Archive of Our Own

“We’ll figure something out,” his father says, staring at the veritable mountain of bills blanketing the entirety of their kitchen table. The words are firm, strong, reassuring. They promise that problems will be solved, and life will go on, and everything will go back to the way it was.

They’re also what his father said when they fell behind on his mother’s massive medical bills, the substantial house mortgage, and the deepening chasm of credit card debt, and, well.

The foreclosure notice is still on their fridge.

Stiles takes a deep breath. “Maybe I can take a semester off,” he suggests, for the umpteenth time. “Get a job, earn some money, finish my degree later.”

“Absolutely not,” his father says, as he always has. “College takes priority.”

“I would think keeping our house would be the priority, given that we, you know, live here.”

His father stands up from the table. It’s slow and pained; he hasn’t yet fully healed from the tumble he took tackling a suspect, and he has months of expensive physical therapy ahead of him. Those bills haven’t even hit them yet, and when they do . . .

His father repeats, “We’ll figure something out.” He pats Stiles on the shoulder and shuffles out of the kitchen.

“Yeah,” Stiles mutters to empty air. “That figuring out thing has worked so well for us in the past.”

Stiles doesn’t bother setting the GPS up. Everyone in town knows how to reach the Hales. Everyone knows that the road by the Preserve is really their road, to be used by anyone who has the spine to try and talk to them at their home instead of at their varied offices – law firm for Talia, fire station for her husband, so on and so on.

We’re going to figure it out.

The Hales been a part of Beacon Hills since probably before it was even known as Beacon Hills, and have the kind of money that would take Stiles a hundred lifetimes to earn, accumulated generation after generation and now so massive a hoard that the interest alone could probably keep Stiles and his dad afloat. Plus they have really cool, not at all cheap cars.

We’re going to figure it out.

The Hales are also known for being pretty fair. Not nice, exactly – they don’t go out of their way to shower the town in charity – but if someone does them a solid, they pay their debts, Lannister style. Alternately, if someone hurts them, they will obliterate said someone, but Stiles is trying really hard not to think about that, because the last time someone hurt the Hales by trying to burn down their house, the Hales decimated the entire Argent empire.

We’re going to figure it out.

And the last thing known about the Hales? Well, they’ve been looking for an omega. Stiles isn’t sure why, but, hey, he’s an omega and he needs money and he has no intention of screwing the Hales over, so.

This is how Stiles is going to figure it out. What could possibly go wrong?

Parking the Jeep is a bit of an exercise in Tetris skills, because the Hales have such a large family and therefore so many cars that they have less of a driveway and more of a car park. And that’s just the cars that don’t fit inside their massive garage. But eventually he finds a spot, turns the Jeep off, and then turns it back on so he can use the interior lights to finger comb his hair and smooth his wrinkled shirt as much as he can before he braves the trek up to their house.

Once he gets to the front door, he takes a deep breath and pretends to admire the lovely arrangement of plants on the side of the deck. He’s sure they know someone is on the deck – no one this rich doesn’t have security cameras – but it gives him a moment.

Stiles thinks of the deep worry lines on his father’s face, of the bill drawer that became an entire bill filing cabinet, of the smaller and smaller grocery runs they’ve been doing.

He breathes out, and straightens his shirt one more time, and knocks on the door.

The door opens literally as he is pulling his hand back after the knock, which just proves that, yeah, they totally knew he was there. Still, Laura is kind enough to smile and pretend she didn’t.

“Hello!” she says brightly. “How can we help you?”

“Uh, hi,” Stiles says, slightly taken aback by the sounds of yelling that are now audible with the door open. They must have some really good soundproofing. “I’m, uh. Stiles? Stiles Stilinski? The – ”

“Oh, the sheriff’s son,” Laura finishes, eyes settling in recognition. “Are you here for Mom? She’s in her office.”

“Uh, yeah, that – yes.”

“I’ll bring you there,” she says kindly, and opens the door further.

Stepping into the Hale house is a bit of an out-of-body experience. The foyer alone is massive; his entire kitchen and dining room could fit into it. There’s like three shoe racks and two closets, stuffed to the gills with shoes and boots and coats. The walls are gleaming, like they’re just freshly painted, although the furniture is the sturdy, ornamented kind that was bought fifty years ago and is rock solid mahogany. It’s a beautiful house, and Stiles says so.

“Yes, my grandmother loved architecture,” Laura says, leading him past what looks like a living room with kids in front of a massive television. “She re-designed the house and expanded it.”

Stiles deliberately does not think about how much money the redesign cost.

And then, of course, they’re in Talia’s office, and he doesn’t have to worry about thinking about how much the house itself cost, because Talia has probably the fanciest office Stiles has ever seen: flat screen television, an entire sectional couch, three bookshelves, and a computer set up that would make Danny drool.

“Mom, I’ve brought a guest,” Laura announces cheerily.

Talia waves an absent hand over the top of her computer screen, eyes rapidly going back and forth as she reads something.

Laura rolls her eyes. “She’ll be with you in a second, just take a seat,” she reassures Stiles. Then she tilts her head, ever so slightly, as if hearing something in the distance. “Dinner will be ready in thirty minutes, so if your business isn’t done, we can send some plates up.”

“Um, thanks?”

Laura flashes him a bright, friendly smile, and then Stiles is left alone in the wolves’ den, trying not to sweat through his clothes.

He’s not really sure he succeeds.

Talia finally finishes whatever she is working on, because she stands with a smile, brushing down her elegant pencil skirt and blouse, and hurries over. “I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting; this case just really has eaten up all of my time. I’m Talia Hale, of course, nice to meet you – although I’m not sure what could have warranted the sheriff sending his son instead of an officer at this time of night,” she says pointedly, even though her tone is still even.

“Oh I’m not – I’m not here because my dad sent me,” Stiles corrects.

Talia raises an eyebrow. “Stiles, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“So if your father didn’t send you,” she says slowly, “then what are you doing here at this time of night? I mean, you’re more than welcome to join us for dinner, we have more than enough food, but – ”

And just like that, Stiles can’t stand it anymore.

“You need an omega,” he blurts out.

Talia goes still as a statue. It’s actually a little funny, but it’s also intimidating as hell for someone like Stiles, who can’t go two seconds without twitching, fidgeting, or bouncing his leg. He could also swear that her eyes gleam red, just for a second, although it’s probably just the reflection of the sunset or something.

“Do I,” Talia says.

And, well, Stiles always worked better once the first barrier was broken.

“Yep, that’s how the word around town goes. Usually the Hales have never used the Omega Register, and suddenly half of the family is on there. You’ve even broadened the parameters to a national search, when usually people keep it pretty local unless they intend to move. And you’ve listed a pretty big range as a dowry. Put it all together,” Stiles claps his hands, “and you get the picture of a family that desperately, desperately needs an omega.”

Talia makes a noncommittal noise. “And?”

“And I’m an omega. I’m unmated, I’m healthy, I’m near enough in age to most of your children that are probably seeking an omega.”

“And you offer this . . . out of the goodness of your heart?”

“Well, no. I need money. Lots of money. That dowry alone could wipe out half of our debt.”

“I’d heard the sheriff had some financial difficulties,” Talia allows. She’s leaning back slightly on the couch now, like she’s seen the tasty bait and the hook underneath, and feels more comfortable now. “I assume a loan is out of the question?”

“Not if we don’t want to be paying interest until we’re dead two times over.”

Talia nods as if she understands. Stiles isn’t quite sure how, given that she likely has never had to take a loan out in her life, but he appreciates it.

Then she asks, “And you wouldn’t prefer the money to go towards your education instead? Surely your future is more important than – ”

Stiles doesn’t let her finish; he’s too busy seeing red. “If you think anything is less important than my dad, you’re wrong,” he interrupts, absolutely steaming. “He’s family. He’s all I have. If I could drop out today and get a job that would pay the debt, I would, but I can’t, so here I am, sitting on the richest lady in town’s couch, begging her for help, and I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t try and twist me into being some – some selfish narcissist who only looks out for myself.”

A slow smile touches Talia’s face. It’s not usual for Stiles to be smiled at after he insults people.

Probably also not wise for Stiles have insulted the lady who could make or break his family’s finances. He clears his throat. “Uh, I mean, no, no thank you, Mrs. Hale.”

“No, you spoke the truth. The truth is to be admired. Especially when you’re doing it for – for family.”

It’s weird – she talks like he passed some sort of test. It’d be nice except he has no idea what kind of test he passed or even that he was being tested. Then again: she holds all the cards, so it’s not that surprising.

“Well, Stiles,” Talia says, “you’ve been honest with me. My turn to be honest, then. Will you follow me?”

Absolutely bewildered, Stiles follows her silently as she leaves her office and heads to the stairs. They pass by a kitchen that has more dishes than cars and also more cooking equipment than Stiles has seen in most cooking stores, but Talia merely waves off the other Hales and climbs up the stairs.

“The first floor has communal areas,” Talia says, as if giving a tour, “the kitchen and dining room and den and such. The second floor has offices on one side and bedroom suites on the other. And the third floor – ”

“Storage?” Stiles guesses hopefully.

“Some. But also some suites. It’s where the more private members of the family like to reside.”

Stiles bites back his instinctive comment, which is to ask if they have a mad grandmother or in-law trapped in the attic. They probably could – it’s not like they have any neighbors who might hear any screams – but his father remembers Talia’s parents, and neither of them were mad, so, that’s pretty unlikely.

Talia walks past a few rooms on the third floor before stopping at the end of the wing’s hallway. The door is firmly shut, unlike almost all of the others before it, and the lights on this end are dim, as if respectful.

Or mournful.

“What do you know about my brother, Peter?” Talia asks.

“Uhhh,” Stiles says, and racks his brain. He knows about Talia’s husband (the fire chief), her oldest daughter (the librarian), her oldest son (the arborist), her sister (the chief doctor), and her brother-in-law (the architect), but Talia Hale only has one brother, Peter, and honestly, Stiles knows very little about him. He’s the one Hale of adult age without a prominent job, really.

Talia smiles, and this time it’s a very painful smile. “Yes, Peter always did keep to himself. Bit of a troublemaker in his youth; your father gave him a lot of speeding tickets.”

“Okay . . .”

“Peter . . . he is my left hand, if you will. The one who protects the p – the family. He watches, he tracks, he does what needs to be done.”

“You make him sound like some sort of spymaster,” Stiles jokes.

Talia actually nods, which, what the hell. “In a way. He’s the reason the Argent’s plan to burn down our house failed. He got wind of a plot, and insisted on us starting up a rotation of watches. He . . . caught . . . Kate Argent. When she tried to lob the Molotov cocktail.”

Caught is one word for it, in Stiles’s humble opinion. Kate Argent was so badly maimed and burnt that they had to identify her with dental records.

Not that she didn’t deserve it, but it’s definitely making Stiles wonder if he should have told, oh, anyone about his plan to come to the house in the middle of preserve with no back up plan.

“I don’t suppose your father told you about what happened after we caught Kate Argent?”

“No, he wanted me to stay out of it. I followed the news like everyone else.”

“Well . . .”

Talia finally turns the door knob and pushes open the door. The room – or rooms, it really is a suite – inside are quite nice, tastefully painted in calm blues and whites, decorated with more solid, expensive furniture, but also having little knick knacks that speak to a life well-traveled: beautiful paintings, little figurines, oddly shaped stones and rocks.

There is also, in a wheelchair by the window, a man, sitting placidly and silently, who does not rise as they enter.

His scent is alpha, through and through, just as unmistakable as Talia’s, but – muted, in a way. Like the scent has been dampened by a rainstorm. Or like the person just left the room.

Judging from the glazed look in Peter Hale’s eyes, that’s not far off the mark.

“Peter was badly burnt in the fire,” Talia explains awkwardly. “His body healed, but . . . the mind does takes its own time to come back.”

And just like that, Stiles sees the shiny sharp hook underneath the Hales’ expensive bait.

He looks at Talia. “You’re hoping an omega can reach him through a mate bond,” he says.

“I’ve tried to reach him. God knows I have. We all have. But it’s like . . . it’s like the fire burned all of our bonds to ash. He won’t respond – or maybe he can’t hear us at all. I don’t know. We’ve tried everything, and it hasn’t been enough. But I won’t abandon him. He’s – He’s family,” she says firmly, just as firmly as Stiles had been in her office.

And Stiles gets it, he does. His dad saved him, when he sank into a depressive funk, and he saved his dad, when his dad went off the deep end after his mother died. There are some people you’d do anything for.

Although: “Really? He’s the hero who saved your family, and no one was willing?”

Talia sighs and rubs at her forehead. “Peter had – has. Has. A bit of a . . . reputation. And a mate bond – ”

“It’s forever,” Stiles finishes.

She nods, and Stiles turns back to look at Peter. Even with the scars marring half of his face, he is a handsome man – Stiles has eyes, he can admit that. There’s an age difference, but then again, there usually is when dowries are involved for alpha and omega matings, and it’s not that big. And maybe Peter does have a reputation, but Stiles can be onboard for almost anything to protect his family and if Peter was engaged in something nasty, his father would have thrown him in jail, not just annoyed him with speeding tickets.

Unless Peter’s too sneaky to be caught, but, hey, Stiles can only admire deviousness. He doesn’t judge it.

He finds himself saying, “You know, a mate bond isn’t a guarantee. It’s possible that we could bond and absolutely nothing would happen.”

“Yes. But it’s also possible that a mate could finally be what wakes him up,” Talia says. And it’s clear from her face that she’s willing to do anything that increases that chance.

Even pay an obscene amount of money to a random, unmated omega.

Stiles thinks about their bills, and their credit score, and their home, the house his dad and mom got married in, the house Stiles was born in, the house Stiles was raised in –

Stiles says, “I’ll do it.”

The ceremony is very simple. Normally, the alpha would bite the bonding gland at the base of the omega’s neck, mixing their blood together and creating an unbreakable bond, but obviously, Peter isn’t capable of such a thing and it doesn’t work quite the same way if an omega bites an alpha. This would be a deal breaker for most people.

Of course, this is the Hales they’re talking about. In less than an hour, Talia has Dr. Deaton out to the preserve, readying a mixing bowl and medical supplies.

“Um, aren’t you a . . . vet?” Stiles asks warily as Dr. Deaton sticks a needle into Peter’s arm.

“And a druid. Make a fist, please.”

Stiles looks at Talia, who explains that apparently they aren’t really religious, but they do follow some more natural traditions. No altars or ministers; just a clear sky and a few vows passed down from generation to generation.

The Hales have a very large back patio, because of course they do, and the ceremony takes place there. Under the light of the full moon and with dozens of eyes staring at him, Stiles stands in his jeans and shirt next to Peter, still in his bathrobe and wheelchair, as Dr. Deaton says some kind of weird stuff about the moon and a tree and – and honestly, Stiles kind of fully tunes it out, right up until the ending.

That’s where he has to actually move, so he kneels – so that he and Peter are roughly the same height – and Dr. Deaton comes around with his needle of scary blood mixture.

“Are you sure this going to work?”

“Not really, you’ll be my first test patient,” is the reply he gets.

Stiles is halfway through squawking in outrage when the needle pierces his bonding gland. At first it’s nothing, just a tiny pinch, but then the blood hits his gland, an alpha’s blood, Peter’s blood, and Stiles goes from outraged and worried to high as hell, because his body is convinced that he just got mated.

Somehow, Stiles goes from kneeling to laying on the ground, and from this angle, he’s facing Peter. He could almost swear that Peter was actually looking at him.

He slurs something – he thinks he said Yeah I think it worked – and then he’s out.

Stiles dreams of fire.

A lot of fire, hot and overwhelming and burning, consuming him alive, tearing into him with a thousand knives, and it hurts.

He wishes, desperately, for water and for his dad and to wake up.

Wake up, he tells his dream self, wake up, WAKE UP.

Stiles wakes up.

He is mildly surprised to find that he is, in fact, in a bed and not just sprawled on the patio, which is nice. Someone even took off his shoes and socks, although they left his jeans and shirt alone. His phone is lying on the nightstand, and some kind soul found a charger and plugged it in.

Stiles picks up his phone, sees five missed calls from his dad and three texts from Scott, and makes the valiant decision that he needs to fortify his stomach first.

The Hale house is just as intimidating as it had been last night, but, fortunately, Stiles is able to use his nose as a guide. The wonderful aroma of pancakes leads him down the stairs and to the kitchen, which honestly looks like an entire diner rush has come and on, what with the stacks of plates, crumbs everywhere, and syrup drippings.

Laura pops up just as Stiles is about to go hunting for leftovers.

“Hey, there you are,” she says. “We made some extras. We weren’t sure when you’d wake up, so we just left them in the oven on warm.”

She then furnishes him with a huge stack of pancakes, an entire stick of butter, a jug of maple syrup and another of chocolate syrup, strawberry jam and blueberry jam, and cinnamon sugar. Because apparently that’s just how the Hales eat breakfast.

Stiles shrugs and digs in. They really are good pancakes.

Talia shows up once Stiles has finished his last bite. He’d almost suspect her of lingering in the hallway and eavesdropping, but that’s creepy and also there would be no point.

“Good morning,” she says briskly. “Stiles, I’ve made arrangements for the dowry to be transferred into your accounts, unless you would prefer some of it to be set aside in a trust or savings account. I can also make an appointment with a financial planner.”

“Uhh,” Stiles says, frantically dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. “I don’t think that will be necessary, the money’s honestly going to go straight out and into, you know, bills, so – ”

“It will still need to be reported,” Talia points out gently.

“Ugh, taxes.”

Talia smiles. The smile seems less taut now, more real, almost like they’re family.

And, well. They are.

Stiles smiles back. “Don’t suppose someone could hook me up with a computer so I could start paying off some bills?”

Which is when his phone rings instead.

Talia raises an eyebrow. “Maybe you should answer that first.”

“So,” his dad says, voice even and mellow and very, very calm, “I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me why our account is suddenly flush with enough money to buy a mansion.”

Stiles winces and looks up at the ceiling of the suite that Talia has insisted he call his own now. It has an ensuite bathroom, a nook with a computer setup for working, and a sitting room with a television and couch. Stiles and his father could probably comfortably live in this suite alone, and it is, according to Talia, one of the smaller suites in the house.

“Welllllllllll,” Stiles says, rallying, “you did say we would figure things out, so I, you know, figured things out. Surprise?”

“Uh huh. And how exactly did you ‘figure things out’ because the last I checked, you didn’t have a job.”

“Nope.”

“And the Jeep isn’t worth this much money.”

“Definitely not.”

“So unless you went and did something ridiculous or illegal, which, in that case, you better tell me right now, kid – ”

“IwenttotheHales,” Stiles says in a rush.

“ . . . What?”

“I, um, you know, went to the Hales, because they had a really high dowry posted on the Omega Register, and it turns out they were serious, and luckily, it all worked out, because they wanted an unmated omega and, hey, here I am, a unmated omega, so, really, it was just pure luck that – ”

“Hold up, hold up – you aren’t on the Omega Register.”

“Public search, Dad.”

“And all of the Hales of your age are either married or in school.”

“Yeah, but – ”

“And – And really? A dowry for a mating?”

Stiles bristles. “What, you think no one would want me?”

“Aw, hell, kid,” his dad sighs. There’s a creak, probably as he collapses onto their really ancient sofa in the living room. “You know I didn’t mean it that way. I just – wanted you to find someone to be happy with. The normal way. Like I did with your mom.”

A lump forms in Stiles’s throat. They never talk about his mom, not ever. The last time Stiles ever heard Claudia’s name was the day of the funeral, when his dad gave the eulogy, and never again after that moment. A stranger might think that his father forgot her, or cut her out, or never really loved her. Stiles knows better; he knows that his father loves Claudia so much that talking about her is usually too painful to even contemplate.

He has to swallow a few times before he can talk. “Yeah,” he says finally, “me too. But the bills, Dad. We have so many bills.”

“I don’t suppose I can talk you out of it?”

Stiles’s hand strays to the back of his neck, where the puncture wound has already healed. It feels wrong; a mating scar should reside there, but there’s only smooth, unmarked flesh. If it weren’t for the strange, floaty connection he can feel to Peter, he might think Dr. Deaton’s procedure failed.

“Yeah, a bit too late for that.”

His father clearly struggles with that. Stiles can tell, even over the phone. But what’s done is done, and his father knows that too.

“So, uh, who do I have to sit down and have the shovel talk with?”

“Dad!”

“Yeah, you’re right, it’ll be more of a gun talk. Maybe I can break out the old shotgun from the shed too – ”

“Daddddddd.”

“Listen, a dad’s gotta do what a dad’s gotta do, son.”

“Yeah, well, you won’t get much of a response. Peter’s is kind of . . . catatonic.”

“What?!”

Calming his dad down takes most of the morning, and then Stiles spends most of the afternoon on the phone while hunched over the computer as he clears out bill after bill after bill. By the time he hits Confirm Payment on the last one, he’s absolutely exhausted and also absolutely wired.

Finally, at last, the Stilinskis are completely and fully debt free.

They’re even left with a respectable balance behind. Stiles thinks about doing math, and then he puts his head down and just sighs, because clearly Talia added a little extra, but, hey, he’s not about to protest it. It’ll just go into two little nest eggs: one for his dad’s retirement and one for his tuition.

For now, the next problem is food.

The Hales have long since conquered dinner, but Derek just grunts when Stiles asks for permission to raid the pantry and use the kitchen, so Stiles takes that as his due. The Hales have a lot of meat, and since Stiles doesn’t have to hide it from his dad, he makes himself a gourmet burger with cheese and tomatoes and enough ketchup to drown a ship. And a side of sautéed asparagus, because why not.

Then he treks back up to bed and is halfway to crawling into it when he thinks of Peter.

For a hot, wildly terrifying second, he’s convinced that his mate is still sitting motionless on the patio, but then rational thought asserts itself. Stiles gets up and walks up the stairs and towards Peter’s bedroom, where the door is closed again and the lights dimmed. He knocks, because it’s only polite, and then pushes inside.

Peter is back by the window again, although he is wearing a different bathrobe. He doesn’t react as Stiles pulls closer.

And, like, Stiles knew one day wouldn’t be enough. But it still stings, to see Peter – someone his father called a “right rascal” – silent and unmoving.

Stiles crouches by his wheelchair. “Hey, Peter,” he says quietly. “I guess I should’ve introduced myself, huh? My name is Stiles. Stiles Stilinski, I’m, uh, the sheriff’s kid, so, if my dad threatens to shoot you, sorry about that. I’m kind of his only kid, so he’s pretty protective. Then again, wow, your sister is really protective of you, so I suppose you might know something about that.”

He pauses, then, mostly because convention has taught him that if he doesn’t pause, he’ll just blabber over his conversation partner and then eventually they’ll leave and not come back, but Peter just keeps staring.

“Um, what else can I tell you about myself? I’m in college, just part-time because it’s expensive, and the classes have been boring as hell, but as soon as I’m out of the general ed stuff I can do the really interesting stuff. I’ve been thinking about a career in the FBI one day, I’m really good at figuring out stuff. Hey, my dad says you’re really good at sneaking around cops – maybe you can give me some tips one day, okay? And oh yeah I also – ”

Stiles falls asleep like that, perched on the floor against Peter’s bed, and never notices Peter’s mouth twitching, ever so slightly.

Stiles dreams of darkness.

It smells hot and awful, like that time he burnt a meat pie in the oven. The smoke is thick and under his feet, ash lines the floor, or maybe the ground.

Up ahead, he hears panting, and when he gets closer, he sees a doghouse, scorched and singed, but somehow still standing. There’s something, someone inside of it, because when Stiles crouches by the opening, he can hear shuffling and see glimpses of black fur.

“Hey,” Stiles says.

The mass of black fur goes utterly still.

“I’m not gonna hurt you.” Stiles peers at the doghouse door. It’s very small – he could probably fit like his arm through it and not much else. “How’d you get in here, anyways?”

The black fur ball doesn’t answer.

“Okay, fine, suit yourself.”

In the distance, a chorus of howls start up. It makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up, because he knows, somehow, that the howls aren’t from dogs. They’re deeper, throatier, wilder. And – And mournful, like wolves calling for a lost pack mate.

Stiles says, “Hey, is that your family?”

The black fur shifts and shuffles, and then Stiles sees two electric blue eyes stare at him. They pin him in place, like a tractor beam, too intelligent for any dog but too animal for any human, and Stiles has the uneasy feeling like they’re debating biting his head off.

“Okay, Stiles,” he tells himself, and pinches himself for good measure, “I think it’s time to wake up.”

Meals with the Hale family, Stiles finds out, are chaotic as hell. There’s toddlers running around screaming, exasperated parents running after the toddlers, teenagers slumping in sleep deprived and angsty, adults cramming food in at light speed before work. But there’s never any shortage of food.

Or dishes.

Stiles volunteers to wash once, out of habit, and then spends an hour making friends with the two dishwashers the Hales use.

The Hales also, he learns, have a habit of letting one family member pick the dinner and movie on Friday nights, as a bit of family bonding. Every family member tries to be in attendance, which makes for a very packed dinner and den, but it’s oddly cozy. Stiles, who is used to being in a house that’s more likely to be empty of company than have any, finds he quite enjoys the chaos and the mass of bodies everywhere.

And then Talia, one morning, says, “Oh, Stiles, it’s your turn to choose. What would you like for dinner?”

“Oh, um, I really couldn’t – ”

“You’re a member of this family,” she interrupts firmly, correctly sensing where his thoughts are headed. “So you get to choose.”

No one in the family seems at all opposed to or alarmed by this statement. Then again, they all seem to defer to Talia. It’s subtle, but if Stiles wasn’t literally living in their house and knowing that they do argue like normal people, he might think she was a cult leader, because when she lays down the law, everyone ceases to squabble.

Then Laura nudges his elbow. “Speak now or I’ll drag you shopping,” she threatens sweetly.

“Burgers and curly fries,” Stiles says immediately, because shopping with any of the Hales has proven an immensely traumatic experience.

And sure enough, they all have burgers and curly fries, and then they all curl around the television to watch the movie Stiles has chosen. Not a peep of protest, although he was gently recommended to choose something age appropriate until the young Hales went to bed.

It’s weird and it’s comfortable and it’s, well. It’s like being part of the family.

It’s also, he notes, conspicuously absent of Peter.

The black wolf has become a staple of Stiles’s dreams. He has normal dreams too, sometimes, about forgetting his homework or showing up to school naked, but mostly he dreams of the singed doghouse and the black wolf panting inside of it.

So the black wolf sort of becomes his audience for his ramblings about his day and the Hales, because why not.

He’s just recounting the dinner and movie tradition – “Who owns three deep fryers? Who?! Although damn did the curly fries taste good” – when a rough snort makes him look down. He’s been leaning against the doghouse, because, well, it’s a dream and the thing is structurally sound even if it looks like it should crumble if someone sneezed on it, and now he realizes that the black wolf has slowly stuck its head out.

Not a lot, and it eyes Stiles very warily, but he can see its snout and its blue eyes and its ears, which are perked up in his direction, like it’s listening.

“This is very validating, to have my internal imaginings of my consciousness actually be interested in what I have to say,” Stiles says solemnly.

The black wolf snorts.

“Oh, should I continue? Okay. Derek and I got into an argument – well sort of an argument, the dude doesn’t really talk, but man has he got expressive eyebrows – about Star Wars versus Star Trek. I could almost have hit him!”

Stiles rambles on and on and on, and slowly the black wolf goes from wary to alert to dozing, ears fully relaxed and head resting gently on its paws. He’s not sure what it says about his psyche that he pictures a somewhat feral black wolf, but it does make for a better dream than showing up naked to school again, so he’ll take it.

“You know what was weird, though?” he says, winding down.

One ear cocks in his direction.

“They didn’t bring Peter down. Like I know Peter is . . . catatonic, but sometimes those in a coma can still hear people around them. They just don’t react very well to stimuli. And I bet he’s a little bored of his room.” Stiles looks at the wolf, who has now picked up its head and is looking at him. “Hey, do you think I should suggest it?”

The wolf chuffs at him. It sounds remarkably positive despite being purely an animal sound.

“Yeah,” Stiles decides. “I should. Seems like a mate thing to do. Thanks for listening to me, by the way, I know I get annoying.”

That earns him another snort.

“Aaaaand now the dream manifestation of my own mind is judging me. Great.”

Before the wolf can respond to that, a chorus of howls rises up again. It does that almost every night, and Stiles consider it his cue to wake up.

This time, however, the wolf swivels its head towards the howls.

“Should we go to them?” Stiles asks.

The wolf bears its teeth and promptly vanishes back in the doghouse.

“ . . . Okay then.”

The next dinner and movie night, Stiles wheels Peter down. It’s hard – Peter isn’t a small man, even with the muscle wastage of the coma – but the wheelchair is top notch and the Hales have an elevator, so it’s not that bad.

The hush that falls over the dinner table is kind of weird, but Stiles ignores it in favor of getting Peter settled.

“Stiles,” Talia says finally, “is he – ”

“No,” Stiles replies. “But he’s catatonic, not dead. He can probably still hear us and smell us, in some limited capacity. I thought he might enjoy a change of scenery. And, you know, seeing all of us.”

It’s clear they don’t really believe him, but, hey, that’s not his problem. He just puts some food on Peter’s plate – he knows they hire good staff to take care of his needs, but mashed and pureed food can’t smell as good as roast turkey and egg quiche – and then more on his own and carries on eating, like it’s normal. And slowly, so does everyone else.

The next night, Derek volunteers to help wheel Peter down, and then Laura the night after, and so on, and just like that, Peter is no longer the comatose uncle hidden in the attic all the time.

With the leftover money from his dowry, Stiles increases his class load at college to full time, mostly because he can and because the office set up is amazing at the Hale house. It’s super easy to study when he has an entire suite to spread all of his stuff over and lightning fast WiFi to stream classes and do research.

Also, he has free access to raid the library. And Peter’s private collection, because it turns out that Peter has a lot of books on criminal psychology and forensics and such.

“Were you studying to be a serial killer or something?” Stiles wonders aloud one day.

Peter doesn’t answer; he never does. But it’s now a habit to talk to him anyways.

“Cuz, man, you have some really specific books in here about dead bodies and decomposition. It’s both fascinating and disgusting. Hope you don’t mind me going through it. I’ll put everything back,” he promises.

Peter still stares mutely at him, still as stone.

Stiles puts one foot towards the door, and then he thinks about it. If he were comatose, would he prefer always being alone or being with someone?

“Okay, like I know you can’t answer me, so I guess this is somewhat presumptuous on my part, but I guess I can study here too? Just so I don’t move your books too far and then lose them, because trust me, I can. I once lost my own pair of crutches somewhere in between the living room and the kitchen. No, I don’t know how either.”

Peter doesn’t object, and lightning doesn’t strike Stiles dead, so he takes that as a sign. He darts into his room, grabs his laptop and his bag of notebooks, and comes back upstairs.

He then treats Peter to a very, very random serious of monologues about serial killers, and totally dismisses it as wishful thinking when he thinks he sees Peter’s mouth twitch, like he’s laughing, when Stiles insults some of their intelligence.

The black wolf in his dreams doesn’t really like being touched. It’s a bit like being around a prickly cat; Stiles gets like one pet and then the wolf is done for the day. The wolf still listens, though, and Stiles has noticed that the more he talks, the less . . . smoky and dreary the dream gets. Now the doghouse is slowly being claimed by ivy and weeds, and the air is clear and clean, and the wolf actually comes out and sits next to Stiles, a warm bundle of black fur.

The wolf is still a good listener, too.

Tonight’s topic is Peter, because Stiles broke into the police station last night – gotta keep his skills up to date – and made a copy of Peter Hale’s arrest file.

“Don’t judge me,” Stiles says to the wolf, which is totally judging him. “I’ve heard my dad and Talia cut themselves off too many times! I needed to know what he’s done. And damn, if he’s responsible for half of the things he got put as a suspect for . . . Like he’s amazing. I want to shake his hand and also pick his brain. I wish I had thought about some of the pranks he pulled at school. Like where the hell did he get the idea to take every single nail out of Coach’s stuff and put it back up so that everything would fall when he picked up the box of nails? Genius!”

The black wolf huffs at him. Stiles has learned it’s basically a laugh.

He sticks his tongue out. “Listen, you cannot judge me for admiring my mate!”

It had been weird at first, calling Peter his mate. But every day feels less and less weird now. Stiles is part of the chore rotation (except for laundry, because he’ll let the big muscled folks of the Hale family do the hard work of lugging down bedsheets and clothes); he’s slowly making the whole family watch the entirety of Star Wars; he even has a parking space now, right between Derek’s fancy Camaro and Laura’s more sensible minivan.

And, of course, he has a beanbag he calls his own in Peter’s room, where he does his research and homework and talks Peter’s ear off about anything and everything that crosses his mind.

The wolf rolls its eyes. Stiles didn’t even knows wolves could roll their eyes.

“Listen, since you are a figment of my own mind, you should admire Peter too,” Stiles tells it. “He’s got the flair for the dramatic. Also, Derek says he was sassy as hell, and I wish someone in this house could match me for that. And – ”

The chorus of wolf howls starts up. They seem closer, this time.

The wolf ignores them as normal. It even curls its body fully away from them, facing Stiles completely. He’d be flattered if, again, it wasn’t a manifestation of his own mind in his dreams.

Then Stiles frowns, because one of the wolf howls is getting close. Like very, very close. Even the wolf lifts its head.

“Hey, is that normal for – ” Stiles starts to ask.

“STILES!”

Stiles sits bolt upright, heart going a million miles an hour, to find Talia at his bed. She has a hand on his shoulder, like she’s been shaking him, and her eyes are shining weirdly in the moonlight.

“Talia? What’s up?”

His blood runs cold when she replies: “It’s your father. He’s been in an accident.”

“Dad! Dad, oh my god, why didn’t they call me at once, are you feeling okay, has anyone done a MRI on you, oh my god, is that a – ”

“Stiles, calm the hell down,” his father says wearily.

Stiles flails. “No I will not!!! You were in a car accident!”

“A minor fender bender.”

“There is a cast on your arm!”

“Just a precaution, they had to pop my shoulder back in because it was dislocated,” his father replies.

Stiles’s eye twitches. “Just dislocated?”

His father sighs. He looks like hell – bruises on his cheek, cast on his arm, hair all mussed up, minor cuts on his leg. But he’s alive, which is all that really matters.

“Dad,” Stiles starts, and finds his voice wobbling, as Talia makes a discreet and timely exit.

His father holds his arms out. Stiles is in them hugging the life out of his father two seconds later, because his father is alive, alive, alive. He’ll always take injury over death, especially minor injuries.

“They say a night in observation and I can be discharged, as long as I have someone watching over me and making sure I’m not, you know, concussed,” his father says, after a long moment of hugging. “You up to watching over your old man and poking him awake?”

“You know it.”

“Good.”

The nurse shows up then, with what looks suspiciously like a burger and a soda.

“Dad!”

“I just got in a car accident, son, let me enjoy my burger.”

The black wolf is still there when Stiles falls asleep, which is a real surprise. He’d been half afraid to dream of his father dying horribly in a car accident.

It also trots right up to him and whuffs in concern.

“Yeah, sorry, I, uh. My dad. He got into an accident. God, I thought he was dead and – and – you’re just gonna have to deal with me tonight, okay? I don’t have any funny ramblings.”

Which is when the wolf slowly, carefully presses up against him.

Stiles freezes. They’ve never touched for long periods of time, not really, and right now he could almost swear the fur against his skin and the hot breath on his neck were real. The wolf’s chest even rises and falls as his tongue lolls out, like he’s really breathing.

But even he won’t question comfort if it’s offered, not when he’s just spent the whole drive over wondering if his father was dead.

He throws his arms around the black wolf, squeezing him tight, and says nothing as it licks the tears off his face.

True to his word, Stiles’s father is judged ready for release the next night. Stiles gets a thick discharge package with care instructions and a detailed lecture on possible signs of concussion – unlikely, he’s assured, but better safe than sorry – which he promptly memorizes.

He also gleefully pushes his father out in the offered wheelchair.

“Whoaaa, when did you get so comfortable with a wheelchair?” his dad asks, watching as he completes a neat spin around the corner. “I thought you were going to bowl that nurse over.”

“I’m a great driver, Dad, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You almost failed you driving test.”

“But I didn’t!”

“Yeah, and I’m still convinced you blackmailed the DMV tester.”

Stiles puts a hand over his heart and gasps in mock hurt as he pulls them to a halt and presses the elevator button. “Dad! How could you impugn me like that? I was a naïve and good-natured sixteen year old, how could I have blackmailed an adult? Plus I’m more likely to sweet talk than blackmail, you know.”

“That response isn’t really helping my opinion,” his father says dryly.

Just as the elevator doors begin to close, an elderly man limping towards them calls out, “Hey, hold the elevator!”

Stiles dutifully sticks a hand in the door, receiving a grateful smile as the man gets inside.

“What floor?” he asks.

“Oh, ground floor, if you don’t mind. Ah, Sheriff, I hope all is well.”

“Um, yes, just a minor fender bender,” his father says, a slight puzzled crease between his eyebrows, as if he has no idea who the man is. Then again, Stiles doesn’t know either.

“Hmm, yes, the youth do have a tendency to go too fast and hurt themselves. Or others,” the man says, winking at Stiles as if inviting him to join in some inside joke.

Stiles just shuffles his feet and coughs. The man looks normal – old and dressed casually – but his eyes are sharp and there’s a cruel, mocking edge to his smile. Stiles couldn’t put it into words, the bad vibes the man gives off, so he just smiles politely and wishes that the elevator would descend faster.

His father must sense the awkwardness, because he nudges Stiles. “So, the cool wheelchair tricks?” he prompts.

“Oh, I’ve been getting a lot of experience with Peter,” Stiles replies, grateful for a chance to tune out the creepy old man.

“Is Peter your brother?”

Or not.

Stiles frowns at the old man. “No, sorry.”

Fortunately, the elevators open just then, and Stiles is quick, if careful, to wheel his dad away. His father doesn’t protest, merely settles more firmly against the chair, so maybe they’ve both been getting bad vibes from the old man. Either way, when they turn the hallway, Stiles releases a sigh that the old man has been left behind.

“Oh, hey, I thought you came here with Talia?” his dad asks.

“She had to go to work. You get to ride with me. And I expect praise on my awesome driving abilities.”

“Not a chance.”

They pull away from the hospital, Stiles still trying to convince his dad that he’s a great driver really, when Stiles decides to look in his rearview mirror.

The old man is standing on the sidewalk, staring at them drive away.

Creepy, Stiles decides, and drives a little faster.

Stiles brings his dad to the Hale house, because half because he knows there’s healthy food there for his dad and half because it’s mostly instinct to drive to the Preserve than into town. His dad winces every time they hit a bump, but he doesn’t protest, so he must agree with the kidnapping to the Hale house thing.

“Um, so, pro tip, there’s a lot of screaming toddlers,” Stiles warns him as they walk towards the door. “Just let ‘em scream and their adults will handle them.”

His father gives him a look. “I think I can handle it. You screamed a lot too, kid.”

The shell-shocked look his dad sends him across the dinner table really is amazing.

“Told ya,” Stiles says, and continues shoveling mashed potatoes in his mouth.

They settle his dad into one of the many guest rooms. It’s got an ensuite, so he won’t have to go far to use the restroom, and Stiles stocks him up with water bottles and plastic bags in case he gets thirsty or wants to shower.

Then Stiles goes and finds Peter, because it’s really strange to have a ritual disrupted and he feels oddly displaced by it.

Peter is in his normal spot, next to the window, dressed in a linen shirt, bathrobe, and soft pants. He makes no acknowledgement of Stiles’s presence, but that’s nothing new. Stiles drags his beanbag over and looks at his mate’s empty, unchanging face.

Well, mostly unchanging. Yesterday they gave him a haircut because his hair was getting to his shoulders and Talia said Peter always kept his short.

“Hey, Peter,” Stiles says quietly. “Sorry I missed dinner. My dad, uh, he got into a car accident. I had to go check on him. He’s fine! He’s not hurt – well, he is hurt, but it’s a hurt that’ll heal, and possibly a concussion, not sure, anywaysssss. I’ll have to find out who hit him and make sure they get punished to the fullest extent of the law. And maybe I can bribe Danny to do some of his computer magic. You’d probably have some great ideas of how to punish them too, kinda wish you had been there.”

Which is when Stiles realizes that, actually, he wishes Peter had been there for the whole thing: to wake him up, and drive him to the hospital, and keep him company as he’d waited agonizing minutes to let into his father’s room, and then to drive them home.

Talia is lovely, and Laura and the others have all texted to make sure he’s okay. But they don’t really get his sarcasm, and felt bad about meeting his sassy replies when his father was hurt.

He knows Peter wouldn’t have, if his father’s tales and Talia’s stories are anything to go by.

“Yeah . . . I wish you had been there,” Stiles says. He glances up, but Peter’s expression hasn’t changed. Peter is still gazing outside, fixed and unmoving, head tilted up slightly like he wants to see the stars.

And, well. Stiles can accomplish that.

He wheels Peter outside, creaking past a house that mostly asleep. The patio is lush and cool in the night, gently lit by the sparkling fairy lights one of the kids insisted on putting up. And best of all, the view – one only need to crane their head the tiniest bit, and the whole sky opens up to a splash of midnight blue dotted with bright stars and the round glowing moon.

“There,” Stiles says, settling the wheelchair in place, “how’s that for a change of view? I bet looking at the stars outside is much better than staring through a window. My dad used to try and tell me the constellations, actually. He was, uh, mostly wrong, but points for effort. But I think that’s the North Star, right over there – ”

“Well spotted.”

For a wild second, Stiles thinks that it is Peter that has spoken.

Then the creepy old man from the hospital steps out from the forest at the end of the backyard. He’s dressed differently now; not the hospital grandpa clothes, no, now he is wearing what Stiles can only describe as tactical gear, black as night and covered in belts with various weapons.

Stiles had gotten bad vibes before. Now it is bad vibes times a thousand.

He steps closer to Peter, scrabbling for the wheelchair brake, and hopes the darkness of night will cover his action.

“Uh . . . who are you and why are you here?” he asks.

The old man takes another step closer. He’s actually smiling, the weirdo. “Step away from Peter Hale, Stiles.”

“How the hell do you know my – ”

“I won’t ask again,” the old man says, almost pleasantly, right before he points a gun at them.

“Whoa, okay, not necessary!” Stiles yelps.

“It’s very necessary,” the old man counters, “when I’m dealing with monsters.”

And like that had been the signal, men pour of the forest behind him, carrying cans and bags of powder and more guns. There’s dozens of them, all armed to the teeth, and none at all seem startled to find their leader pointing a gun at two men, one in a wheelchair and one with his hands up in clear surrender.

Which, well, never let it be said that Stiles went down easy.

He tilts his head, for maximum effort, and yells into the open doorway, “WAKE UP!”

The old man sighs, as if Stiles is being bothersome, and shoots.

Pain blooms in Stiles’s shoulder, bright and sharp, and he falls to the floor. Around him the men start opening fire, shattering the windows and puncturing the doors, and then they begin flinging the cans of what Stiles now realizes is gas into the house. The gas smells awful – thick and acidic and it makes him cough and choke.

Then they start pulling out flamethrowers.

The old man, completely unperturbed, continues talking to them, as if he isn’t trying to commit arson and mass murder. “A slight hiccup, but easily remedied. A pity you had to die like this, Hale. I would have preferred to make you scream for hours for what you did to my Kate, but – alas. I will settle for you choking to death on flames, as you all should have.”

Kate, Stiles realizes fuzzily, through the pain, Kate Argent.

Which means: “You’re Gerard Argent,” he says.

Gerard ignores him in favor of continuing to monologue, which, rude. It gets even ruder when Gerard actually shoots at the wheelchair until it overturns and dumps Peter out on the floor with him, and Stiles instinctively reaches for his mate, grabbing at robe and shirt until he finds skin.

“Disgusting,” the old man says.

Stiles wheezes, “Peter!”

Because he hasn’t thought about death. He hasn’t thought about the future, either, beyond getting his dad better and beating Derek at chess and starting another Star Trek marathon. He never imagined life ending here, on the back porch, Peter staring unmoving at him as a maniac sets fire to their house while yelling about mutts and monsters and –

Stiles.

It’s like someone has spoken right into his ear, clear as a bell, gentle as the rain.

Stiles blinks.

Stiles, comes the voice again, smooth and warm but with a hint of urgency, break the line.

Stiles says, “What the – ”

Which is when Peter’s fingers spasm around Stiles’s. It’s not much, and in fact had they not been under imminent threat and therefore pressed together, Stiles isn’t sure he would have noticed, but – but Peter is staring at him, undeniably, gaze hard as a diamond, pupils actually focused and contracted for once, and his fingers are tight around Stiles.

And sometimes, Stiles has heard, in times of great danger, mates can speak into each other’s minds.

Stiles, Peter says, voice ringing in Stiles’s head as clear as a church bell, break the mountain ash line.

Which is when Stiles cranes his head and realizes that the men have dumped all that powder in a line around the house. The powder is fine and black and, apparently mountain ash, and one of Stiles’s late night research rabbit holes rears its head.

Mountain ash, from the wood of a rowan tree. A guardian against the supernatural, against strange beings and stranger creatures. Unbreakable by anything but a human. A way to trap things like, well, things like what Kate Argent screamed the Hales were during her trial: werewolves.

Stiles raises a hand, trembling and weak and bloody, and scrapes his fingers through the powder.

Or tries to, anyways.

A heavy, booted foot lands on his hand, pressing down with all of the weight of a full grown man, and Stiles bites back a scream as Gerard Argent crushes his hand into the ground.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” the man sneers.

“F you,” Stiles snaps, and throws his other hand out to flail across the line.

The chorus of howling wolves rise up, anger and vengeance and the burning desire to tear out some throats. Stiles knows exactly how they feel, so he grins up at Gerard, even as the smoke makes his eyes water.

“You’ve lost,” he says.

Then he slips into his dreams.

The black wolf rises. No longer is it the creature that huddled in the burnt shell of a doghouse; now it stands firm and tall and fierce, with blue eyes full of purpose and every muscle coiled and ready for takeoff.

Gerard raises his gun –

The wolf gathers itself and launches, forwards and upwards, and lands heavily on Gerard’s chest.

There’s a scream, a gurgle, and a rip, and Stiles looks away as the black wolf tears at Gerard Argent’s throat, making sure he is quite thoroughly very dead. He appreciates the effort, but it is a little more gruesome than Stiles remembers his dreams being.

The wolf trots over to him when it’s done, muzzle soaked in blood and viscera.

“Hey,” Stiles slurs. “That was . . . pretty violent. Pretty cool though. Didn’t know my dreams could be so vicious.”

The wolf huffs and nudges him. Its muzzle passes so close to Stiles’s nose that he can actually smell the fresh blood, which, gross.

“Yuck,” Stiles informs the wolf solemnly. “I preferred when my dreams didn’t stink.”

“Stiles! Stiles, oh my god, Stiles!”

And then Stiles is being lifted up by his father and half-carried, half-dragged away from the smoking house. He doesn’t at all seem to notice the wolf, but Stiles has no idea why his dream would include his father in pajamas and his cast.

Other Hales come flooding in around them, some yelling, some dragging hoses with them. Very oddly realistic dream.

Talia rushes up, hair mussed up, eyes wide, and says, “Peter?!”

Which is when Stiles remembers that Peter is a comatose lump on the porch. “Hey,” he says, or tries to, “hey, you need to – you need to get Peter, he’s – he’s on the porch, he needs – ”

But Talia isn’t paying attention. She’s crouching down, her arms stretched outwards, pleading.

And she’s looking at the black wolf of Stiles’s dreams.

“Peter,” she says again, a sob and a prayer.

The black wolf looks up. It swishes its tail, just once, and bears its teeth when Talia tries to get closer.

“Um, Talia, that,” his father says, “that’s a wolf?”

Talia ignores him too. “Peter,” she says sharply, and this time her eyes flash red, beautiful and vivid, too bright to be a trick of the light.

The black wolf shudders all over, and then it whines, and then it – well.

Bones crack, skin shreds, fur bleeds in as limbs grow out, and then it’s Peter goddamn Hale stepping forward, Stiles’s mate, his comatose and catatonic mate, eyes electric blue in the darkness and Gerard Argent’s blood still smeared on his lips.

“Uh,” Stiles says.

Peter looks at him. “Hello, Stiles,” he purrs, and that voice – it’s the voice Stiles heard in his head, it’s the rumble Stiles heard in his dreams, it’s everything that rings true to him as an omega responding to his alpha.

Stiles squints at him, says, “I liked you better as a black wolf” and passes out.

“Soooooo,” Stiles says slowly, as they all cram into the guest house the Hales have at the other end of the property, “werewolves?”

“Werewolves,” confirms Peter, and it’s still so strange to hear his mate’s voice that Stiles twitches.

He twitches again as Peter reaches out and covers his hand. Peter frowns slightly, as if he’s checked something and didn’t like what he found, and then Stiles gets to watch in fascination as black veins crawl up Peter’s arm, like wriggling black worms.

Just like that, the pain from the wound in his shoulder flickers and dims like a light whose electricity has been cut.

“Uhh, what are you – ”

“I’m taking your pain,” Peter explains. “I can’t heal you, but, this, at least, I can do.”

And, hey, Stiles will take it.

“So, you were the black wolf in my dreams,” he says.

Peter grimaces. “It’s common for werewolf mates to share dreams as well as voices. Properly, it should have been explained to you when we mated, but, well. You weren’t made aware. And I was in no condition to explain.”

“This,” Stiles says, “explains so much about the whole entire fridge you have dedicated to fresh meat.”

“Well, we are carnivores. And shifting burns a lot of calories.”

“But it wouldn’t have done so in dreams, right? Why not shift then?” Stiles asks.

Peter looks away, even though he doesn’t move from where he’s sitting right next to Stiles, thigh warm against his, hand still drawing away his pain. He’s silent for a long moment, jaw working, before he gathers himself up and says, “The pain . . . Kate mixed wolfsbane accelerant in her fire. It’s why it took me so long to heal, and the pain was overwhelming. I couldn’t find a way out.”

Stiles remembers the smoke, the ash, the burnt smell in the air. He thinks he understands.

“But you,” Peter says, looking back at him, “you came to me with no expectations. No questions. Just . . . words. Stories. Things I could understand, and listen, and just enjoy. It reminded me of who I was. Who I am. That’s why I was able to come back out.”

“And you killed Gerard.”

“He deserved it.”

“Oh, yeah, no judgment here, dude. Kinda wish you hadn’t dripped his blood on me though.”

Peter looks amused. “That’s what you object to?”

“It was gross,” Stiles protests.

“Very well, then let me make it up to you. I gather you like curly fries – we can go out to dinner. Get away from, well,” Peter inclines his head at the entire Hale family, “everyone.”

Stiles blinks at him, because that sounds an awful lot like – “You want to date me?”

“Court you,” Peter corrects. “It’s only proper.”

“But I’m just. Well. Me.”

Peter raises an eyebrow. “You, Stiles, who had the spine to march up to the alpha of my pack and demand money, who had the wits to understand what I needed, who had the bravery to save us – you think I wouldn’t want that?”

“Welllllll,” Stiles hedges. “Most people, uh, don’t.”

“I’m not most people.”

And, yeah, Stiles has ample evidence of that. Peter did just turn into a huge black wolf and rip out the throats of the men who’d been threatening them.

“Also,” Peter adds, “you’re right, I do have a lot of ideas about what to do to the man who hit your father.”

Stiles beams. “It’s a date,” he declares.

FINIS