want this.” His voice sounded just as thick as his throat felt. “I didn’t- I- I-” His chest wracked with sobs that threatened to make themselves known. He hadn’t- he hadn’t wanted any of this, he hadn’t wanted the pack to fall apart because of him, he hadn’t wanted people to fear him, he hadn’t wanted Allison to die-
He was suddenly engulfed in a warm cocoon. He felt the arms tight around him, fleshy and real, and the muscles were hard but oh so real- Stiles didn’t even need to count his fingers to know he was there, it was real, it was- it was-
It was the first hug he had allowed himself to experience since his mind becoming his own again.
Tears spilled from his eyes and ugly sobs were hidden in Peter’s shirt. He suddenly found strength to clutch to Peter, holding him close, as if screaming silently not to let him go. And Peter didn’t. He let him cry, even encouraged him let go of the mess he had been hiding inside him, all the loneliness and self-hatred-
And he never left.
Stiles didn’t know how long he cried but he felt wrung out when he finally stopped. Still Peter didn’t let him go, not until Stiles himself started moving, flushed red in embarrassment.
“I’m sorry,” he blurted out, voice hoarse and almost unrecognisable. He knew it had been coming – it might have taken hours, days, weeks, even years, but it had been coming – but he was ashamed that someone had been witnessing his breakdown. Peter just stared at him solemnly before he shook his head, suddenly whimsical and pretentious, the way Stiles had expected him to act earlier.
“Have you ever even visited Whole Foods?” Peter asked, sniffing at the contents of their fridge. He quickly took out eggs and something – Stiles couldn’t see through him, no matter how his essence had now a different flavour – and took out pans and-
“Are you cooking for me?” he asked, bemused.
“My, I really should have bitten you instead of Scott. Look at how smart you are,” Peter snarked. The eggs started to sizzle and- that was bacon. It smelled like bacon. Why was there bacon in his fridge? Why was there anything in his fridge…? There had been none but- Stiles’ stomach made a grumbling noise and it felt like something was eating him alive. The toaster made a noise, popping out a beautifully, evenly, browned toast in a way not even Stiles had managed to master.
“You’re a wizard,” he said as the two pieces of toast were placed before him, butter spread on top in all of its melted goodness. Not a second later another plate was as well with the eggs and bacon. His stomach made itself known again and Peter snorted.
“Eat your breakfast.”
“It’s evening.”
“The ‘sunset’ you just saw was a sunrise.”
Stiles looked out the window, suddenly realising that the lights brightening the room were, in fact, natural and not artificial.
“Oh.”
Peter nudged the plate, pretending to reach for the pieces of bacon. Stiles automatically slapped his hand away, shocking himself. Peter smirked.
“Eat your breakfast, Stiles.”
“Yes, sir,” Stiles mumbled, and dug into his food. And for all powers that are holy, it was good. Stiles was sure he had never eaten anything as good before in his whole life. Peter watched him eat but, suddenly, it didn’t feel so weird anymore. Perhaps it should have but it did not. Peter didn’t move from his spot before Stiles had polished his plates, snagging them from under him, and placing two more pieces of toast there, this time with the chocolaty goodness that was Nutella.
“Dessert,” he winked and Stiles didn’t care anymore. Peter was feeding him – and not just feeding him but feeding him chocolate. Yeah, he was down for that. He was- he was-
He sniffed as he finally slowed down, half-way through his second dessert toast. He felt full, completely full. His soul was still singing but, now, so was the rest of him.
“Why did you do this?” he asked finally. Once upon a time he would have been suspicious but he was merely curious. “You have nothing to gain from this.”
Peter hummed, putting the dishes into the dishwasher. “Oh, but I do. I am slowly gaining your trust. When you do, and you will, I will no longer be staying at the fringe of the pack. Either I am going to be the pack – unlikely, since unless another alpha pack is coming around, the opportunities to become one again are close to zero and I am not suicidal – or I am going to become a pack member. You are my way in, Stiles.
“Also, I like you,” he added, almost as an afterthought, completely lackadaisical, but Stiles heard it. He heard the little stutter Peter’s heart made, the desire to belong to something again, fear of being left alone. He didn’t even really want to become an alpha again, not if that would guarantee he was alone again. The hidden insecurities, the self-hatred, the loneliness, even the intrigue and fascination - and something, something his new instincts didn't recognise but Stiles did - directed at him, they were all calling to Stiles and making his blood burn.
But there was no stutter when he said- when he said-
Stiles turned back towards the window, watching as his neighbourhood slowly woke up to yet another day.
“You’re insane,” he mused out loud. Wanting to tie himself to- it didn't make any sense to Stiles. Not that he would be able to handle anything like that right now but-
Something stirred inside him. Maybe… just maybe-
“No, not anymore,” Peter said. “Eat your toast.”
Stiles did.
“But you do realise there is no pack,” he said around his mouthful. He was regaining his energy, he realised. He didn’t feel too tired anymore. He knew he would crash soon – and probably sleep like the dead until he woke from the nightmares anyway – but for now… for now, he felt like he was, maybe, going to be alright.
Peter gave him the most unimpressed look. “You cannot seriously think that,” he chided, stealing his last plate and putting it in the company of the rest.
“But… because of me-”
“The previous nogitsune,” Peter stressed, shutting Stiles right up, “Killed little miss Argent, that much is true. But do you really think she wasn’t just as prepared to face her end as the rest of you? She had already died once as you well know. So did you and Scott. Are you saying she died in vain? That her sacrifice to save her- loved ones was futile?”
Stiles’ jaw snapped shut with a loud click as he ground his teeth together.
“Your precious alpha will realise that soon,” Peter said breezily. He hustled Stiles up, taking his time helping Stiles and his wobbly feet climb up the stairs. “The kitsune will come back no matter what her parents will say. The coyote is waiting for someone to show her how to human; I’m not touching that with a long stick, so she’s your collective problem, not mine. Little miss banshee will get a grip at some point or another. She bounced back from my possession, she will from this too. I expect her to start communicating with the dead soon enough with her determination anyway,” Peter mused, pushing Stiles inside his room. Despite Stiles’ protests, he started stripping him expertly, tugging layers upon layers off Stiles’ body.
“I don’t know what Derek’s former beta is going to do but unless Argent leaves him in France or something, he’ll come back too. Derek never knows what’s good for him so, rest assured, he’s going to be back here sooner or later, lurking like he does best. Did I forget someone?” Peter pretended to think about it. “Ah, yes, dear Mr. True Alpha.” Stiles winced, readying himself for-
“First love, so hard to lose,” Peter cooed. “When she’s dead and buried, he’ll lift his eyes up and see who else is left. He’ll realise he doesn’t need to anchor himself to one person only, not when he has a pack full of them. I never truly understood why he would tie himself to Argent anyway. Hunters, they will always die before their time. Love, what an utterly useless emotion.”
That- his heart-
Stiles found himself dressed in his comfiest pyjamas – decorated with miniature bats, sue him – and pushed into bed with covers thrown on him.
“Now, little nogitsune, it’s bed time,” Peter said sweetly, voice dripping with what had to be poison because Peter was never sweet. Although, this whole past hour…
“Did- did you just give me a pep talk?” Stiles asked, incredulous, when he managed to pop his head out of the mountain of blankets. Peter shrugged.
“Now that I have brightened your life with my words and presence, you will be in want for more. Thus, my place in this little band of misfits is secured until further notice or better opportunities. I will not become an omega again,” he declared vehemently. Stiles nodded mutely, a smile slowly curling on his lips.
“I think that can be arranged,” Stiles said as snottily as he could in his present state. It wasn’t much, just a rather pitiful imitation of Peter, but Peter sniffed, nodding in approval.
“You owe me. It will be my pleasure to collect, later.”
Stiles found himself pressed down and the blankets arranged neatly around him, on him, under him, into a protective cocoon. He was a human – or a supernatural, his mind whispered – burrito. Peter closed the curtains and faced him again, inspecting him. Stiles found himself suddenly feeling tired, the days of stress and insomnia catching up to him.
He still hated himself ninety percent of the time but, perhaps… yes, perhaps there was light at the end of the tunnel.
“Will you stay with me?” he asked sleepily before he could stop it, his vulnerabilities suddenly exposed. Not that Peter hadn’t apparently seen through his thin walls without Stiles even meaning to. His eyes fell closed.
“If I must,” Peter said, longsuffering, but Stiles felt the bed dip under the werewolf’s weight, and a hand brush his hair from his face.
Stiles fell hard, and he didn’t wake up until the next morning, a Peter-shaped and scented imprint next to him. He could hear his father making noise downstairs and he had a message from Scott on his phone, patiently waiting for an answer.
Stiles couldn’t help the smile that spread on his lips.
It seemed that even a dark creature like him may have a future.
And if he looked for Peter the next time the pack came together, trying to find their footing after everything, after the bridges had been burnt and nothing would be the same again, if Stiles made sure Peter was included and, perhaps, after all the crying, all the screaming, all the blaming, when nothing and everything had been achieved, if he maybe asked him out to dinner, purely as a thank you, of course… well, why wouldn’t he?
It was Peter, after all.