Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The wards let him in.

Stiles isn't expecting that. Actually, he's not expecting the wards, though once he recognizes the feel of them, he wonders how he could have been so small-minded. Of course Peter Hale would have wards on his home residence. His private apartment. Of course he would. He does.

And yet, the wards let Stiles in.

The first time Stiles ventures inside the empty penthouse, Peter's been in Eichen for a week. Stiles would have checked it out sooner, but he had some thinking to do first.

No one else knows where Peter lived, and he doubts anyone cares. People can be shortsighted like that. Stiles has stopped getting annoyed by it, for the most part. It was nice to have someone around for a while who wasn't as stupid as the others. Peter's special.

If he's completely honest with himself, Stiles is going to miss him while he's away.

He has no doubt Peter will be back, though. Nothing and no one can keep Peter down for long. If death couldn't even keep him caged, what's a little cell to him? Stiles tries not to dwell on why that thought is comforting.

So Stiles arrives at Peter's for the first time to get to the books or artifacts there before his landlord clears the place out.

He's pleasantly surprised to learn there's no landlord to worry about; Peter owns the penthouse outright and all the bills are on automatic pay.

Stiles doesn't tell anyone about Peter's penthouse. But he finds himself going there more and more. When Scott doesn't answer his texts. When his dad is working more shifts and the house is empty. When Stiles feels alone, and empty, he goes to Peter's and somehow feels…

Less alone, even when he's all by himself.

And the books Stiles came to find that first time? They're there as predicted, and they are useful. Not just books, either.

Stiles may hear the word 'spark' first from Alan Deaton, but it's not until the nogitsune speaks to him about his power, his promise, that Stiles starts to understand what it means. He pushes it down at first, lets himself be terrorized, stalked, and tortured. But enough is enough. Once he has access to Peter's books, he learns he's not just a human with a little extra something. A Spark is rare. Special. It's hard to believe that could be Stiles, the plucky sidekick and comic relief. But there's a reason the nogitsune chose him. It wasn't because he was the weakest or easiest to manipulate into opening the 'door', either.

He can't go to Deaton for help, though. He learns that in one of the first books he finds where Sparks are mentioned. Apparently, druids and Sparks are unmixy things. Incompatible magic is just the beginning. Certain druids who take vows to uphold the Balance are especially antagonistic toward Sparks, who druids feel upset the natural order. The book doesn't say how Sparks might do that, or what druids do when they encounter Sparks, but there's a definite implication that there are few known Sparks because druids in past ages opposed them.

Stiles has to sit with that for a while. He's heard Deaton talk about the Balance in an almost zealous way. If he finds out Stiles is a Spark, what would he do? Maybe nothing. Or maybe nothing good.

But what's becoming clear the more Stiles reads is that he needs someone to teach him about magic, and about Spark magic in particular. Because this is big. This is dangerous. And he doesn't know where to turn.

He's afraid to tell Scott about it. He shouldn't be, Scott's his brother, but Stiles's paranoia is pinging big time. He's afraid Scott will mention it to Deaton and then… what? Something bad will happen.

Are premonitions or 'bad feelings' a magical part of being a Spark? He wouldn't be surprised if that's true. He's always tried to listen to his gut; it rarely steers him wrong.

But he needs someone to help him navigate his magic. He needs an ally who won't go straight to Scott or Dad with the information. He needs a friend who's just for him.

But who can help him find that person? Maybe someone who knows a lot about the supernatural can point him in the right direction. But Derek is gone, and Chris Argent is too wishy-washy with his loyalties for Stiles to trust. Kira's mother might be a good option, but she was going to kill him outright once, and Stiles holds a tiny grudge for that.

He deliberates. He frets. But in the end, he goes with his gut. He makes a call, gets a little information. Does some shopping, then a little baking.

He puts his creations in a small picnic basket, throws on his favorite red hoodie. Sometimes you've got to do little things to entertain yourself. And if it gets him what he wants, all the better.

Peter's definitely not at his best. He's slow, with the drugs in his system. Not just physically, but mentally, and that's something he'll never forgive. He almost wishes McCall and Deaton had killed him, but no, no blood on those hands. Just weakness dressed up in self-righteousness.

He has the same schedule every morning. Lights up, head count, bland food for breakfast, decaffeinated coffee if he's lucky. Injections, abuse, a shower if it's one of the odd days when they've switched up the shifts. Otherwise, he has to wait until after dinner (bland, again) to get somewhat clean.

(Oh, how he misses the shower in his penthouse. The water pressure in Eichen House is either so feeble and tepid it feels like he's being spit on, or so harsh it's like being blasted with a fire hose.)

The routine is more mind-numbing than the 'special' medications they inject him with. Maybe that's why he gets a hit of energy when the schedule changes one morning.

"You got a visitor," he's told.

Peter's out of practice in hiding his emotions, but he doesn't do much more than frown slightly when he hears that. The words don't make much sense to him. Who would come to see him? Deaton, with his ties to the prison ward, wouldn't be announced as a visitor. No one else who knows where he is cares enough to visit, and the few friends he's retained have no way of knowing where to find him right now.

He knows who he wishes it was.

"Hale!" the guard barks.

Peter tries to blink away the haze in his head and nods. He understands. He lets himself be shackled and led around corners and down halls until he's in a medium-sized room. It's surprisingly clean, and the few pieces of furniture look more comfortable than anything he's seen in this place so far.

He hasn't had a visitor before and doesn't know what to expect. Does he stand and wait? Have a seat at the picnic table, or maybe the small, cement-colored sofa?

The guard shoves him into a seat at the picnic table. "You'll have twenty minutes."

There are two doors. One is the one he just entered through, and the other boasts a painted red Exit sign. For a few minutes, nothing happens. He turns to ask the guard who is coming, or when, but Peter finds himself alone.

He can feel the mountain ash in the room, and knows that if he tried to go through the Exit door, he'd be repelled. He's not strong enough to try to push through the barrier, and he's sure it's not weak.

Then the door opens and he loses every other thought in his head. It's Stiles. It hasn't been that long, but there are changes in his boy that Peter catalogs greedily. Stiles's shoulders are broader. His arms aren't as gangly. He's left his hair grown out, from what Peter can see of it peeking out from under the red hood of his sweatshirt. He walks with a bit more confidence, though he still has a ways to go before he reaches his full potential.

He's carrying a small basket. Peter's lips twitch.

"On your way to Grandmother's house?" Peter asks. He hasn't spoken much lately and his voice isn't as smooth as he'd like.

Stiles comes closer, and then his scent hits. It's all Peter can do to keep from closing his eyes and leaning in to catch more of the familiarity of it. It's still Stiles, but there are new layers to it since the last time Peter got close.

"Just visiting the big bad wolf," Stiles quips easily.

The complex scent still has the sharp hint of his daily medication, teenage pheromones, and a faint wolf smell that sets Peter's teeth on edge—McCall. He's been around Lydia, too, lately, and even Malia, though Peter tries not to dwell on that scent too long. It tugs at something inside him he doesn't want disturbed.

But Stiles also carries the notes that speak true of Stiles's inner self. There's the clean, earthy musk of a warm prey animal, the deep, dark vanilla of old books and study, and the one note that has always reminded Peter of cotton sheets dried on a clothesline, still warm from a breezy, bright day. It's a scent from his childhood that's always meant safety and home to him.

"I'm flattered you still think so highly of me," Peter murmurs while trying to catch something that isn't so familiar. It's a scent he can't yet catalog. Something even fresher than laundry his mother set out. It's cold. Like a stream just breaking free from the ice of early spring. It's as unique as a snowflake and just as refreshing. It's fascinating that Stiles's scent has taken on this new layer of complication. Peter wants to know everything he can about it.

Stiles sets the picnic basket on top of the table and opens it up. Peter's sense of smell, still on high alert, recognizes the treats immediately.

"You brought… my favorite cookies?" Peter asks, dumbfounded.

"Yep," Stiles says. "Made them myself. Got the recipe from Derek, though, and that was harder than the baking."

Peter's mind is reeling. He knows Stiles can't possibly mean it as a courting gift, but that doesn't stop his inner wolf from puffing up with pride and joy. What a wonderful mate his boy makes.

"First one's free," Stiles says when Peter is silent. He hands over the peanut butter cookie (complete with a chocolate kiss pressed into its center) and Peter takes it without thinking. Their fingers don't brush, to Peter's disappointment, but the cookie smells like Stiles when he wafts it beneath his nose.

"Okay, I'll bite," Peter says, and takes his literal bite of cookie. He wishes the medications didn't dull his senses so much. It's still a phenomenal treat, but it could be even better.

"Funny," Stiles says, lightning quick smile flashing across his face. "But okay, you're right. I need a favor."

Anything, would be too revealing. "As you can see, I'm not in a position to do much for you," Peter says. He leans in closer. "Unless, of course, you're breaking me out of here." There's a thought.

Stiles laughs at him. "No fucking way. You can figure out your own escape. I don't for one minute believe you'll be in here for long. But I don't need you free. I just need you to point me in the right direction of something. Someone."

Intrigued now, Peter raises an eyebrow and reaches for another cookie. Stiles narrows his eyes, but allows it.

"You don't usually dance around the topic, sweetheart, but if you want to do that, we can. Are we dancing?"

Stiles sighs. Deflates. "Not this time, Peter. I need…" He looks around, leans in closer, and lowers his voice. "I need a magic teacher."

Peter curls his lip. "You haven't asked our dear Dr. Deaton for help?"

"No. I'm a Spark."

Peter frowns. Waits for the rest of the joke. It doesn't sound like a joke, though. He focuses his hearing. "Say that again."

"I'm a Spark," Stiles says seriously, and his heartbeat stays steady.

Oh. Oh. His mate, his extraordinary boy, is the rarest and potentially most powerful of magic users. Peter's perfect match couldn't be anything less than the best.

But that also means Stiles is in danger. "Does anyone else know?" Peter asks.

Stiles shakes his head. "I don't trust Deaton, and Scott wouldn't be able to keep it a secret, and Lydia would if I begged her but I'm not putting that on her. I'm not really close with Kira. Malia wouldn't care, but she also…" He shrugs. "I'll tell her eventually, but I'm not ready yet. What I need is a mentor."

"Keep listening to that intuition," Peter says. "Deaton can't know. Ever."

"I know. I've read that much. But so… who can teach me how to be a Spark? If not a druid…"

"Not a witch, either. You're too tempting a morsel for those who regularly gain magic from dubious sources." Peter taps his fingers on the table, thinking. There is someone. Will she talk to Stiles, though? "Your best bet is another Spark."

"Do you know another Spark?" Stiles asks, his excitement almost too attractive to bear.

"Indirectly," Peter answers. "She's a friend of a friend. Well. An acquaintance of a friend of a friend."

"Okay. Who do I need to contact?" Stiles asks.

Peter smiles and beckons with his hands.

"Oh, fine," Stiles says with a little pout, and slides the basket of cookies across the table so Peter can eat his fill.

So now Stiles has more secrets.

He still goes to Peter's penthouse when he needs a break from everything. From Scott, who is growing closer to Theo and pulling away from Stiles. From Dad, who continues to just not be there for Stiles—something Stiles should be used to by now, but really isn't. It's left a cold, empty place inside him that only feels slightly less empty when he's at Peter's place.

And every now and then, he visits Peter. Not often. Not regularly. But occasionally, Stiles pulls the folding chess set down from Peter's top bookshelf and heads over to Eichen for a game. They don't talk much, just play, and Peter's beaten Stiles twice out of six games. Stiles knows he has the advantage, though. Peter's not as sharp as he could be. Eichen keeps him drugged and slow.

Stiles would love to play Peter when he's at a hundred percent.

His biggest secret, though? Her name is Sharrat and she's a Spark like Stiles. She's been giving Stiles magic lessons for months. She has houses all over the world, with tiny hints of having a home somewhere other than on the mortal plane—probably a joke, but maybe not—but for now she's chosen to live full-time in Sacramento to be closer to Stiles.

Unfortunately, a hell of a lot of trouble starts going down and Stiles isn't available to meet with Sharrat for face-to-face lessons much. He does readings—she sends him books he wouldn't be able to get his hands on otherwise. He even writes essays for her on magical theory. There's a lot more to this magic stuff than just belief. Sometimes preconceived notions Stiles has about the supernatural world are, to use Sharrat's word, "hokum." She doesn't berate him for it, though. She's very fair. If he is wrong, she simply corrects him. She's the best teacher he's ever had.

But Beacon Hills is always going to be a shithole hellmouth. Things—beings, creatures, people with lust for the nemeton, and various other bad guys—tend to congregate in the county and make trouble. And since Scott is the True Alpha, he's targeted more often than not.

Scott doesn't talk to Stiles like he used to, doesn't let him in anymore. He's growing a pack. He's found a new best buddy in Theo—who, by the way, is not trustworthy, but Scott thinks Stiles is paranoid about him, and won't hear any more speculation about Theo at all.

Scott might say he trusts Stiles. And even though he says he doesn't blame Stiles for what the nogitsune did… Well. Just because Stiles can't hear a heartbeat or smell deception doesn't mean he doesn't know a lie when he hears one.

The best-friendship Stiles once had with Scott has diminished. Stiles can't remember the last time Scott reached out first, texted or called, to ask Stiles how he's doing or if he wants to hang out. That's a two-way street, of course, but when Stiles texts or calls, most of the time all Scott has are excuses.

He doesn't tell anyone about it. Sharrat doesn't know Scott; why would she care? And Peter would probably just laugh. Kira is only ever around when Scott is; they aren't really friends. Lydia's having some problems of her own she seems reluctant to talk about. And Malia never really understood Stiles's attachment to Scott anyway.

And Dad isn't the type for a heart-to-heart. He's too busy taking care of Beacon County to worry about Stiles, anyway.

Time passes. Things in Beacon Hills get worse.

And worse.

Chapter Text

Things in Beacon Hills always seem to get worse before they can get better. Sometimes there's even a false lull before danger really kicks into gear. But the pack—such as it is—defeats the foe. With the help of some allies, their enemies are vanquished.

Again.

Scott and Stiles have never seemed further away, though. Especially after everything that's happened over the past few months: the distance, the tension, the fights, the interference of Theo, and the way he was able to drip poison into Scott's ear…

Theo is gone now, but Stiles's lingering resentment hovers in the air now between Scott and him.

He's glad he has Lydia and Malia. At least they believe him when he says he feels something is coming. They listen to his theories without shooting him down immediately, unlike Scott and Dad.

But Malia's no detective, and Lydia is still recovering from her ordeal. It seems like there should be someone he can talk to, but when Stiles grasps at that idea, it disappears. It's forgotten.

His phone sounds off, letting him know he has an incoming FaceTime call. A quick glance at the screen shows the candid picture he took of Sharrat last week in Sacramento. In the pic she's just as poised and glamorous as she is in real life.

He sits and answers the call, grateful no one is around to listen in. The call is unscheduled; he's not due for a video lesson for another two days. He's supposed to be researching wards and answering some questions she sent him on Saturday.

"Hello?" he answers when he picks up.

"Hello, youngling," Sharrat says in that odd accent of hers. It's close to Portuguese, maybe? Stiles hasn't been able to pin it down. "I had a thought. I suppose I could have texted, but you know how I like to speak face to face as much as possible."

Stiles smiles. She's not a Luddite by any means, but she's at least seventy. She has her quirks. Cool, though, for an older lady. Sharrat's nothing like the neighborhood old ladies he's used to, either, not in temperament or in looks. She's cold at times, but looks like she retired from fashion modeling or maybe used to be an actress. She has long dark hair with silver streaks and dark eyes that sometimes glimmer with humor when she finds Stiles’s jokes funny.

"So what was the thought you had?" he asks.

"I want you to study some wards in person. It's about time you got some practical experience."

Stiles gets a sudden thrill. So far, Spark studies have been very theoretical with very little application of what he's learned. He had to promise her, when she started teaching him, that he wouldn't do any magic without her supervision, at least not at first.

"That sounds amazing. Where do I start?" He bites his lip. He imagines Deaton has wards around the animal clinic or his home, but Sharrat has warned him to stay clear of the druid.

"Your friend's wards should suffice," Sharrat says. "You did say they allowed you entry to his apartment. I want you to figure out if that allowance came because of your intentions or if it was more personal."

Stiles frowns with confusion. "My friend? Apartment?"

"Peter's apartment. A penthouse, you said."

"Peter…?" Stiles says slowly. Questioningly. The word on his tongue feels familiar, but he doesn't know any Peters, does he?

"You don't remember Peter Hale?" Sharrat asks, sounding almost sharp with her question.

Stiles frowns. Peter Hale. The name is familiar, but he can't place it. His mind flashes to Eichen house, to a chessboard, but then when he tries to grasp the memory, he finds there's nothing to grasp.

He is reminded that alpha werewolves can alter memories. A claw to the back of the neck is all it would take.

"I think someone's tampered with my mind," Stiles says, almost choked with the horror of it.

"Calm, deep breaths, youngling," Sharrat says. "We'll figure it out. When I come to see you, I'll check you over and see what's been taken."

Stiles breathes. Sharrat is in his corner. No one knows about her except…

There's another blank.

Deaton doesn't know about her, and neither does Scott. Did the missing memory somehow benefit them to take? Or make Stiles…

He's not being calm.

"Did you know this… Peter?"

"He is a friend of a friend," Sharrat says. "I never met him in person. I knew him by reputation and the occasional anecdote."

Stiles shakes his head. He knows this will plague him from now until Sharrat figures out what happened.

He backtracks as something pings. "You said you're coming to see me?"

Sharrat nods. "Yes, very soon. My original plan was to come about a week from now, but now I'm motivated to arrive earlier so we can deal with whatever this memory problem is."

Stiles feels the back of his neck, searching for either a wound or maybe a scar. It's smooth, but that doesn't mean anything. He's learned magic can heal many injuries, make it so there is no physical trace to find.

"That's good. I uh. I'd appreciate you helping me with this," Stiles tells her.

"Of course, youngling. No, tell me, is anything strange going on in that town of yours lately?" Sharrat asks. Before Stiles can ask why she wants to know, she says, “I’d like to know if I’m walking into any potential danger when I visit.”

“What? No. No, well, Beacon Hills always has something ‘strange’ happening, but so far nothing supernatural seems to be going on?”

“Is that a statement or a question, youngling?”

Stiles sighs. “Maybe both? Okay, look, last night something weird happened, but Dad and Scott both think it’s mundane sh— stuff.”

“What happened?” Sharrat asks, her brown eyes narrowing.

“A little boy’s parents disappeared. While they were driving their car. Like… ‘beam me up Scotty’ kind of disappeared. There one second and gone the next.”

"There was a witness?"

"The boy, yeah," Stiles says. "He…" Suddenly, he shivers, remembering the way Scott used his claws on the boy to see the memory. Scott wouldn't do that to Stiles, would he? Not without permission, surely. "Scott, uh, got the memory from the boy. He saw a man on a horse with a gun, which okay that does just sound almost normal, but—"

“Never doubt your intuition, youngling.”

“He didn’t shoot them dead; he shot them and they disappeared. There wasn’t any blood on the scene, and Lydia says she’d feel it if they’d died.”

“Lydia. That’s your banshee friend, correct?”

Stiles nods. Friend. They're friends. It's not even weird to say that now. For years, Stiles was completely infatuated with her to the point of unhealthy obsession, but she has, apparently, forgiven him for acting like a total stalker. They’ve been through too much now to be anything but close friends. These days, he's closer to her than Scott.

But he’s not thinking about that right now.

“Well, your friend is right. She’d be able to feel their deaths if the gunman had killed them. Hmm.”

“What?”

“Can you tell me anything more about the disappearance?”

Stiles shakes his head. “It’s still early in the investigation. Alex, the little boy, is scared, though. Keeps saying they’re coming back for him.”

“Be careful, youngling,” Sharrat says, even more seriously than she usually seems.

“Oh, well, I always am,” Stiles lies with a grin. “But um, I should probably get some sleep. I’ve got school pictures tomorrow. Don’t want to look like a zombie in my senior yearbook.”

“Be well. And keep me apprised of the situation in Beacon Hills,” she says. "I'll let you know when I make it to town."

"Okay." He's looking forward to seeing her in person again. Maybe this time, once they sort out the memory problem, she'll answer some questions about her mysterious past. Or hell, her mysterious present. He trusts her, inexplicably and near-totally, but he knows next to nothing about her. She's a powerful Spark who isn't asking for anything in return to help him learn to control his magic; his instincts tell him to trust her, and that's it.

Oh, and she loves spicy food and warm weather.

He ends the call after promising to try to sleep and not obsess over this person his mind is missing. He wants to look good for his yearbook picture, after all.

The next day feels off. There’s nothing Stiles can point to and say, This, this is wrong! But his unease grows as every hour ticks by. Then it all comes crashing in, and it’s like he’s being erased.

No one remembers him. Not even his dad.

When he hangs up with Scott, who doesn't remember him either, he calls Sharrat.

“Yes, youngling?”

“You remember me? Thank fuck. I mean, good, um.”

“Breathe, Stiles.”

“Right. I need help. No one knows me, not even…” He swallows a sob. “We figured it out. It’s the Wild Hunt. The Ghost Riders.”

She sucks in a soft breath but then says in a determined voice, almost a growl, “I won’t forget you. I’ll find you.”

Stiles wants to believe so badly. “I don’t think it’s up to you,” he says, clutching his phone. “Fuck, I wish it was.”

“You haven’t seen me at my best yet, youngling. Calm. Don’t do anything impulsive.”

He laughs hollowly. Then he spots Lydia and their eyes meet across the parking lot. “I have to go now. Good… goodbye.”

Soon they’re being chased, and he’s taking Lydia’s hand and running, running away from the riders and the storm.

He’s not sure what to tell Lydia. He loves her, but he doesn’t want her to misunderstand it. And telling her she’s his best friend feels disloyal to Scott, even after everything. So he just squeezes her hands, hoping she understands, and then…

They take him, and it’s like falling…

Falling…

Right into a new reality.

Chapter Text

“It had to be you,” Peter says, and immediately he hears the song in the back of his mind. The Harry Connick Jr version because When Harry Met Sally… was one of Talia’s favorite films.

Stiles is Peter’s mate. Of course it’s him in this train station. Peter can never get away from that fact, not on the outside with his freedom, not in Eichen before Stiles started visiting, and all Peter had were memories. Not when Stiles came to him, smelling of home and mate. He'll never be free of the hold Stiles has on him.

Peter only notices it’s Stiles after his wolf has already moved to save him. The words are out of his mouth before he gives them permission. And when Stiles looks at him, the world falls away. It’s only the two of them, and he wonders what he thought he was doing trying to catch a train instead of looking for his mate.

But when is his train coming? He can’t see the listings, so he tells Stiles to move. “You’re blocking the board.”

"Peter," Stiles says, mouth slightly open and looking oh so inviting. "Peter, I remember. What are you doing here?"

It's odd, what he's saying, but Peter looks around as if it's obvious. It should be. "Waiting for my train."

"No, how did you get here? The last time I saw you, you were locked up in—"

Memories start coming back. The power went out suddenly and Peter’s cell door opened. There was fighting, and a guard tried to tell him to go back. But Peter had to get out, had to… Well, he needed his life back, and to prove to Stiles…

He found a car and was jump-starting it in a parking lot after his prison break. And then the storm. The rider. The gun, the shot, and then… then he was waiting for a train.

“The lockdown was three months ago,” Stiles says. He’s looking at Peter, searching his face, keeping his attention. Peter’s mind wants to slide back to a numb place where all he does is wait. But Stiles is here. He doesn’t have to wait any longer.

And then Stiles explains who the Ghost Riders are. About the Wild Hunt. Well, Peter is familiar with the stories, but he’s never heard of them congregating or keeping their victims in a train station. Not that it matters.

“Seems we’re doomed to ride the storm forever,” Peter says. Together. As it should be. Fate must be laughing now.

“There has to be a way out!” Stiles says. Always contrary.

“There’s no way out because it’s not real. Beacon Hills doesn’t have a train station.”

But Stiles doesn’t give up, and Peter follows.

Until the guy who tried to hitch a ride on the back of a Ghost Rider dies. Then, Peter’s done with this. He holds Stiles back, keeps him safe.

“I’m not going to watch you kill yourself,” Peter tells him. Don’t do that to me, he wants to say.

There are a few tense moments where Peter tries to show him how pointless it is to try to leave. They’re forgotten. It’s over. No one is going to remember them. But Stiles has faith in his friends, or just in blind luck, maybe. And Stiles, aiming to hurt, tells Peter no one would ever come for him.

As if Peter didn’t already know that.

There’s another flash of lightning, but this time it’s blue, not green. That’s enough to make it strange, but then a woman comes striding towards them, towards Stiles, and Peter shoves the boy behind himself and growls.

“Hey, wait—”

“Quiet, Stiles,” Peter says, eyeing the woman. She practically leaks power, and her aura… he’s only seen its like once before, and the knowledge gives him pause. What is a dragon doing in the Wild Hunt’s train station?

“Wait, Peter, stop growling,” Stiles says. “Sharrat?”

The dragon, in the guise of an old woman, inclines her head. “Youngling.”

Peter tenses. He knows that name, but he's not letting his guard down yet. When he thought of her as a teacher for Stiles, it was with the (false?) knowledge that she was a Spark, not a dragon.

“Sharrat!” Stiles says, coming around Peter’s other side and nearly running the dragon over. She’s about 5’6”, looking deceptively thin and light, but her dark eyes are gleaming with power, and Peter is wracking his brain for any dragon lore he can remember. Youngling, she called Stiles. Does she see him as a child-dragon? As her own child?

The dragon wraps one arm around Stiles and looks at Peter. He bows his head, as respectful as he can be in the circumstance. But Stiles is his mate, and he’s not sure he can trust him with her.

And then Sharrat gives him an understanding smile, as if she can read his mind. He doesn’t think she has that kind of power, but he could be wrong. He slams down what mental shields he’s learned in his life just in case she does.

“What are you doing here?” Stiles asks the dragon.

“I’m here to save you from the Wild Hunt, of course,” she says imperiously. “So come along.”

“How are we getting back out?” Stiles asks.

The dragon smiles slightly. “I have ways.”

Yes, Peter is sure she does. Dragons can manipulate dimensional space. This place probably doesn’t even exist on the ‘mortal plane’, as their own dimension is commonly called.

“Oh, thank fucking god,” Stiles says.

“Language, youngling,” Sharrat chides. “Now, introduce me to your friend.”

“Who, Peter?” Stiles says. “Right, um. This is Peter Hale. Peter, this is Sharrat. She’s the one you set me up with, my magic teacher. Slash, mentor. Slash, awesome rescuing wonder woman. You’re gonna have to teach me how to do that blue lightning thing." He adds the last to Sharrat herself.

“Peter Hale,” Sharrat says, inclining her head again. "I only know of you by reputation and stories from friends. It's good to finally meet you in person."

And Peter bows his head again. It doesn't hurt to be extra courteous to a dragon. “I’m honored to meet you, madam.”

Stiles shoots him a confused look.

“What, I’m not allowed to have manners?” Peter asks softly, teasingly.

Sharrat’s eyes glitter with amusement. “Are you coming along with us?” she asks him. “Unless Stiles would rather we leave you behind.”

“I’d be grateful if you brought me with you, madam,” Peter says in a neutral tone.

Stiles narrows his eyes at Peter, but then he shrugs. “I guess he can come. Where are we going? Back to Beacon Hills?”

“Too dangerous for you,” Sharrat tells him.

And then a shadow flicks outward, a shadow that looks a lot like a dragon’s wing, and a disconnected, standing wood door materializes to the side. None of the other people in the train station seem to be paying attention.

“Follow along,” Sharrat says, and opens the door to a swirling vortex of light. Peter is sure it’s just for show, that she could have simply folded them in space to wherever their destination is, but then again, it might just be easier on their minds. Some magic is like that.

Then Sharrat enters the vortex and it swallows her up. Stiles and Peter share a wide-eyed look, but then Stiles is dashing through, and Peter has no choice but to follow his mate.

Stiles doesn’t know exactly what he’s just stepped into, or where he might be, but he’s definitely not in a boring old train station anymore. He walks straight through the weird standalone door into a foyer that soon opens up into a house—castle?—that looks like it comes from a fairytale.

Sharrat is right in front of him, and he can feel Peter’s heat at his back, but everything else feels intensely unreal. There’s so much green—ivies and leaves twining around the furniture and high arches of the rooms—but also pinks and soft purples of flowers, roses and wisteria hanging from here and there. It’s sweetly fragrant but not so much that it’s overpowering.

“Welcome to my home,” Sharrat is saying. “One of them, anyway.”

“Where are we?” Stiles finally asks when he stops gawking.

Sharrat smiles. “The Inbetween.”

She’s told him about this in their lessons before, even hinted at having a home here, but he thought it was a joke, or more of a theory, not fact. According to lessons, the Inbetween is between physical spaces and outside of time—hence the name. Where magic reigns in every way and the very concept of day and night is a moot point, since the ‘time’ here operates outside the normal world’s time. They’re on another plane of existence.

“Fascinating,” Peter breathes, and Stiles looks at where he’s staring at a brown and gray tabby with similarly colored feathery wings.

“You’re welcome to stay as long as you need. At least until the situation with the Wild Hunt is resolved,” Sharrat says. Stiles opens his mouth to protest, but she continues. “If you tried to go back to Beacon Hills—or anywhere else on the mortal plane—you’d simply be hunted down and returned to their waystation again. Or worse, they'd simply kill you.”

“Right. So how do we fix it so we can go back?” Stiles asks.

Sharrat waves a hand. “‘We’ aren’t fixing anything. I’m going to work on it from here, and maybe ask some contacts for help. You’re here to relax and build your magic. And, perhaps, find the time to learn more about yourself.”

Stiles notices that Peter narrows his eyes at that. “What’s that mean?”

“It’s not something I can just tell you. You need to figure it out on your own,” Sharrat says.

“How? If you don’t tell me, how am I supposed to know what it is?” Stiles asks.

“This house has two libraries,” she answers, walking ahead. They have no choice but to speed up so they can keep her in sight. It wouldn’t do to get lost in the massive ‘house’.

She gives them a quick tour: kitchens, living areas, bedroom suites to choose from. There are pools, heated and not, and a large hot tub that seems to actually be part of a hot spring system. Or maybe all that is just magic.

“I only ask that you stick together if at all possible,” Sharrat says after she’s shown them around the most interesting—according to her—rooms. “It’s harder to get lost, or sucked into another dimension, if you’re not alone.”

“Are you f— messing with us?” Stiles asks.

She smiles. “It probably wouldn’t happen accidentally. But just to be on the safe side, stick together.”

Stiles and Peter exchange a flabbergasted look.

“Well, I think that’s all you need to know, for now,” Sharrat says. “I need a nap. It took a lot of magic to break in and out of the Wild Hunt’s space.” Now that she mentions it, she does look tired.

“Thank you, Sharrat,” Stiles tells her. “I really… I’m so glad you came to get me.”

“Me too, youngling. It wouldn’t do to have you erased. That’s not your Fate.” She eyes Peter, still smiling. “Or yours, I wouldn’t think.”

“Thank you, madam,” Peter says, again bowing his head.

“You don’t have to keep giving me such deference,” Sharrat tells Peter. “You’re a guest, now. And the youngling’s friend.”

Stiles should probably clear that up. Peter’s not his friend. Maybe more like a frenemy. They’re allies right now, but Peter could—and probably will—turn on him in the future. But part of Stiles hopes that doesn’t happen. Despite their homicidal history, they’ve had moments of peace, too. Of truce and something that came close to friendship before Peter betrayed Scott. (Was it really so much of a betrayal, though, when Peter never pretended to be Scott's friend? He'd always been fairly candid, in his own way, about how he didn't respect Scott as alpha.)

When Stiles began to visit Peter in Eichen it was again a comfortable camaraderie between them, perhaps closer to a friendship, but then Peter didn't have anyone visiting him but Stiles, so it was more an association or alliance of convenience, right?

But Peter never hurt Stiles. Never really betrayed him, if you want to be pedantic about it. There's always been something. A strange attraction that Stiles was careful not to acknowledge. He isn't going to acknowledge it now, either, dammit. Though he might let Sharrat call Peter his friend without correcting her. It doesn't mean anything.

“—all right?” Sharrat is saying, and Stiles missed most of her warning while desperately lying to himself about how unattractive Peter Hale is, but he doesn’t want to admit it. He nods, and Peter smirks at him. Bastard probably knows Stiles doesn’t have a clue. Then she tells Peter, “There are woods behind the main house, past the greenhouses. I know how important that is for wolves. Don’t go in alone, though, or too deep.”

“Thank you, Sharrat,” Peter says, seemingly touched.

She looks at Stiles again. "I mean it. The person who built this tower and carved out this area of the Inbetween was what you might call creatively insane. The castle itself is safe, I've made sure of that, but there might be creatures left in the forest, deeper than I've ventured, that aren't safe at all."

Peter doesn't quite puff up, but he does straighten his shoulders. "I'll protect him."

Stiles has never known what to think of Peter, not even from the beginning. He understands him to a degree, but…

Sharrat gives Peter a nod of acknowledgment. As if she really does trust Stiles with him. Then she gives Stiles a rare, tired smile, and heads to her own suite to sleep.

Stiles looks at Peter. "Hungry?"

“Knowing I didn’t eat anything for three months does make me feel a bit peckish, yes.”

“‘Peckish?’ Are you British now?” Stiles asks, glad to have something to snark at Peter about and happy that he remembers where the main kitchen is.

Peter rolls his eyes, but with a quirk of his lips that looks… fond. “I had an international education.”

Which is news to Stiles. “Lucky.”

“Oh, your education is just as fortunate. More so, even,” Peter says. “Your magic teacher is a dragon, and you’re a guest in the Inbetween.”

Stiles huffs. “A dragon? What?”

“Sharrat,” Peter enunciates, as if to make it clearer. It doesn’t.

“She’s… a Spark? Like me?” Stiles says, shaking his head. Although Sharrat being a dragon… that might answer some big questions he’s had. But… a dragon?

"I'd assumed the same, which is why I suggested her as your mentor. Maybe she was a Spark once, when she was human," Peter says. He has a strange light in his eyes, and for once, Stiles can't even begin to guess what he's thinking. "I never met her in person before today, though, or I would have known. Ask her. Or find your answers in her books. It sounds like she has plenty of those."

Stiles nods distractedly. He's determined to do that. After lunch.

Chapter Text

They eat quickly, bolting down a plate of fresh sandwiches that sit on a large counter in the kitchen they find. Where they came from, they try to guess, and Peter supposes Stiles's cheeky answer of 'magic' is the right one. The more time they spend in Sharrat's home, the more acclimated to 'magic' as an explanation they become.

Peter is fascinated by the Inbetween—always has been, even when it was just snips of theory and reading secondhand accounts or rumors in old journals. Being here, living in it, is a once-in-a-lifetime experience and he’s not going to squander it.

Sharing it with Stiles is even better. Not just because Stiles is his mate, though he guesses that has something to do with it, but because Stiles is curious and inquisitive and awed by magic in some of the same ways Peter is.

Sharrat will probably sleep for some time, so they have the house to themselves, for now, and they were told to explore if they wanted. And Peter, for one, does want.

After his restless ordeal with the Wild Hunt—there certainly weren't beds in that train station—he thinks he should probably be sleeping, but he’s not tired at all. Sharrat, who expended a great deal of magic, has earned her rest. But Peter wants to roam, wants to learn. And since Stiles is awake with no signs of crashing, there’s no reason for Peter to try to rest, either.

Together, they start to explore part of the 'house', though Peter feels like he's been cooped up for so long his wolf is uneasy even in a building with high ceilings and plenty of greenery.

Maybe it's the magic that leads them to the double glass doors outside, or maybe Peter sensed it instinctively.

Stiles puts his hand on the door handles. "Want to see?"

Peter grins unreservedly. "You bet your cute ass I do."

Stiles still blushes charmingly. "Creep," he mutters, opening the glass doors out toward what look like wild gardens.

Immediately following them out is the winged cat, winding its way between them and onto a worn path through some flowering grasses. It then stops in the middle of the 'trail' as if waiting for them to keep up.

“I guess we’re following him?” Stiles asks.

“Better a cat-bird guide than no guide at all?” Peter muses. The cat’s wings barely move, and if you’d just barely glanced, you wouldn’t see them at all.

The cat in question humphs, clearly done with their hesitation, and gracefully trots along until they reach the first greenhouse. At first glance, it looks terribly overgrown, but upon closer inspection is simply… wild, but cultivated.

The energy of the place reminds Peter of Sharrat—wild magic seeping out everywhere—and now that he’s noticing more, of Stiles, who has a wildness of his own.

Maybe Sharrat has noticed that as well. Maybe that’s why she’s taken Stiles as her student, and why she calls him youngling, which is a term for an immature dragon.

Really, Peter can’t wait to get into her books. Libraries, Sharrat said. Plural.

But for now, he can experience wonder at the beauty of the greenhouse, the light, the greenery and ever-present flowering plants that twine this way and that in ways he’s sure their natural counterparts could never do.

“All this magic,” Stiles says in a hushed tone, looking around just as Peter is. “This place is steeped in it.”

“Then I guess it will be a good place for you to learn to control your own magic,” Peter offers.

“Yeah. Fuck. I don’t know, I… this is full-on a bestselling fantasy book series, you know?”

“And you’re the main character,” Peter says slyly.

Stiles’s eyes widen. “Fuck. Well, wait, what does that make you?”

“Awed observer,” Peter says promptly.

“That’s not any character archetype I’ve ever heard of,” Stiles laughs.

“Would you rather I be your plucky sidekick?” Peter asks lightly, grinning.

Stiles laughs again, a beautiful sound that rings out like a bell in the glass-walled building. “You’re no one’s sidekick.” Then he goes quiet. “Not like me. I’ve been playing the Chosen One’s best friend for years now. I… don’t know what to do with this.”

“You’ve outgrown ‘sidekick’. Think of this as your own spin-off series,” Peter offers instead of caustic commentary on aforementioned ‘Chosen One’. The True Alpha doesn’t deserve the mantle. He doesn’t deserve Stiles, either.

“So, what, I just forget about Scott and the pack?” Stiles asks idly, tracking the way an ivy climbs up an indoor lamp post to create an elegantly lit piece of botanical art. It’s all like that here—thousands of individual works of living, magical art.

Peter wants to snarl at the idea of Scott McCall’s loose collection of children being called a ‘pack’. Worse, he wants to rage at Stiles’s loyalty to the True Alpha and his circle. But he can be tactful.

“Not forget, entirely,” he says to Stiles, leaving Not the way they’ve forgotten you unsaid. “But you have the time, space, and magic to focus on yourself for a change. It would be a tragedy not to take advantage of the situation while you’re here.”

Stiles ducks beneath a low bough and turns to look at him. “What’s it to you?”

“Excuse me?”

“What does it matter to you if I… take advantage or not?”

“You have a gift, Stiles,” Peter says, then looks away before showing too much emotion. “I’d hate to see it squandered.”

The ‘cat’ jumps up on a potting table beside him and meows loudly for attention. Peter startles, but then offers the creature a scritch between the ears. He sees the collar, then, and the inscribed golden charm hanging from the purple leather. He squints at the name there.

“Thistle,” Peter reads aloud.

“What?” Stiles asks, popping his head around a corner to look at him again.

Thistle the cat-bird stretches his wings then and settles again, inviting more pets from Peter.

“The cat’s name. It’s Thistle.”

Stiles comes closer. “I’ve never seen a cat with wings before. Is it some kind of magical hybrid, you think, or its own species?”

“I wouldn’t want to presume either way without knowing more,” Peter demurs. “But maybe we can find answers in one of the libraries.”

Stiles lights up at the reminder. “Libraries,” he sighs, nearly swoons. “If I wasn’t so enchanted with the grounds, I’d be there right now.”

“Do you mind if we look into the forest before heading back?” Peter asks. “Not for long, just to see what she’s talking about.”

Stiles looks skeptical for a moment, but then tilts his head. “I wonder if the forest is as magical as the rest of the place. It would have to be, right?”

“That’s what I think, yes,” Peter admits. “But if that’s true, we should stay on our guard. And stick together like Sharrat suggested.”

“You call that a suggestion?” Stiles asks with raised eyebrows. “She was pretty adamant.”

Peter shrugs. “Strongly suggested, then.”

Stiles laughs and reaches out slowly to Thistle, obviously not wanting to startle him. “Hi, kitty. Bird. Kitty-bird. Do you like your feathers petted?” He looks slightly awkward as he tries to figure out how to do that.

“Have you ever pet a bird?” Peter asks him. “It’s mostly common sense, I suppose. Don’t pet against the lay of the fur or feathers, just like with any animal.”

“I’m not an idiot,” Stiles grumbles, smoothing the pads of three fingers along one of Thistle’s wings. “The feathers are smoother than I thought they’d be.”

“I wonder if he can fly,” Peter murmurs.

Thistle shifts away from their petting and shakes out his wings to their full span. Then he hops off the potting table and flies up to the top of the greenhouse to land on a high branch of the tree in the middle of the building. He looks down on them imperiously, making Stiles laugh.

“Guess that answers that question,” he says.

“He shouldn’t be able to pick up that much solid mass with those wings,” Peter points out.

“Hmm,” Stiles says with a warm smile up at the creature. “Magic.”

“Indeed,” Peter says, and can’t look away from his boy.

They venture beyond the greenhouse, and pass another, smaller greenhouse they don’t go into. They’re headed to the woods. As soon as Stiles steps a foot into the treeline, he feels at ease. His magic, which he’s never had very good control over, flares up inside him as a tangible, almost corporeal thing. He can feel it. It steals his breath.

“What is it?” Peter asks.

“It’s nothing,” Stiles says.

“When are you going to learn to stop trying to lie to werewolves?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Do you feel something?”

“Like…?”

“There’s magic here, even more than in the house. It’s all around us,” Stiles tells him.

“I can sense it in you, too,” Peter says.

“Really?”

Peter nods. “Is it uncomfortable? Do you want to go back?”

“Do you?” Stiles asks. “I don’t want to be anywhere else. It’s… there’s so much wild magic here. It feels amazing. Untapped, untamed.”

“Like you,” Peter says, then looks away.

Stiles follows his gaze and sees how the canopy of the trees hides the light, making the woods darker. But there’s magic here too, and suddenly a bunch of fireflies light up around them, surrounding them with their twinkling glow. That can’t be natural. Is anything here just normal, or is it all magic?

Stiles walks farther, almost unable to stop himself. The forest is so alive, thrumming with wildness. Peter follows, though he seems to grow more tense.

"I think we've gone far enough," he finally says, taking Stiles's arm in hand and pulling him back. "I hear something."

"Like what?" Stiles asks.

"Something big."

Stiles does stop trying to move further into the woods. He takes a breath and nods. "Yeah… maybe we should head back,” he says. “You know? First day, don’t want to be tangling with any magical grizzly bears.”

Peter's hand is warm, strong on his arm. "You have a point." He tugs Stiles and leads him in the opposite direction. “Bears here probably have two layers of shark teeth anyway.”

Stiles side-eyes him but doesn’t pull away. As scary as that sounds, his brain has fixated on Peter's hand on him. This is not what he wants to think about. It's just difficult when Peter is touching him.

“How long do you think Sharrat needs to sleep?” Stiles asks to distract himself.

“No idea,” Peter says, “but I’d bet we have time to go through some of her books.”

“How do we know which library to look in?” Stiles asks. “Do you take one and I’ll take one?” Only once he’s said it, he realizes he doesn’t want that at all.

“We always researched well together, don’t you think?” Peter asks with a smile.

Stiles wishes he could get angry at that smile. It's much easier dealing with Peter when he's mad. No, that's a lie. What's easy is how well they work together, how they understand each other, and the way Peter just gets Stiles's thoughts and ideas easily.

“Sharrat said we should stick together anyway,” Stiles finally mutters.

"Yes, she did," Peter agrees.

Ugh. "Do you remember which way to the library she showed us?” Stiles asks once they’re inside again.

Peter looks up and down the hall. “I thought I did, but this doesn’t look familiar.”

“…do you think the rooms moved on their own?” Stiles asks.

“As preposterous as that sounds, I wouldn’t rule it out. Let’s start opening some doors.”

Just then, Thistle shoots out from between them, trots ahead, and then stops. He puts a paw against a closed set of pocket doors and meows.

“Are we following the cat-bird-thing, or are we ignoring him?” Stiles asks in an undertone.

Thistle glares and humphs. Peter barks a laugh. “I think we’d better check that room.”

Stiles isn’t sure which of them gasps loudest when they set eyes on what they can call a ‘library’ only because it has books. It’s a spectacle of swirling light and reflected magic.

“I’ve never seen anything like this before,” Peter says in a whisper.

“How are we going to find anything in here?” Stiles asks. “Is there a magical card catalog, you think?” He’s barely thinking of what he’s saying, though, because he’s busy staring at the ceiling. Or the illusion of the ceiling. Or maybe there’s no ceiling at all, and he’s actually staring into a nebula overhead.

“They say Sparks were first born as stars,” Peter says, and for a moment, Stiles doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about. But then he looks at Peter and finds the man looking at him like he’s the wonder.

“Maybe I should find a book on Sparks,” Stiles says, nearly tripping over the words as his heartbeat speeds. What is Peter even doing, looking at him like that? If Stiles didn't know better, he'd think Peter… that he felt…

“I’ll help you look,” Peter says, breaking Stiles out of his fantastical thoughts. “I’d also like to find something to read about dragons and…” He makes a gesture at the room. “Dimensional magic.”

“I am so far out of my depth,” Stiles mutters.

“So dig in and learn,” Peter challenges, and damn, okay. If he’s gonna lay it down like that, Stiles is gonna pick it right the fuck up.

Stiles wanders over to the first stack and starts perusing titles.

Chapter Text

Sharrat sleeps on, and meanwhile Peter and Stiles are spending time together as if they’re friends, or at least back to being research… colleagues. ‘Buddies,’ Stiles might say.

Peter can’t say he hates it. It’s the perfect chance to start wooing the boy, actually. Not overtly, nothing obvious. But maybe he can figure out some subtle courting.

Keeping Stiles’s mind occupied and off the people he’s left behind in Beacon Hills is a challenge, but Peter’s up to it. “I found something interesting,” he says after several hours—or maybe just a few minutes?— of reading.

Stiles hums but doesn’t look up as he reads his own book. Whatever he’s found is fascinating.

Well, Peter thinks what he’s found is invaluable. So he walks over to Stiles and puts his own book on top of Stiles’s.

“What—” Stiles starts to say.

“Look at the second paragraph,” Peter says, pointing to it with the edge of his finger.

Stiles huffs in annoyance but reads. Then he sits up straight and pulls the book closer. And reads again.

“This can’t be right,” Stiles mutters. He flips the page back, then forward again, skimming the text with a frown on his face.

“I think you should ask Sharrat if it’s true,” Peter says carefully. “Don’t take a book’s word for it.”

“Is it just this one book?” Stiles asks Peter.

Peter hesitates. He actually found the information in two other places, but he wasn’t sure until he read the older text.

Stiles reads his silence for what it is. “Show me.”

Peter picks up two marked books and hands them over. “The pages are bookmarked.”

Stiles flips to the right pages and reads in silence. He’s agitated, but it doesn’t seem like he’ll panic. “You’ve been looking for information about dragons while I researched Sparks. And all this time…”

Peter nods.

Stiles sucks in a breath. Then he sets the books to the side and stands, stretching. His double shirts ride up to tease Peter with a strip of pale skin.

“I don’t know about you, but I feel like swimming.” Stiles nods to himself, as if that makes perfect sense, and then walks out of the library with purpose.

Peter follows, helpless to do anything else.

“She never even told me she was a dragon,” Stiles mutters as they walk down a long hallway. The rooms have probably rearranged themselves again, but Stiles apparently feels he’s going in the right direction. “And she sure as shit never mentioned this. I mean, dragons should come from mommy and daddy dragons. Dragon eggs, that’s a thing, right?”

“In fiction, certainly,” Peter says. “But I know I always assumed that was true.”

“Right?” Stiles says, flinging open some doors and walking down stairs that lead down to a heated pool. He stops and then shrugs, flinging his shirts off.

Peter follows suit, going as far as stripping down to his briefs. Stiles does the same, and Peter tries not to watch him overtly. Their clothes get left in a pile next to a table and deck chairs, and then there’s a splash as Stiles jumps into the water.

Peter’s not a fan of overly warm water, but he’s not letting this opportunity slip past him. He ducks beneath the surface and swims around Stiles, popping up in front of him as water sluices down his face and shoulders.

It has the right effect. Stiles stares at him, at the water that comes off him, and licks his lips as if he wants to taste it.

Peter smiles. “This was a good idea. Nice to relax a bit, I think.”

“Relax, right.” Stiles looks away from Peter and up at the skylights overhead. His cheeks are red, though he could be flushed from the water’s heat.

“I guess we’re staying here awhile, if time doesn’t mean much and we're in danger from the Wild Hunt out in the real world."

Stiles looks back at him, frowning. “You don’t have to stay with me. I don’t need a babysitter.”

“I like it here, actually,” Peter admits. Much better than Eichen House, though he doesn’t want to say that and have Stiles think he’s trying to inflame sympathy. “I’ll stay with you, as long as I’m welcome.”

Let Stiles take that however he wants.

Peter swims away, does a lap from one end of the Olympic-sized pool and back. This time when he pops up, Stiles doesn’t bother to pretend he’s not looking.

“It’s interesting, isn’t it?” Peter says, pressing water from his hair so it doesn’t drip back into his eyes. “Time can barely touch us here. We could spend weeks, months—or more, even—and slip back into our lives in Beacon Hills without much time having passed at all."

"There's no way of knowing how much time is passing there. And I'd have to go back once the Wild Hunt problem is solved. But yeah," Stiles says. He watches Peter for a moment, gives him a slight smile, then starts swimming away. He floats on his back then, staring up, and says, “Freedom.”

“An extremely rare opportunity,” Peter murmurs, watching Stiles. He hopes it’s an opportunity to get closer to the boy, to let Stiles get to know him. That means being honest, which he doesn’t excel at. He will try, though. For his True Mate, he’ll do anything.

They swim for some time, and then Stiles gets bored and announces he’s going to go shower and see if he can find some clean clothes.

“When I peeked earlier, I saw clothes hanging in the closet in my suite,” Peter tells him. “All in my size, surprisingly. The magic here is wondrous, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, definitely. I can’t wait to figure out how everything here works,” Stiles says with a gleam in his eye. “Try to, anyway.”

“Are you ready to talk about what we found in the books?” Peter asks.

Stiles takes a breath. “No. Not ready to talk about it, or even to think about it. Give me time. I need…”

“Time. All right,” Peter says softly.

“I mean, the transformation doesn’t happen spontaneously. I have… a choice, right? And time?”

“As far as I can tell, yes. But you should speak to Sharrat about it.”

“When she wakes up,” Stiles mutters. He takes another breath and lets it out slowly. “Shower. Clean clothes. Maybe a nap.”

“If you can’t sleep, there’s a chess set in my suite,” Peter offers.

Stiles's expression morphs into something like gratitude. “Yeah. Thanks.” He turns quickly and exits, leaving Peter staring after him like a starving man.

He’d always known Stiles was powerful. It came from somewhere inside him, a fortitude, a ruthlessness, that he’s always admired. But now it’s clear Stiles is powerful in magic, too. So much so that he could even evolve into a creature of myth and legend.

And Peter has never wanted him more.

Stiles showers. The soaps and shampoos in his suite’s bathroom aren’t store-bought. There’s not a single plastic bottle or name brand anywhere he looks. He tests some scents out, finds the soap he likes best—something cool and clear— and gets clean. The shower is like a waterfall, relaxing and rejuvenating at once. To keep his mind off the dragon thing, he wonders what scent Peter would have chosen in his place, and if he’d turn the shower on colder than what Stiles has.

Peter isn’t fooling anyone. Stiles knows he doesn’t like too much warmth. He tried to hide it when he got into the heated pool, but Stiles saw his expression. So why did he get in? Just to be contrary? Or to face his fear? Or was it something else, like simply wanting to join Stiles?

Once Stiles is clean, he towels off with a huge white bath sheet and walks into the main room to see what he can find to wear.

The clothes in the closet, magically chosen for him, remind Stiles a little of what he thinks the wardrobe on the TARDIS would be like. It’s chaotic and mismatched, but surprisingly easy to find something he wants to wear.

He knows he’s not going to be able to sleep, so he doesn’t bother trying. A nap sounded great half an hour ago, but now he knows his mind is too active to consider slowing down to rest.

And Peter is just down the hall.

Stiles has always been drawn to the man—werewolf, zombie, whatever—but always in ways he doesn’t trust. He sure as fuck doesn’t trust Peter. And he can’t trust himself, not like this, not when something inside him wants to rub up against all of Peter’s sharp edges, damn the bloody wounds that would come. Sharrat might tell him to trust his instincts, but when his instincts are screaming at him to—

Maybe it’s just his Spark magic being drawn to the wild animal in Peter. Sharrat has explained that his Spark will always be a wild, chaotic thing. She's also made clear that the chaos has nothing to do with the fox spirit that once possessed him.

As a Spark, the chaos and wildness comes naturally. It's like a birthright. Maybe whatever makes up his Spark looks at the wolf in Peter and senses a kinship.

That’s all it is. Has to be. The rest is just surface bullshit, Stiles being attracted because he’s young and hormonal. Who wouldn’t look at Peter Hale and think dirty thoughts?

Stiles jumps when there’s a tapping at his door. His heartbeat speeds as he thinks of Peter right outside, waiting for him. Maybe he brought the chess set, not wanting to wait for Stiles to come to him.

He straightens his damp hair as best as he can without looking and opens the door.

“You all right there, youngling?” Sharrat asks.

Stiles doesn’t deflate because he’s not disappointed. “You’re awake, cool. Um.”

“Come with me,” she says, and turns on her heel.

He follows. “Okay. Where are we going?”

“To eat, and then to get started on the next phase of your education.”

Peter wanders into the kitchen while Sharrat is putting together a snack for Stiles, and he sits without so much as a greeting, right beside Stiles.

Sharrat smiles at Peter, and Stiles wonders how much of his past she knows. Then again, she probably knows it all. She probably doesn’t even hold it against him.

Stiles doesn’t. Not really. Doesn’t mean he’s not wary, though.

“So what is the ‘next phase’?” Stiles asks.

“Practical lessons. So far, you’ve learned mostly theory. I’ve given you a good basic foundation. Now, you need to start putting it to use,” Sharrat tells him.

“Is he ready for that?” Peter asks.

Stiles thinks he might be offended, except he’s wondering the same thing. He keeps his mouth shut, though, in case Sharrat changes her mind.

She smiles at him knowingly. “Yes, absolutely. He's probably been ready for weeks; I was just being cautious.”

“And it’s not that I haven’t done magic, I’ve been making wards and protective charms during our in-person lessons. But the magic has been defensive so far,” Stiles tells Peter. “She didn’t want me trying offensive stuff yet, and she needs to oversee it. So me being here is a good thing… if you ignore the part where we were erased from existence.” He adds the last with a frown. At least he doesn’t have to worry about his dad missing him or going out of his mind not knowing where Stiles is. He feels weird about that, though. Like maybe he wishes his dad was worried.

Peter has a concerned look on his face. Great. Stiles probably smells like… whatever conflict smells like. Would that have a scent?

“Hey, do emotions smell the same on everyone? Or does everyone have their own flavors?” Stiles asks suddenly.

Bemused, Peter says, “They are usually similar, though not exactly the same. It’s close enough that we can identify most chemosignals even from strangers.”

Stiles crosses his arms. “Oh.”

“Stiles, eat,” Sharrat says, placing a plate of food in front of him.

Stiles eyes it curiously. “Smells great—what is it?”

“Hmm. One of my own recipes. Think of it as a tricked-out rogan josh.”

“Ooh, lamb?” Stiles says. He grabs a fork and digs in.

The first bite is heaven, but when the heat catches up with him, he has to sputter and stop.

“Oh my god,” he wheezes, quickly grabbing the naan from another plate and hoping it helps him extinguish the fire currently roaring inside his mouth and throat.

“Rogan josh isn’t spicy… usually,” Peter says, sounding a little confused.

Stiles sputters. He glares at the plate and slides it toward Peter so he can taste and find out for himself.

Peter’s eyes shine for just a moment, and then he takes a bite, not looking away from Stiles. He doesn’t cough, but he does put the fork down after the first taste.

Sharrat sighs. “Fine, I’ll make something better suited for your human sensibilities,” she teases Stiles, then turns back to the kitchen.

Peter doesn’t grab the bread as fast as Stiles did, but he does take some off the plate while making a face. He definitely didn’t like the spicy food either, though he seemed more able to deal with it. Or maybe he's putting up a better front.

“Have you been into the libraries yet?” Sharrat asks.

“Thistle led us to one of them,” Peter says smoothly. “I’d love to spend more time amongst the books, and I’m sure Stiles would as well.”

“Definitely,” Stiles agrees.

“Sounds good,” Sharrat says. “After your lessons, youngling. Peter, would you mind staying with us to, hmm... Let’s call your role ‘spotter’, all right?”

Stiles is sure Peter will refuse, but when he eyes him, he sees Peter is already nodding thoughtfully.

“Of course. Where is the best place for Stiles to practice?”

“I think the forest will be best,” Sharrat says with a smile. Soon she serves Stiles another bowl of food, this time a bean and rice dish that is only slightly spicy.

Chapter Text

Peter learns what Sharrat means by ‘spotting’ quickly. He’s going to be Stiles’s anchor.

Oh, he doesn’t think Stiles realizes what it is. Or if he does, he doesn’t see how important it is. What it means.

Sharrat starts by teaching Stiles to recognize his affinity with the elements. Peter is fascinated, but, at the same time, hopes Stiles doesn’t get too friendly with fire.

He had nothing to worry about, it turns out. Stiles’s affinities lie with water and ice.

“It’s probably shown itself in the past in subtle ways,” Sharrat says.

Stiles shrugs.

“Don’t be so modest,” Peter says. “May I remind you that you treaded water while holding my nephew’s paralyzed body afloat in a pool for two hours?”

“Oh, right,” Stiles says. “Derek told you about that?”

“He mentioned some of it, and I read between the lines,” Peter says. “You saved his life that day.”

Stiles flushes a little. “Yeah, but… I don’t know. That was really a Spark thing?”

Sharrat nods. “Sounds like it. A human would not have been able to do that.”

“I’m human!” Stiles squawks.

“You are a Spark. You have never been human,” Sharrat says.

Peter winces inwardly. He would have used a little more tact than that.

Stiles sucks in a breath. “You know what? I’m done learning magic today, and now I’m going to go… somewhere else.” He stomps off toward the castle, and Peter is reminded of how young he really is.

Once he’s gone, Sharrat gives Peter a bland look. “You wish I’d not said that so baldly, but he needs to hear it. He needs to get used to it.”

“Because he’s going to become even less human as time goes by?” Peter asks.

“If he keeps exploring his magic? Yes. He must accept himself, or it will not go well for him.”

“What can I do to help him?” Peter asks.

“Support him,” Sharrat says immediately. “Be there for him. Others will not understand. Stiles will not always understand. But I think you will accept him, am I right?”

“He’s my True Mate,” Peter admits. He doesn't know what compels him to say it to this virtual stranger. But it’s the only answer he has.

Sharrat nods. “I thought so.”

“I haven’t told him yet because… I think he should decide to be with me without the mystical bullshit. Plus, he’s not ready to accept that we’re mates yet. Let's just say we need to build rapport.”

“He will feel the pull to you the further he goes into his magic,” she says. “But it will always be a choice. Even for you, as a born werewolf raised to revere the True Mate bond, it is a choice, in the end.”

“I will always choose Stiles," Peter says adamantly.

“Good,” she says with a slight smile. “Now go find him before he gets into trouble.”

Peter smiles slightly. “Thank you.”

“Just go.”

And Peter does. He returns to the castle and follows Stiles’s scent to a sort of meditation room that feels like an outdoor retreat, where he finds Stiles sitting on the bank of a rocky stream, staring at a narrow four-foot-tall waterfall.

“This place really has everything,” Stiles says while Peter grasps ineffectually for something to say.

“How did you find this particular room?” Peter asks.

Stiles shrugs but doesn’t look at him. “The door looked interesting.”

The space reminds Peter of a holodeck simulation from Star Trek, and he wonders if any of it is real.

“Real or illusion, you think?” Peter asks as he sits beside Stiles. He’s tempted to dip his feet into the gently running water.

“Somewhere in between,” Stiles says. “The magic just makes it real, I think?”

Peter hums. Then he gives in and takes his shoes and socks off.

“What are you doing?”

Peter hums again and then submerges his feet into the cool water. Beneath them, the stones are river-smooth. The water only comes up to his ankles in this spot, but there are deeper places he can see further down.

Meanwhile, Stiles is watching him with an incredulous expression.

“What?” Peter asks.

“Nothing, you just surprised me. Does it feel good?”

“It’s refreshing. You should try it.” And if Stiles is barefoot, he’s less likely to run once they start talking about something serious.

Stiles huffs, but starts untying his shoes. Once his feet are bare, he sticks them in the water alongside Peter’s. “Oh, that does feel good.”

Peter smiles. The sounds of the water—the stream babbling over its stones, the waterfall—are relaxing, and Stiles definitely needs to relax. He wonders if this room was made just for this moment.

Stiles is silent for a time, just wiggling his toes in the water. Thinking. Peter doesn’t mind the silence. He knows it won’t last long. Stiles is too expressive for that, and he grows bored easily.

“So, I’m not human, huh?” he says quietly soon after.

“Nothing wrong with being different,” Peter says. “And you’re not just different. You’re…” He swallows the first words he might have said.

“A freak?” Stiles huffs.

“Exceptional,” Peter says.

“You just think that because Sparks are supposed to be powerful.”

“No. When I thought you were fully human, I would have used the same word.”

Stiles gives him a baffled look. “What? Why?”

Peter looks down at his feet and moves them over the stones again. “You’re probably the bravest person I’ve ever met. You’re tenacious. Not to mention wickedly intelligent.”

“You—”

Peter glances at Stiles and sees his blush, but his scent says it all. Stiles is confused, maybe, but he’s still pleased.

Peter raises an eyebrow. “Do I need to go on stroking your ego, sweetheart?”

“No!” Stiles says quickly. He licks his bottom lip nervously. “I don’t know if I can accept the whole ‘not human’ thing, though.”

“Are you having an identity crisis?” Peter asks with a mocking grin.

“Asshole. No. Yes! Kinda?” Stiles sighs. “My dad’s not going to take it well. And Scott…”

“Don’t worry about them for a moment. Just think about yourself, for now.”

Stiles snorts. “I’m not that selfish.”

“Right now, you can afford to be. You’re not going to get a chance like this again. Don’t you find it at least a little freeing? We’ve been erased from reality, like we never existed. That might sound bad at first. But it doesn't have to be. All we have right now is ourselves. And each other, I suppose.”

“You suppose.” But Stiles is looking contemplative now.

“You can’t go back yet, but right here and now? You can do anything you want. You can accept that you’re more than you thought. You can lean into learning your magic and learning yourself.”

“What are you going to do?” Stiles asks.

Peter shrugs. “Stay here and help you, of course.”

“But why?”

“I happen to want to.”

“Why?” Stiles asks suspiciously.

“It’s like you never listen when I speak. I like you, Stiles.”

“You lie too much to listen to.”

Peter laughs, delighted. “Why would I lie when the truth is so much more interesting?”

“You like me.”

“Yes.”

“You saved my life in the train station,” Stiles murmurs.

Peter hums.

Stiles takes a deep breath and looks away. “You’re impossible. Not to mention incomprehensible.”

“Have you tried to understand me?” Peter asks. Because that’s all he’s ever wanted. To be understood.

Stiles gives him a narrow look. “Sometimes.”

“And?”

“It only works about seventy percent of the time,” Stiles says with a huff.

“Anything I can do to make it easier?” Peter asks.

Stiles laughs. “Yeah, you can stop lying.”

“I haven’t lied to you once since we’ve been here.”

“Have we entered the No Lying Zone, then?”

“Stiles.”

“What?”

“I’m not lying about this. I want to help you.”

Stiles looks dubious. “Because you like me.”

“And because an untrained Spark is more dangerous than a trained one.”

Stiles swallows audibly and looks away. Looks vulnerable. “And a fully trained Spark is apparently a dragon.”

“I imagine that’s a lot to accept,” Peter says carefully.

Stiles snorts. “Yeah.”

“But there’s a choice, correct?” Peter asks. “From the texts, I gathered that it's up to you. If you don’t follow your magic into becoming a dragon. You can… limit yourself.” He tries not to show his distaste.

Stiles gives him an unreadable look at that. Peter watches him, wishing he could take the indecision from his mate. That he could reassure him that being non-human isn’t the end of the world, that Peter would love him no matter what.

That might be a little too much truth, though, and Stiles isn’t ready for that. He barely believes Peter likes him.

“What can I do?”

“What?” Stiles asks, confused.

“To help.”

Stiles takes a breath and seems to come to a decision. “If you really want to help, you can… research with me. Help me learn what being a dragon means.”

“I can do that. Not here, though,” Peter says, gesturing at the rest of the ‘room’.

“Okay. Meet me in the bigger library. I’m going to go talk to Sharrat for a minute. And then… I’ll join you there.”

“Only a minute?” Peter asks.

“I don’t think I should learn more magic yet, if it means becoming even more… that.”

“All right,” Peter says, as gently as he can. He pulls his feet out of the water and picks up his shoes and socks, then walks away without putting them back on. Behind him, he hears Stiles huff a laugh.

Thistle helps Stiles find Sharrat. She’s sunning herself on a rock outside, wearing shiny black scales and a crimson sarong. It’s the first time Stiles has seen her show any physical dragon characteristics.

“Owlcat,” she says in lieu of greeting.

Stiles nearly stumbles. “What?”

Thistle flies away, back to the house, and they watch him go. Stiles, with a sense of wonder. Sharrat with fondness.

“Thistle. He’s an owlcat.”

“Is that its own species or… or a chimera?” Stiles asks.

“Here in the Inbetween, imagination takes root sometimes. I think one day a mage decided owlcats should be a thing, and then they were. Although you could call him a meowl,” she says, her eyes lit with humor.

“Okay, there’s a lot to unpack there,” Stiles says, with an incredulous laugh. “A mage just dreamed one up? They didn’t just create one, but…”

“The magic in the Inbetween is wild. I’ve tamed it quite a bit to carve out a livable space right here, but I’m not the first resident of this… hmm. I guess you could call the house a former wizard’s tower.”

“Okay?” Stiles says, not quite following.

“Sometimes the magic does what it wants,” Sharrat says with a shrug.

“Isn’t that dangerous? What if I have a nightmare and the magic decides to bring it to life?” He can’t help but imagine another nogitsune, only this time made of wild magic and even more unpredictable.

“There are limits. And being a Spark, you are mostly made of wild magic, yourself. Nothing will be created here to harm you.”

“Okay. Um. But the thing in the forest that Peter heard?"

"Nothing newly created can hurt you. Whatever was made before… There is no guarantee. Now, you have something to say to me?" Sharrat asks.

“Yeah. Uh. I’m not sure if I want to be a dragon.”

“Of course. It’s your decision to follow your magic or not. But there will come a time when you can only learn so much without the transformation beginning.”

“How do I know how far I can go?” Stiles asks. “I want to learn magic, and… I mean, I’m sure it’s great being a dragon and all, no offense intended here, but I don’t know if it’s something I want for myself.”

“Youngling,” Sharrat says gently, “you will always have the choice. The potential will reside within you forever, so you can postpone it indefinitely. Nothing awful will happen if you don’t decide right away, or if you decide to never fully mature.”

“I’m plenty mature,” Stiles says without thinking.

Sharrat laughs. “You’re nothing of the kind. But one day, perhaps, you will be.”

“But you’ll still teach me stuff, right? I mean, until I can’t learn anymore without… dragon-ing.”

“I’m afraid you’re stuck with me,” Sharrat says with dancing mirth in her eyes. “I’ve already adopted you.”

Something warms in Stiles’s chest, and he realizes he was worried he’d lose his mentor if he decided being a dragon wasn’t for him. “Thank you.”

“Now, I think you should research dragons. Learn as much as you can. I have plenty of books on the subject, and I’m always here for first-hand knowledge. You can ask me anything.”

“Are dragons good judges of character?”

“Our instincts are usually very good when it comes to deciding who is trustworthy or not,” Sharrat says.

“What do you think of Peter?” Stiles asks.

“I think he could be very good for you,” Sharrat says.

“Um…?” Stiles doesn’t know what else to say to that. What is she saying?

“Follow your gut instincts, and listen to your heart. Trust yourself. And if you need a little extra feeling of security…” Sharrat holds a hand up, and a book comes to her in a swirl of blue magic.

“You’ve got to teach me how to do that,” Stiles says.

“Here,” she says, handing him the book. “There’s a chapter on learning how to discern truth from lies.”

“You mean I can figure out if Peter is bullshitting me or not?”

“It’s only fair. Werewolves are walking lie detectors, after all.”

You know what I heard just then? Your heart beating slightly faster over the words "I don't want."

The memory of Peter’s words comes unbidden to Stiles’s mind, and he swallows hard. “Yeah,” he says roughly.

“The spell is tricky, though, and dangerous if it's bypassed. It's easier to get him to make an oath to be honest with you."

“Oh. He probably won’t go for it.”

“He might surprise you.”

Chapter Text

Peter lives to defy expectations. It’s so much fun. And when Stiles explains the oath he wants Peter to take, every line of his body and every tremor of his voice tell Peter he is expecting a ‘no’.

So of course Peter says ‘yes’.

Stiles blinks at him, his brown eyes looking almost amber in the glow of the library’s magical lighting. “Really?”

“Yes, darling. Might as well even the playing field, hmm?”

“I didn’t realize we were playing anything,” Stiles says.

Peter gives him a mocking smile.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Okay. So when do you want to do it?”

“Now is as good a time as any,” Peter says casually.

“Really?”

“Yes, really,” Peter answers.

"Okay. It's really simple. Just… an oath to always be truthful with me. If you break it, there aren't dire consequences, but I'll know immediately and—"

"Stiles. I know how the oath works. I actually offered it to my sister once."

Stiles's brows climb. "You did?"

"Unfortunately, she thought it was a trick. She didn't trust me, so I offered her a way to be sure her trust wasn't misplaced, but she…"

"Threw it back in your face?" Stiles asks softly.

"Exactly," Peter says. He looks away.

"That was her loss," Stiles tells him.

Peter huffs a bitter laugh. It's still incredibly painful to remember Talia.

“But you really don’t mind me knowing if you’re telling the truth or not?”

“As long as it’s only you,” Peter says honestly.

Stiles opens his mouth to ask another question, and Peter can practically taste the flavor of it, but then the boy thinks better of it and shakes his head. “Let’s do it, then.”

“Here?”

“The floor, I think,” Stiles says.

Peter sits down easily, and Stiles does the same with minimal flailing.

“Let me hold your hands,” Stiles says, reaching for him tentatively.

Peter gives over easily. He tries not to let his wolf show through from the thrill he feels when touching his mate. It’s not the first time, and it (hopefully) won’t be the last. Peter watches, rapt, as Stiles closes his eyes and concentrates. A tiny furrow deepens between the boy’s brows. The scent of his magic rises around him: wild honey, frozen lakes, and a hint of ozone.

Gods above, the scent becomes so thick that Peter can taste it on his tongue. His mouth waters. He swallows and reminds himself he has control over his actions and is not an impulsive pup. He can’t attempt to claim Stiles yet, and he’s not going to jump the boy.

Mate, his wolf reminds him. As if he’s unaware.

Stiles mouths some words, but Peter’s lip-reading skills aren’t refined enough to parse whatever dead language Stiles uses. The magic in the room becomes more than just scent; the pressure of it weighs all around him, pressing against his head.

That's when Peter knows to take his oath. His memories of the time before the fire aren't always clear, but he remembers the words of the oath clearly. As soon as he says them, the feeling of magic eases all at once, and Stiles gasps.

“Okay?” Peter asks. He squeezes Stiles’s hands and watches him carefully.

“I think it worked?” Stiles says. Then he nods. “Yeah, pretty sure it did."

"You don't want to test it?"

"I don't need to. But you can tell me something if you want."

There are many truths Peter could tell, but he's not ready to make himself that vulnerable. Not yet.

"You don't have to," Stiles says, possibly seeing more than he should already.

"I find you fascinating," Peter says.

Stiles blushes. "Um."

"It's true. I can keep things from you, but I can't lie to you. Not anymore."

"But you don't… I'm not fascinating.” Stiles looks down, flushing even more. “Jesus, Peter.”

Perhaps he gave too much away with that.

Then Stiles seems to remember their hands are still connected, and he pulls back, though he seems more reluctant than Peter thinks he normally would be. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking.

“I wanted to read up on dragons some more, but now…” Stiles licks his pink, plush lips, and Peter stops himself from staring for too long. “Let’s go for a walk? Outside, I mean.”

“To the greenhouses?” Peter asks. Stiles did seem fascinated by the magical plants the first time he saw them.

“I thought we could try the forest again, by ourselves,” Stiles says. “And this time, we shouldn’t run away if we think we hear something else there. Sharrat basically said the wild magic here can’t really hurt me. So even if there are creatures, they won’t be too dangerous.”

“I’ll stay by you anyway, just in case.”

“Is the big bad wolf going to protect the weak little hu— um, Spark?” Stiles asks, and Peter doesn’t miss the way he stumbles in calling himself something other than human.

He won’t let Stiles dwell on the fact. “I won’t let anything happen to you. If anyone or anything looks at you with violent intent, I’ll tear them to bloody pieces.”

Stiles's eyes go large and almost glossy. “You…”

“Yes?”

“You mean that,” Stiles says. He smells like surprise and something sweeter, too. He’s pleased.

“I’ll protect you. I promise.”

“The whole ‘bloody pieces’ thing shouldn’t sound as reassuring as it does, I don’t think.”

“Why?” Peter asks. “You’re safe with me.”

Stiles stares. “You mean that, too.”

Peter doesn’t want to get into this further, not when it might mean showing too many of his cards. Too much of himself. He already bared more of himself than he was ready to. He doesn’t want to scare Stiles away, not when he’s (finally) beginning to trust Peter. Patience is in order here. But also a change in subject.

“Well, let’s go outside, then,” Peter says with a smile.

Stiles’s lips twitch and then lift into a smile of his own. It’s small but genuine, and Peter cherishes it.

"Have you ever been able to do the full shift?" Stiles asks Peter curiously. They've just reached the trees, and he's suddenly captivated by the idea of Peter running through the forest under the light of the moon. Free and beautiful in the form of a real wolf.

"I could, before the fire," Peter admits.

“Have you tried since…?” Stiles asks, not knowing how to be tactful here, so he just leaves some words out of the question.

“You saw my alpha shift,” Peter says without looking his way. He stops and leans against an oak tree, facing away.

“Yeah, I don’t think I’ll ever forget that,” Stiles admits.

“It reflected my state of mind. I know it was… I was monstrous. Can’t say I’m too eager to try again.”

“Dude, you were half feral! I’m talking crazypants. I know you’re a lot better now. Your shift would show that. I know it would.”

“Even if I could fully shift—which I’m not sure I can even do again—why would I want to risk it?”

“Uh, because it would be awesome?” Stiles says.

Peter turns and looks at him. “I don’t want you to see if it’s not… awesome.”

“Why? I’ve already seen you at your worst.”

Peter gives him a strange look then, making Stiles feel closely examined. Whatever Peter is looking for, he finds, though, because he smirks. “Okay. If it’s that important to you.”

Stiles sputters. “I just think it’d be cool, that’s all. I’m not… I mean…”

And then Peter strips out of his shirt. Stiles doesn’t look away immediately because he’s too busy looking at thick muscles that move and flex under smooth skin. And Peter doesn’t look away, either, just keeps his eyes on Stiles, even when he starts unzipping his pants.

The sound of the zipper is what breaks the spell and makes Stiles jump to turn around. “You’re getting naked!” he scolds.

“Wolves don’t wear jeans, sweetheart.” Fuck, Peter has no right making smug sound so sexy. Smug isn’t sexy!

Stiles puts his hands over his flaming face. “Right,” he says, muffled. “I know that.”

“Just give me a few minutes. I’ll see if I can shift.”

“I think you can do it,” Stiles says when he pulls his hands from his face. He doesn’t turn around, but he figures he can just talk normally now. “All the wild magic around here might help.”

“I appreciate the faith you have in me,” Peter says with a snarky tone. But Stiles remembers the oath. Knows how it works. Peter isn’t just being an asshole. He means what he says.

“Yeah, well. How long do you think this will take? Does it hurt? Oh, I should have thought of that before. Do your bones have to break and reposition and… shit, I’m sorry. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea. Maybe you need—” He jumps when something cold and wet touches his elbow. “What the f— Peter?”

A black and gray wolf with blue eyes stares at him. Not up at him, because it is not the size of a normal wolf. No, this is full-on Game of Thrones-style direwolf territory now. Peter is huge! Stiles’s heart starts pounding as his hind brain recognizes the predator, but at the same time, he’s utterly transfixed by Peter’s beauty as a wolf.

“You’re gorgeous like this,” Stiles whispers. He wants to reach out, but he stops himself because this is still Peter. He wouldn’t pet human-shaped Peter, now, would he? But Peter seems to read his mind and nuzzles wetly against his hand and arm until Stiles laughs and pets him. “And you’re so soft. Fuck.”

Peter preens. Stiles never knew a wolf could preen. Well, it’s Peter. Of course he does.

“What do we do now?” Stiles asks, getting his nervousness at seeing such a large creature under control. “I guess you’d like to run around like that, huh?”

Peter gives what Stiles interprets as a playful growl.

“Yeah? Can I come with you?” Stiles asks. "We can't go deep in the forest, we'll have to skirt around, but… yeah?"

Peter rolls his wolfy eyes and lolls his tongue. And then they run.

At first, Stiles thinks he won’t be able to keep up. How could he? But something happens when he begins to run with Peter. Something… magical. His feet become swift, his balance graceful. As long as he doesn’t think about it, he’s able to run through the trees with Peter without a care. He whoops loudly, and Peter yips back, circling and brushing against him before he’s running ahead again.

Between Stiles, Peter, and the wild magic of the forest, time ceases to mean anything. Stiles lets the concept slip away. They take turns playing chase, never speaking, just having fun being together and letting themselves be.

(They’ve never been farther from Beacon Hills.)

Eventually, though, after they’ve collapsed together, panting and giggling, they are found out.

"So this is studying, hmm?" Sharrat asks.

Stiles startles guiltily, but Peter simply stands and transforms back into his human form.

“Stiles needed a break,” he tells her.

Stiles glances at him, but this time his nudity isn’t as blush-worthy. Mostly because he doesn’t stare this time. He does say, “Oh my god, wolf, where are your clothes?”

Sharrat smiles and summons them to her hands. “These clothes? I found them on my way to find you both.”

“Did we go too far?” Stiles asks. "We were careful not to go to the heart of the forest." But the forest is huge.

She shakes her head. “There are boundaries here you wouldn’t have been able to cross. You don’t have to worry about moving too far from the house.”

“They must be huge boundaries,” Stiles says sleepily. He doesn’t know how he’s going to walk all the way back to the house. Now that he’s stopped running and playing, he’s exhausted.

Peter looks tired, too, but he can probably walk back. Stiles has less faith in his own ability.

Sharrat tilts her head at them. “Boys, do you want a ride back? You have strayed far, after all.”

Stiles blinks at her dumbly. “Are you offering a piggy-back ride?” She's shorter and slighter than he is, and not particularly powerful in her human form, she's said, at least not without using magic to bolster her natural abilities.

“Well,” Sharrat says, holding her arms out to the side and taking a few steps back, “more like a dragon than a pig.”

“You don’t mind?” Peter asks, watching her in fascination.

“Why would I mind?” she asks as shiny black and white scales appear across her skin. “You aren’t just anyone.”

Stiles can’t look away, but Sharrat seems to be waiting for something. “Uh, are you going to fly, too?” He tries not to let too much excitement into his voice, but he’s delighted at the thought.

“Think you can handle that, youngling?” Sharrat asks with a smile full of sharp teeth. Being around werewolves has made him mostly inured to fangs and such, but Sharrat’s teeth look sharper than any he’s seen, save maybe from Donovan, which Stiles isn’t thinking of right now.

“We would be delighted,” Peter says, and gently nudges Stiles’s shoulder with his own.

“You will climb on my back after I transform.” And then she’s doing it, not bothering to take her clothes off the way Peter had to. No, the clothes seem to shimmer and disappear right when they need to, and Sharrat is suddenly the largest, most miraculous creature Stiles has ever even imagined.

Her scales are almost all mirrored black, though there are silver and white accents here and there, much like she has white streaks in her hair in human form. She is, to Stiles's surprise, still herself as a dragon, only more.

She's massive, standing at over fifteen feet, even though she's lowered herself onto her front legs. Length-wise, she's probably thirty-five to forty feet, including her tail, which ends in an arrowhead-shaped point. Her horns and spines are pointed, too, though narrower. Her wings are large and leathery, though now they are held against her back and sides.

"Wow." Stiles keeps staring, unmoving, until she huffs smoke.

Peter grasps his wrist and tugs him toward the dragon. Sharrat extends a thick wing for them to climb onto, and together they scale it up onto her back, with Peter giving Stiles some help.

Sharrat is wide enough that they sit between her wings comfortably.

Stiles shares a giddy look with Peter. "Don't let me fall, okay?"

Peter answers by wrapping his arms around Stiles’s waist from behind. Stiles doesn’t think about how warm he is or dwell on how safe he suddenly feels.

And then Sharrat stands again, feet beneath her as she takes a few steps, practiced and graceful. Stiles never thought a dragon could possibly be graceful, not at this size, but he should have known Sharrat would manage.

Then, Sharrat’s voice rings out, deeper than usual but still unmistakably her own speech. “Ready?”

“Yes!” Stiles says excitedly, grasping one of Sharrat’s horns with one hand and holding onto Peter’s arm around his waist with his other. “Let’s fly!”

All the exhaustion from before is forgotten in the exhilarating rise of the dragon into the sky. She beats her wings, and even Peter lets out a whoop. His arm tightens around Stiles, and Stiles has never felt so… free. He wonders how much freer it would feel if he were the dragon doing the flying.

Because that’s what Sharrat is showing him, he knows. The possibility. The promise that he can become something more, something magical and mythical and free. His magic sings inside him, somehow in sync with Sharrat as she moves. He knows when to lean in, and to lean away, like he and Peter are part of her. The wind rushes through his hair, over his skin, but it’s never cold. Sharrat is generating a lot of heat. It’s then that he’s positive she could breathe fire if she chose to.

She circles the house once, and from the sky, Stiles can see just how massive it is. He was right to think of it as a castle. It has every feature of one, though he can also feel how homey it is.

What would it be like to live here all the time? Or even just part of the time? He knows Sharrat has homes all over the world and isn't here all the time, knows she likes technology and the modern world. But this safe getaway where time doesn't matter and wild magic is seeped into every stone and blade of grass? Bliss.

She lands on a flat top of the castle, as if on a landing pad. Of course, there are no markings, but the roof does seem to be made just for dragons.

“Holy shit, that was amazing!” Stiles says. Peter isn’t agreeing aloud, but the look on his face says it all. He jumps down from Sharrat’s back and holds out a hand to steady Stiles when he gets down.

“Thanks,” Stiles says when his wobbly legs try to give out from under him, and Peter catches him easily. “Sorry, I don’t know what’s going on with the jelly legs.”

“You’re full of adrenaline but also utterly exhausted,” Peter tells him. “We’d better get you to bed so you can crash there. Because you will crash, and soon.”

Stiles doesn’t remember much after that except being swept up into Peter’s arms like a delicate princess before he’s carried to a plush, inviting surface where he immediately falls into sleep.

Chapter Text

“I’ve looked everywhere, but I can’t seem to find a laundry room,” Peter tells Sharrat the next day, after everyone's gotten plenty of rest from their adventure the day before, though 'day' and sleeping times are concepts that don't really fit the Inbetween.

“I detest laundry,” Sharrat says simply, as if that explains the lack.

“So… how do your clothes get clean?” Peter asks. “How do ours?”

“There’s a basket in every bathroom,” Sharrat says. “Put your soiled clothes there and eventually they’ll appear in your wardrobe again, clean and pressed.”

Peter nods, deciding he doesn’t need to understand more than that. He’s more interested in the book he’s been reading about dragon bonds. Stiles, though, asks more questions. Peter tunes him out as soon as the magical theory becomes more complex than he’s ready for.

There is a persistent myth that Sparks become less feeling and ‘colder’ as they explore the limits of their magic. Once a Spark reaches the stage of dragon transformation, it is often said by those with smaller minds that the Spark becomes emotionless and sometimes even cruel. These myths are harmful to all, especially the Sparks themselves, but also to their families, who often believe their loved ones no longer retain any remnant of their former perceived humanity. It is worth noting that every Spark this author has met has become particular about who they show their true selves to, and perhaps that is where the myth originates. Other factors may be the ‘cold-blooded’ or ‘reptilian’ appearance of dragons, though they do not share similar circulatory systems as snakes or lizards. (Dragon-transformed Sparks are actually closer to birds in that regard.)

To disprove the myth of the emotionless Spark, one only needs to look to the strong bonds that manifest during their magical education. The first is almost always to their mentor—usually a dragon themselves—though a mate bond, if the young Spark is in contact with their fated mate, can manifest first in some cases.

It could be said that Sparks begin to feel emotions even more strongly as they explore their magic more and more, and the bonds work to keep them regulated. A Spark who begins to feel more intensely without bonds can be dangerous to themselves and others, as they have no one there to temper the ‘fire’ of their feelings.

Other bonds are possible, sometimes with siblings, close friends, or parents. However, as is the case with all these types of bonds, it requires radical acceptance on the part of all parties involved for the bonds to manifest, and this author has rarely seen that sort of acceptance in full-blooded human beings.

Peter hasn’t felt the presence of a bond with Stiles yet, but now he knows it’s possible. And he’s more determined to get close to Stiles than ever.

Not only will the bond help Peter—he’s in desperate need of a strong pack bond and doesn’t relish the thought of going omega without one—but the book makes it clear it’s imperative that Stiles have bonds for his emotional wellbeing.

Peter marks the page with a slip of paper and closes the book. Turns to watch Stiles gesture animatedly while speaking with Sharrat. She’s a good mentor for him. She has grace and patience and in the few lessons Peter has listened in on, she’s been riveting enough to keep Stiles’s focus on her and the subjects at hand. Very rarely does Stiles get distracted when she’s teaching him, and Peter doesn’t think Stiles has a prescription for his ADHD meds here in the Inbetween.

Normally, Peter wouldn’t interrupt, but he can hear Stiles’s stomach rumbling. He’s pretty sure Stiles skipped his last meal in favor of reading ahead for this lesson. He tries to slip out without bothering anyone, but Stiles doesn’t let him go without an explanation.

But Peter just says, “I’m going to fix dinner. Extra spicy for you, Sharrat?”

“Please,” she responds.

“How do you know it’s time to eat?” Stiles asks. “It’s not like we have clocks here.”

“You’re hungry,” Peter tells him, and his smile widens when Stiles’s stomach growls even louder than before. “That sounds like dinner time to me.”

Before Peter heads to the kitchen, though, he slips the book he was reading to Stiles. “Here. Interesting reading.”

Sharrat smiles when she sees what book it is. “Thank you, Peter.” As he leaves, he hears her say, “Lesson is over for today. Maybe you should listen and do some of your own independent reading.”

Stiles hasn’t had this much home-cooked food in years. If Sharrat doesn’t cook their meals, it’s Peter doing it, and Stiles has barely had to lift a finger. It’s strange, but it’s also nice to feel as if others are looking out for him, taking care of him for a change.

No one has really taken care of him since his mom got sick. He had to step up then to become more of a caretaker than a child for the house and his father, not to mention himself. It’s been frustrating at times, but he never blamed his dad much for it. Things happened the way they did, and Stiles ended up being the one to cook and clean. His father took care of the county as sheriff, and Stiles took care of everything at home.

Because of that, he stopped wanting things for himself. Or, at least, he tried to stop. He learned a few basic lessons after his mother died: 1. He had to look out for himself, because no one else was going to. 2. Wanting things to be any other way was just selfish and did nothing but make him feel bad.

He knows he can’t stay here in the Inbetween forever, and Peter and Sharrat will stop doing things for him eventually. But it’s… nice. To set down the burden for a little while. He just has to be careful not to get too comfortable with it, since it can only last a short time.

He’s not really worth all the fuss, and sooner or later, Sharrat will realize that. Peter, too.

But in the meantime, he’s going to enjoy it, the food especially. Sharrat is a good cook and has the most versatility when it comes to different cuisines, but Peter’s food is the most delicious. And for some reason, Peter really seems to enjoy cooking for Stiles specifically. He gets a certain pleased, satisfied look on his face that tells Stiles so.

And Stiles is getting a lot better at reading Peter. The oath helps, of course, but even now when Peter says nothing, Stiles can usually guess how he’s feeling. Maybe not why or what he's specifically thinking, but it seems that lately Peter’s emotions are always on display.

It’s weird, but Stiles likes it. Likes feeling like he knows Peter, even just a little. Likes finding small things around the castle that will put a sense of wonder back on Peter’s face. To make him laugh, genuinely laugh, with a goofy joke.

It’s possible Stiles may have developed a… crush. And if Stiles were anyone else, that wouldn’t be a problem. Even the crush being Peter Hale of all people isn’t as big a problem as Stiles himself.

Because Stiles doesn’t just get crushes on people. He becomes obsessed.

“Ready for dessert?” Peter asks him then.

Stiles stares for a moment. “Dessert? No way you had time to make dessert, too.”

Peter shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I prepped and baked it first thing this morning, but it had to sit until now if it was to be any good.”

“I’m afraid to ask what it is,” Stiles teases. It’s a lie. He’s totally curious.

Peter brings a platter over once the dinner dishes are cleared away. It’s covered with a tea towel at first, but then Peter whips it away to show off pieces of beautiful, golden baklava.

“Peter!” Stiles exclaims. “This is…. Wow.”

Peter smiles, and Stiles swears he can feel the aura of smugness coming off the wolf. “Go ahead.”

Stiles picks up a sticky piece and bites into it. The outside is crisp and sweet with honey and orange blossom syrup. The inside is the perfect texture, made with layer upon layer of phyllo and chopped pistachios. He accidentally makes a sound that’s a little pornographic.

He glances at Peter, sees a peek of fang.

“I take it my baklava is a success, then?” Peter asks.

Stiles bites his tongue to keep from (jokingly?) proposing, nodding exuberantly instead.

Sharrat seems pleased with the baklava, too. She thanks Peter while nibbling on her own piece. Then she asks Stiles, “Did you get a chance to read any of the book Peter gave you?”

“Which one?” Because Stiles has been handed books left and right lately.

“The last one, I think she means,” Peter answers.

Stiles hasn’t, but the book isn’t far. He concentrates the way Sharrat has taught him and summons it to his hands.

But Sharrat pulls it away before he can open it. “Your fingers are sticky. I may have my books protected from soiling, but you shouldn’t rely on that. Eventually, you’ll be someplace where the books don’t have that particular charm.”

“Ah, yeah, I guess I’m learning bad habits all around,” Stiles says. He finishes his piece of baklava and stands to wash his hands at the sink before asking for the book back.

Sharrat smiles. “Very good, youngling.”

Stiles grins bashfully, always feeling warm when the old dragon praises him. He doesn’t know why. Maybe because she’s… like a Mom. Or, at her age, more like a grandmother. (Or a many-greats grandmother—she could be thousands of years old as a dragon—but he still hasn’t asked Sharrat her actual age and isn’t going to. He still has manners.)

Before he opens the book, though, he has a thought. "We never did that practical examination of wards you wanted."

Sharrat nods. "That's when you realized you'd forgotten Peter. Your memories possibly being tampered with took precedence."

Peter's head tilts as he comes to attention. "What's this?"

"When the Wild Hunt took you, and you were… erased," Stiles says. He bites his lip. "I felt, before Sharrat told me about you, that I was missing something. Someone. But when she said your name and I just had blank space in my head where you should have been, I thought maybe Scott…"

"You suspected Scott tampered with your memories the way Talia took mine," Peter finishes.

Sharrat glances at Peter then. Curious. "Talia Hale, your sister?"

Peter nods sharply but doesn't look at her. Effectively telling her without words that he doesn't want to talk about his sister right now. Stiles figures he's right to be sore about it. The alpha took a whole daughter from him.

"You can recover memories taken by an alpha," Sharrat says carefully.

"I don't have her claws," Peter says, tensing and looking down at his hands on the butcher block table. Stiles watches as he absently draws a spiral with his fingertip.

"I'm a Spark," Sharrat says. In other words, she's powerful, and some avenues that are closed to others are open to her. And Stiles, too, maybe. One day. "There are other ways."

Peter looks at her then. He waits a long moment, then says, "I'll think about it. Thank you."

"But the wards… to get back to the question I had," Stiles says, almost desperately trying to change the subject for Peter, so he doesn't feel so awkwardly exposed. "I never got to examine the wards on Peter's penthouse."

"Hmm, that's true. An oversight. Perhaps I could set some wards for you to study here," Sharrat says, sliding into teacher mode without a thought.

Stiles nods. "But I didn't get to find out…" He looks at Peter, now. "Are the wards set to let anyone in who has good intentions, or just me, personally?"

"I paid a lot of money for very specific wards," Peter says. "Only three people are allowed through them without an invitation."

"So you, obviously, are one. And me. Who's the third?" Stiles asks. He doesn't ask the obvious question of Why me? because he's afraid of the answer. Peter might be compelled to tell the truth because he's oath-bound to do so, possibly a truth he doesn't want to share.

Peter smiles ruefully. "My daughter, of course. Malia."

"Something concerned me about the missing memory that day," Sharrat says. She's giving Stiles a look he can't interpret. Sharrat's not easy to read even on a good day, and now she's especially opaque.

"What's that?" Stiles asks.

"Scott is your best friend, by your account. Or at least he was. You've often called him your brother. So why did you suspect he'd tampered with your memories?"

Stiles wets his lips nervously. "Well, he's the only alpha in Beacon Hills these days."

"And he's not trustworthy?" Sharrat asks.

Peter says nothing, even though Stiles is sure he wants to butt in and disparage Scott. He's sure Sharrat would like to hear about it, too. Stiles himself hasn't been very forthcoming with why he and Scott split so profoundly last semester.

"Not to me. Not anymore." Stiles shrugs. "A lot has happened over the past year or so. A lot of little things added up. And then…"

And then Scott believed Theo over Stiles, believed Stiles could murder someone in cold blood, and then lie to Scott's face about it.

Stiles looks back and forth between Peter and Sharrat. He wants to tell them the truth of what happened, about Donovan and how he died, and how Scott blamed Stiles for a death that was an accident.

About how Scott never listens to Stiles anymore, not even when it's a matter of life and death.

Instead, Stiles shrugs. "It's a long story. I don't want to talk about it right now."

Sharrat nods. Peter looks as if he'd like to push, but he allows Stiles this line, as well.

Stiles picks up the book again and says, "I'm gonna go read this, now. See what's so important."

"I think I'll go for a walk around the gardens," Sharrat says.

Peter nods and says, "I'm due a nap, myself."

And Stiles knows this is their way of saying, You know where to find me if you do want to talk about it.

Chapter Text

The streams of time wind around and rush through the Inbetween in strange ways. Stiles sleeps when he's tired and eats when he's hungry, but there's no schedule. The sun might rise and set within the same hour, or stay high in the sky for what feels like days.

"Is Peter safe, being away from moonlight?" Stiles asks Sharrat one day.

"The essence of the moon is here. Wild magic is all around us, all the time. Peter is stronger here, isn't he? In his full shift, is he not powerful and majestic?"

Stiles fights down a blush and leaves to go about his day.

"Thank you for worrying about me, sweetheart, but I'm fine," Peter says much later, when he's handing Stiles a freshly-made chai latte. Stiles is studying time magic now, drawn in by some throwaway comment Sharrat made during a different lesson. Now, he's obsessed. Everything he reads says Sparks have extraordinary power over time and dimensional space. He wants to figure it out, now.

"Wasn't worried," Stiles grumbles, lying. "Just wanted a heads-up if you were in danger of going feral again." He leans back and takes a sip of his drink, making a pleased noise when it's just how he likes it.

Peter grins. "C'mon, you've been reading that one book for hours now. Come for a swim with me."

Stiles looks up with narrowed eyes. "Why should I?"

"Because we're surrounded by beauty and wonder at all times, yet you rarely pick your head up out of a book to appreciate it."

"Beauty and wonder, huh?" Stiles says dryly. He takes another sip. "This is perfect, you know."

"I know. But I found a fresh, cool spring hidden away in a little-used atrium. There are at least fifteen different species of butterfly there, too, so if you must study something while you're there…" Peter shrugs.

Stiles snorts. "I should study the butterflies?"

"They're bioluminescent butterflies, if that makes a difference," Peter says. Wheedling.

That's interesting, at least. "You know, I think it does," Stiles says, closing his book (after carefully marking his page) and stretching. He makes sure he didn't leave anything important behind and lifts his tea, as if in a toast. "Lead the way."

Peter gives a genuine smile. "Of course."

On the way to the atrium, the corners of the hallway floors light up so they can see where they're going, and then dim back to normal behind them. It's an ingenious bit of magic, and something Stiles looked up during their first month here. He knows how it works, now, but he hasn't been able to find much about the caster.

"I'd love to know more about the guy who built this place," Stiles says. "I know Sharrat has added a lot of her own magic to the castle, but the original owner did so much just to bring it to life."

"Do you mean that literally?" Peter asks. "Do you think the stones, the building itself, is alive? Sentient?"

"In some way, yes," Stiles says seriously.

Peter gives him a dubious look.

"Look, the castle, the original tower itself, is ancient, maybe over thousands of years old. And it's steeped in magic from both the Inbetween and all the charms and spells worked in the space," Stiles explains, waving his hands so much he almost spills the rest of his tea. Peter catches his wrist before it goes everywhere. Stiles blushes, but he goes on. "Who's to say there isn't a form of sentience because of that?"

Peter smiles, his eyes soft and clear.

"What?" Stiles asks. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Peter shakes his head and tugs Stiles toward a door. "We're here."

Stiles forgets everything else as they enter the atrium. It looks a lot like the largest greenhouse, just not nearly as humid. There are different flowering bushes all around, with—just as Peter promised—bioluminescent butterflies fluttering around them. The ceiling looks open to the stars, though Stiles has long since stopped wondering how anyone can see space from the Inbetween. And in the center of the atrium, stands a low, natural-looking… swimming hole, is the best description Stiles can give it.

He kicks off his shoes to test the temperature and finds it cool to the touch, almost cold. Peter would appreciate this much more than the hot springs and warmed pools.

"Have you swam in here before?" Stiles asks him.

Peter shrugs and shakes his head. "Where's the fun in swimming alone?" And then he quickly shucks his clothes and dives in, barely giving Stiles a moment to decide whether or not he should ogle him.

Stiles takes longer to undress, but not by much. It's been a while since he allowed himself to enjoy something outside his lessons, reading, and research. But the whole point of his studying, of learning and striving, is freedom. And he needs to feel free right now. So he lowers himself into the spring beside Peter once he surfaces, and thinks, To hell with it. I'm going to enjoy myself.

He gives Peter a playful splash and laughs at the affronted look on his face. Peter is a creature of vengeance, though. He splashes right back.

It takes a while to tire of the new game, but when they do, they laugh breathlessly and lean back against the edge of the spring and look around themselves.

"You don't have to worry about me going feral," Peter says once everything is calm and quiet again. "You and I have developed a bond. It's keeping me quite comfortably sane."

"My dragon bonds," Stiles murmurs, remembering everything he's read about them, now. Maybe he was able to develop one with Peter because of all the time they've been spending together, and the natural way werewolves develop pack bonds. "I know I have one with Sharrat, now. I wasn't sure about you, though. Sometimes I thought I knew what you were feeling about something, but I couldn't be certain. But it's real?"

"Very real, sweetheart," Peter says seriously. "I value and treasure our bond. It may be somewhat weak now, here in the beginning, but we could nurture it. If you wanted more."

Stiles's heart starts pounding, and his face grows hot. "More?"

Peter nods. Explains. "Dragons need to lean on their bonds to keep themselves level, emotionally, right? At least that's what I've read. You can't do that if you're only barely conscious of the bond."

"I'm not a dragon," Stiles says quietly.

"Not yet, maybe. But you want to be, don't you?" Peter asks.

Stiles sucks in a breath. "How do you know me so well?"

"I think you know."

"I told you once that I didn't want to be like you," Stiles says. He breathes slowly, knows Peter is waiting. He admits, "But I recognized something in you that I know from myself. I'm already like you, Peter. That's how you know me."

"We have many similarities, but we're not the same," Peter says.

Stiles stings with the rejection, at first, but when he looks at Peter and tries to connect with him, he suddenly understands much more than he did. Peter is his dark mirror. His shadow self. There is violence and anger simmering inside Stiles that he's always worked to keep under wraps. Peter has taken his darker urges and wears them on his shoulders like a cloak. A king's mantle. Stiles kept his shadows in such a tight vise that they have become one black jewel at his core.

Stiles blinks. Were those his own thoughts, his own feelings, or Peter's? How close does this bond tie them? Somewhat weak? Hardly. Just hidden until now. And now, at least in this moment, Stiles understands.

They have both been lonely and reaching out for something they could hold on to. Now, they've found that thing, that one person. But do they risk it, when everyone else they've tried to love has hurt them?

Fuck, Stiles doesn't even know what this means. What he wants. Or what Peter wants.

He could ask and get an honest answer, but right now, Stiles might break with that honesty. He chooses to remain silent.

They leave together, toweling off without words, both of them in their own heads.

The next day, Stiles goes back to reading and building up his magical knowledge, and Peter doesn't bother him for a while. He must know Stiles needs time.

A few more weeks pass—or what seems like weeks, anyway—and Sharrat steps in and says it's time to learn more practical magic. Stiles has made great strides with his understanding of magic, but now he needs to put it to the test.

Peter's there, as his anchor, and Stiles finds more and more that he doesn't mind. He starts looking forward to every session. Then, after the sessions, he spends time with Peter to hear a werewolf's point of view on what the Spark is doing. Peter's insights make Stiles listen with wide eyes, sometimes even with a notepad and pen so he doesn't miss a single word.

Peter’s new favorite thing is watching Stiles learn magic. Stiles is becoming stronger, more powerful, and while Peter was already attracted to the boy, it’s even harder to hold himself back because there is nothing about Stiles that Peter doesn’t want. And ‘want’ is such a mild word for how he feels.

If it weren't reciprocated, Peter would find it utterly frustrating. But Stiles feels something for him, which becomes clearer as time goes on. He stands or sits closer, watches him more often when he thinks Peter isn’t paying attention. He asks his opinion, and Peter is always happy to give it, especially because Stiles doesn't just ask to be polite. He genuinely wants to hear Peter's thoughts, even takes notes when he thinks Peter's being especially insightful, which is often.

They've been growing closer for a while, but Peter doesn't think Stiles notices just how close. Stiles even asks about the past, about before the fire, and Peter…

Sometimes it hurts to remember. But Peter gives him his truth just the same—and not just because of the oath. He wants Stiles to know him completely, to see him as he really is, and not a distorted image Stiles has because of their bloody past.

They're in a funny kind of limbo where Stiles is beginning to trust him, sometimes opens up to him, but is still leery.

Peter doesn’t blame Stiles for that. He wouldn’t care a whit for a boy who wasn’t intelligent, and Stiles has many perceived reasons not to trust him. But their once-gaping chasm of violent history has become smaller. They're slowly building a bridge. A relationship, though Stiles isn't ready to call it such.

Peter just has to be careful not to give Stiles any more reasons to doubt him.

“What are you thinking about so hard over there?” Stiles asks him.

Peter closes the book he’s been idly perusing and leans forward. “I’d like to start over.”

“What do you mean?” Stiles asks warily.

“I know it’s impossible to forget the past, but I’d like to set it aside and… see if we can build something… new. A bridge, if you’d like.”

“You want to be my friend?” Stiles asks, doing an admirable job of keeping inflection out of the words. He’s being careful.

But Peter knows he can’t answer that question directly, not without showing his hand. He has his own reasons to be wary. Stiles could easily take his heart, but until he’s suitably invested in Peter’s emotional well-being, there’s no way of knowing what he’ll do with it once he has it. And Peter guards his weaknesses.

Stiles frowns a little when Peter just nods. “I thought we were heading that way anyway.”

“You did?” Peter asks.

“I’m not stupid, Peter. You’ve been acting as my anchor.”

“…Yes. What are you saying?" Peter asks. He realizes they are both being extremely careful with their words throughout the entire conversation. Stiles is holding himself steady and projecting outward calm while his heart trips over itself to beat harder and harder.

Peter unclenches his jaw and hopes Stiles can be honest with him about this.

Stiles says, “Dragons don’t have packs. But wolves do. And… I don’t mind being that for you, I guess.”

“And what would I be for you?” Peter asks.

Stiles shakes his head. “Dude. You’re already… I mean. We’ve got a bond already, right?” He rubs his chest with a vulnerable expression in his eyes. "Every day, every hour, I feel more of you."

Peter's noticed, of course, that their bond has become stronger over the past few weeks, ever since they first acknowledged it.

"I matter to you," Stiles says, sounding and feeling emotionally raw. "Friend, packmate, whatever it is, I feel it. And that means something to me."

Peter doesn't know how much of his devotion Stiles feels. Without a completed mate bond, Stiles won't be able to feel the richness, the fullness, of Peter's emotions. But even just a fraction of that feeling must be enough for Stiles. It hits Peter then, how much Stiles needs him. His boy might never admit it, might never acknowledge the emptiness he had inside himself being filled by Peter, of all people. But Peter is starting to understand, now, what the old journals of True Mates said about finally feeling complete with their partner.

Chapter Text

Sharrat says there's no true way to keep track of time in the Inbetween. The only ways to know what's happening on the mortal plane are either to scry (which she's promised Stiles he's learning very soon) or to pop back there, take a look around, and then come back.

It's the latter Sharrat does after what feels like over a year in the Inbetween.

When she tells them what she's about to do, Stiles becomes visibly nervous. Peter tries to calm him, sending a trickle of comfort along their now-developed bond. Stiles gives him a grateful smile, but the unease doesn't stop.

Sharrat must feel that Stiles is worried, too. She sits him down before she leaves and helps him sort through his anxieties. "What are you so worried about," she asks. "What can I do to help you?"

Stiles shrugs, but then the words start flowing. "What if it's all really fucked up at home but we didn't notice? What if the Wild Hunt has already taken all of Beacon Hills, and we're too late? Maybe while we've been here on magical vacation, the world has gone to shit!"

Sharrat nods, as if this is expected. "I've used divination regularly to keep watch. Nothing much has changed back in Beacon Hills, and other than a few small skirmishes between the Ghost Riders and the McCall pack."

"Okay. Okay, I wish you'd told me that before, but okay," Stiles says. He's still nervous, though. "What if you leave and time runs so differently there that back here we wait and wait and don't see you again for months?"

Sharrat opens her mouth to answer him, staying calm, but Stiles lets his greatest fear out instead.

"What if you don't come back at all?"

Peter wishes he could do more than just stand by and let Sharrat reassure his mate. Stiles is his boy, his responsibility, but right now, he can do nothing but send more calm along their bond.

"Oh, youngling," Sharrat says, her eyes gentling just enough that only people who know her well would notice. "I've done this before. I've even run experiments on the differences in the flow of time here and on the mortal plane. I'm in no danger. I'll return very soon."

"Experiments?" Stiles asks.

Peter has to smile at that. His boy is always interested in learning everything he can about magic and the way it works, especially when it seemed mysterious to him in the past. Unraveling magical secrets is his favorite pastime.

"I'll leave the records with you to look over while I'm gone," Sharrat promises. The fond look on her face is genuine. Peter doesn't have a bond to her, but after spending so much time around her with and without Stiles, he's learned to pick up her tells. Right now, she's feeling affectionate and proud of her 'youngling', and she's not the least bit put out that she's having to reassure him and calm his fears. She's as attached to Stiles now as he is to her.

It makes Peter wonder about one topic that's been off-limits with Stiles since he's known him. As close as they've become, Stiles still hasn't spoken about his mother. Peter knows she died when Stiles was young. He even knows how, thanks to the nogitsune's terror tactics and the 'trick' it played on Stiles to make him think he was dying of the same thing that took his mother. But Peter knows the shape of trauma from his own life, knows Stiles has something else in his past he can't speak of. Something pertaining to his mother that has not just shaped him, but broken him down.

Peter can be patient. He doesn't need to be privy to all Stiles's secrets at once. But he understands that Stiles has a complicated relationship with parental figures, and he can see that Sharrat is healing a wound in Stiles he hasn't shown anyone.

"Besides," Sharrat says, nodding in Peter's direction. "It's not as if I'd ever leave you alone."

Stiles looks at Peter. There's a vulnerability in his eyes he tries to blink away and cover with a roll of his eyes. "I don't need a babysitter, you know."

Sharrat gives an unladylike snort. "Oh, I'm quite aware. Now, let me prepare, and then I'll be off. If everything goes well, I'll be back in time for dinner."

Before she can leave the room, however, Peter stops her. "If I may ask a favor…"

"You may ask, of course," Sharrat says. She sounds so formal, but Peter can see the glimmer of amusement in her eyes.

"It's my daughter," Peter explains. "I know you've been scrying, but if you could check in on Malia in person, I'd be appreciative."

"I'll make time," Sharrat tells him.

Peter nods, relieved. "Thank you."

Sharrat reaches out and clutches his arm. Squeezes, as though she's comforting him. Does she know she's scenting him? Has she been around werewolves enough to understand what that touch means?

But then something odd happens, and a bond that Peter didn't think would ever come appears in a corner of his soul. He gasps at the feel of it, the taste of it—all electric heat, smoke, and spice—and Sharrat smiles. She's inwardly ecstatic and grateful to have the bond, now.

"Whoa, what's that?" Stiles asks.

Sharrat shakes her head, endlessly amused by Stiles's curiosity. "You explain, Peter. I have to go prepare."

She leaves the room, and Peter is left to tell Stiles about the dragon bond he and Sharrat share, now.

Stiles becomes strangely quiet.

"Would you rather Sharrat and I not share a bond?" Peter asks. He's not getting much through his bond with Stiles, which is odd. Lately, it's been strong, and emotions have come through quite clearly.

"No, she needs it. You both need it," Stiles says. "Sharrat's mentor is long-since dead, and if she was ever mated, I don't see them around anywhere, do you? That means her only bond in years was me. And she needs more than me to be stable, no matter how in control of her emotions she seems to be."

"And I'll be more stable with two bonds rather than just one," Peter says quietly. "I'm humbled that she trusts me enough to let me this close. So what's wrong?"

Stiles shakes his head. "Want to play a game of chess while we wait for her to come back?"

"Hmm. Chess, then we make dinner. Something spicy for her, as a welcome home meal."

"Okay," Stiles says, but he's still subdued.

Maybe he'll speak of it over a game of chess. Peter won't ask outright, but he won't give up, either. And maybe he won't even need to pry. Stiles is so much like Peter, or rather, how Peter was when he was younger. It's not too difficult to figure out what's plaguing Stiles.

Stiles loves playing chess with Peter. He hasn't won a single game since Peter got out of Eichen. Stiles was right—the special 'medications' they regularly shot into Peter in Eichen House kept him dull and slow. Now, though, he's at the top of his game, so to speak. No one has ever been able to beat Stiles before, not after a certain point, anyway. He guesses he didn't have a real competitive game between the ages of twelve and however old he was when he first played Peter. Sixteen? Yeah.

But Stiles can't even enjoy being trounced today. He's a seething mass of guilt, confusion, and jealousy, and he's trying desperately to keep it all under wraps. That's hard to do with the bond, but since Peter's patiently waiting for an explanation, he guesses he's succeeding, at least somewhat, to weaken the bond.

But that's the last thing he wants. He wants a stronger bond. He wants… Peter.

Goddammit.

"Do you want me to guess?" Peter asks after Stiles topples his king, and they've set up the board for another game.

Stiles doesn't even look up. He's not giving Peter more hints. He's playing white again, and he advances a pawn two spaces with a sigh. Shakes his head.

"Darling, look at me," Peter says.

Ugh. Refusing would just be childish. Their eyes meet across the board and hold. There's not a hint of teasing, and Stiles thinks maybe this won't be so bad. Maybe Peter will understand.

"Sharrat will never mean as much to me as you do," Peter tells him.

Stiles sucks in a breath.

Peter nods and continues. "Just because there's a bond there now doesn't mean it's the same as the one I share with you."

Stiles nods slowly, then looks down again. "Sorry."

"Whatever for?" Peter asks. "I have no problem giving you reassurance when you need it."

"I don't own you. I shouldn't act like…"

"I care about you, sweetheart, and I understand. Every time you gave part of yourself to someone in the past, they let you down." Peter holds up a hand when Stiles's eyes widen. "I don't know specifics, but I don't need to, do I?"

He's right. He's too close to cutting right into Stiles's pain and insecurities, pulling it all out, and then putting it on display. He could. He has that power, and Stiles has given it to him.

And now Stiles wants to open up and beg Peter not to let him down, not now that Stiles has feelings for him. Against his better judgment, Stiles has learned to trust Peter. And all Stiles's life, love and trust have been betrayed.

That's not true, some belligerent part of him says. Dad still loves you.

But Dad's forgotten him. Stiles was erased from his life and now…

Well, maybe Dad misses him without realizing it. Maybe, like when Stiles forgot Peter, he can feel the absence of the important thing he lost.

But maybe Dad's life is better now without a son like Stiles.

"Let's go cook dinner," Peter says, and quietly hands Stiles his handkerchief.

Stiles stares at the white fabric for just a moment before realizing his face is wet with tears he didn't know he was shedding. "Thanks." He wipes his face. "I'll… give me a minute. I'll join you in the kitchen in a few."

"Take your time," Peter says.

Stiles walks away, but as he does, he lets their bond fill out again. He hopes Peter understands it's both an apology and gratitude.

The feelings Peter sends back are steel wrapped up in velvet, a violent protectiveness, and a fierce, sharp longing for more. Peter doesn't care half-heartedly. If Stiles were a better person, it would scare him away for good. As it is, it just makes Peter more attractive.

Maybe there's something wrong with Stiles, but it's the same kind of thing that's wrong with Peter.

Back in his suite, Stiles tries to hurry. In the mirror, he notices his hair has gained some length. Not nearly enough to mark the full year his mind insists it's been, though. Time is so strange. But Stiles will master the magic, and the spaces between time will become a little less mysterious to him.

There's a shadow of patchy scruff on his face, so he gives himself a close shave. Then he washes his face and puts a clean shirt on before heading back down the hallways to the kitchen they use most often.

Peter looks up when Stiles enters. He smiles genuinely, with a thrum of want pulsing down the bond. "Looking good, sweetheart."

Stiles blushes and ignores everything but the vegetables Peter gives him to chop, and then he puts them in a pan where they can soften in some olive oil. They've cooked together enough that it's like a choreographed dance, and Stiles lets himself get lost in the familiar movements.

They are just putting dinner on the table when Sharrat returns.

"That was quick," Stiles says.

"I told you it would be," Sharrat says. From behind her back, she produces a small package. "It was a good day to return to the mortal plane. I couldn't have timed it better on purpose. Happy birthday, youngling. You're eighteen years old, now."

Stiles sucks in a breath. Takes the gift from Sharrat's hands.

"It's not much, but I'm already planning something for you," she tells him.

"I don't need anything special," Stiles says.

"Nonsense. You only turn eighteen once. And it's been a while since I was able to put on a show."

"A show?" Peter asks. "What kind?"

"You'll just have to wait and see," Sharrat says.

"It's not my birthday, surely you can let me know," Peter wheedles.

Sharrat just smiles serenely and shakes her head. "Not at all. Oh, dinner looks wonderful. Thank you for having it ready."

"Sharrat…" Stiles tries to ask.

"I'll give you all the details you need tomorrow," Sharrat says. And apparently that's the end of it.

Peter looks pained that he doesn't know the secret; at least Stiles isn't alone.

Chapter Text

Stiles doesn't sleep well. He never has, the night before a big day, and even less when the day includes a surprise. A big surprise, if Sharrat's secrecy is anything to go by.

He doesn't have a clue what's going to happen until over breakfast, when Sharrat says, "We miss out on most naturally occurring meteor showers in the Inbetween, but I can put on a hell of a magical light show when I feel like it."

"For me?" Stiles asks.

"I'll let you share with Peter, too, if you find that agreeable," Sharrat says. "But it's your birthday present. It's your choice who to share it with."

One day, Stiles is going to learn some magic to keep werewolves from hearing his heart pound. Unfortunately, he doesn't know how to do that yet.

"What do you think, Peter?" Stiles asks, as nonchalantly as he can. "Wanna watch a light show with me?"

"I'd love to," Peter says. Even if he hadn't taken an oath to be truthful with Stiles, Peter's pleasure would still be evident through their bond.

Sharrat says, "The east tower roof will be the best spot for viewing. Once the sky is dark, skip dinner and meet up there. I won't start without you, but I'll be disappointed if you're late."

There are no clocks in the castle, at least not ones that measure hours and minutes. Sharrat's directions are as close as they can get to setting a time.

Sharrat finishes her breakfast and excuses herself to 'get ready', not giving a single hint away of what that might mean. One day, Stiles is going to understand Spark and dragon magic, and he won't be left in the dark anymore. Then maybe it'll be his turn to be the mysterious one.

"It's been so long since we've had to do anything by clock time," Stiles muses to Peter as they clear the table. "Think it will be hard to get used to twenty-four-hour days again?"

"Sharrat moves back and forth between the Inbetween and the mortal plane all the time, doesn't she?" Peter asks. "Did she ever seem less than punctual before we got here?"

"Not at all. If anything, she was meticulous about being on time. I was late for a FaceTime call once and didn't answer right away. She gave me extra homework instead of scolding me, but I didn't make that mistake again," Stiles says. "At least, not on purpose. The ADHD makes being punctual kind of impossible. But I try!"

"You haven't seemed as affected by it since we've been here in the castle. Do you have any theories about why?"

Peter paying attention to the way Stiles's brain works (or doesn't, as the case sometimes may be) is one more thing breaking through his heart's resistance. In this small way, with one thoughtful question, Peter proves he cares about Stiles. Maybe Stiles would be able to fight against it, though, if it were just one occurrence. But Peter keeps proving he cares in a million different ways, and Stiles isn't made of stone.

"I, um." He swallows and tries to concentrate on the question. "It helps that magic is super interesting to me. And Sharrat teaches me in a way that works for me. She's never boring. I think when I start to lose interest in what she's saying, she realizes it before I do and changes her tactics."

"And the rest of the time? It's not all magic, all the time. You haven't been taking any medication to help you focus, and yet you've rarely…" Peter trails off.

Peter's doing his best to discuss this without poking sore spots. Stiles's lips twitch into a small smile. He says, "I appreciate how careful you're being with my feelings here, but you don't have to be. I'm tougher than I look. And I know it's coming from a good place."

"You're incredibly strong, that I've never doubted," Peter tells him. He finishes loading what they call the 'dishwasher'—a magical contraption that works almost the same as a high-end dishwasher on the mortal plane—and wipes his hands on a towel. "I was just curious, and a little worried you might be hiding some problems from us."

"Thanks, but… I'm good. I really am. Any chores I have to do around here are done side by side with you or Sharrat. I rarely hit a wall of awful—that's what I call my problems with task initiation and other executive dysfunction—but when I do, you and Sharrat always give me a boost up or help me build a door through."

Stiles feels his heart clench as his memories remind him of all the times other people didn't help him at all, or laughed at him, or yelled at him for things he couldn't help. He's not talking about that, though. Stay on task.

"It's been pretty great, and neither of you seem to realize you're doing anything special," Stiles says. He meets Peter's eyes but has to look away again. There's too much care in Peter's expression. Stiles can't face it. "So I'm not cured of my ADHD or anything; I still have symptoms. If I'm alone, I get bored or restless more easily, and sometimes I'm under-stimulated. It's just… not as bad, here."

"So you have noticed the difference."

Stiles snorts. "Of course I have. I almost always listen to what my brain tells me. When I got diagnosed, I researched the hell out of ADHD. And I'm right there learning more every time new studies come out, or conversations in the community are going around. When I was first diagnosed…" Stiles takes a breath, knows he's about to share more than might be wise. "I didn't have anybody on my side except for one teacher at school. I had to learn to be my own advocate, teach myself the skills I needed to function. It's been… hard." That's about as far as he can go right now.

"Your parents didn't—"

"No," Stiles says quickly, cutting Peter off and hopefully signaling he's not going to talk about his mom and dad now.

A soft, sympathetic feeling comes down the bond. Stiles can't deal with it. Whatever Peter says next is going to be too much like pity for Stiles to take, and Stiles already feels naked enough.

"I'm sorry you—"

"Shut up, Peter," Stiles says, not particularly unkindly but as an end to the subject. "Look, I'm sorry. But I'm gonna take some time alone now, okay? I'm gonna go read, and later I'll get ready. Don't worry, I'll be in a decent mood for the light show. I'll see you on the roof when it's time."

Peter reaches out and brushes his fingertips over Stiles's wrist. Scenting him? Comforting him? Is it an apology?

All Stiles knows is that it makes him feel like crying. "Thanks," he whispers, and then he leaves the room as quickly as he can without running. He doesn't want to be overly emotional right now. Today, he's celebrating becoming an adult, so the last thing he needs to do is cry like a kid.

Peter spends about half an hour thinking about everything Stiles told him today. He turns the words over and over, coming at them from every angle, until he sees how it fits Stiles's overall personality and hints at that trauma he's sensed from his mate before.

It hurts Peter to know Stiles has been abused, but he also cherishes the knowledge because of how carefully and trustingly Stiles shared that pain.

And now, with that expressed pain, Stiles is opening Peter without knowing. He is turning a key in the lock Peter secured around his heart ages ago. Or, to be more poetic:

your slightest look easily will unclose me

though i have closed myself as fingers,

you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens

(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose

Peter's always found others' words more apt and much prettier at least in matters of love. He'll have to try, though, if he wants to earn Stiles's heart.

The courtship is coming along well, though. Stiles trusts him now, to a point. And though their bond is not the mate bond Peter covets, it has only grown stronger over the past few months.

Sharrat is helping him, too. Maybe because she is fond of them both, or maybe because she believes, like Peter does, that True Mates are a sacred thing. But Peter is under no delusions that tonight's light show is just a celebration for Stiles's birthday. Sharrat has set the night up so that Peter and Stiles will be alone in a romantic situation. She's not pushing them together, but she's giving Peter an opportunity to woo Stiles a little closer.

For that, Peter needs to make Sharrat some more of the baklava she likes so much.

Peter does not overthink the shower he takes using one of Sharrat's homemade sandalwood shower gels, or the matching shampoo that leaves his hair soft, shiny, and just the slightest bit fluffy. Touchable, he thinks as he forgoes any other product. It's wishful thinking, of course, that Stiles would want to touch his hair, and yet the thought lingers.

He shaves his neck and throat with a straight razor and neatens up the rest with some clippers. The clippers run on magic, but Peter is not going to inspect them to figure out how they work. He's curious, but he'll leave that kind of investigation to Stiles.

The mental picture of Stiles peering at a magical beard trimmer while taking notes makes Peter smile.

He finds some aftershave in the same sandalwood as the other products and uses it sparingly. Just enough to provide a hint of scent. He doesn’t usually like extra products this way, but he happens to know Stiles likes this one. So. Just a little.

He notices he's humming. He shrugs and adds a few of the words to sing, "For nobody else gave me a thrill, with all your faults, I love you still. It had to be you, wonderful you, it had to be you!"

He dresses in a loose blue button-down shirt that will bring out the natural blue of his eyes, and pairs it with some black slacks that are casual enough for a light show and yet dressy enough to show… interest?

He doesn’t think Stiles will notice how picky he’s being with his clothes, but he doesn’t want to look like a slob tonight, either. (Or ever, really. He’s had enough of looking bad. It makes him feel less than what he is. In the hospital, in Eichen, and he’s done with that.)

Once he’s done getting dressed, he’s on his way out of the suite. But when he opens the door, he finds Sharrat standing there, poised to knock.

He raises a brow at her, and she smiles.

“Hello, Peter. You look handsome. I know it’s almost time, but I wanted to speak with you about something first.”

“Would you like to come in?” Peter offers.

Sharrat shakes her head. “It won’t take long. We can talk on the way.”

"Is something wrong in Beacon Hills?" Peter asks, realizing she never reported back to him about his daughter's well-being. "Is Malia all right?"

"She's fine," Sharrat reassures. "I didn't watch her long, but she and her friend Lydia seemed all right."

"Okay, good. So what did you want to talk about?"

"Stiles is very close to manifesting dragon characteristics, now," Sharrat says seriously. "He's gone deep into his magic, and he's learned so much, it's inevitable that he start to transform."

"How does the transformation work, anyway? How long until he can shift into a full dragon?"

"It takes a lot of magic," Sharrat says. "A lot of magic to get to that point and then even more to maintain it for any amount of time. Even if he's able to transform, it will take years, maybe, to learn to hold the dragon form."

"But he's not there yet," Peter says.

"No, not even close. Though at the rate he's going, he'll be able to shift his eyes and teeth and claws sooner than I expected."

"Is he that… gifted?"

Sharrat doesn't quite smile, but Peter can feel the almost-maternal pride she feels when she says, "Gifted and powerful, yes, and with a drive to learn and excel unlike anyone I've ever met."

Maybe Peter is feeling some pride of his own. "I always knew he was exceptional."

"He'll have enemies because of it," Sharrat says. "Some darker elements of society are drawn to exquisite power, and Stiles has that in spades."

"His enemies will be my enemies," Peter says with a fanged smile. "I'll fight by his side against anyone who tries to hurt him."

“It’s good you have faith in your mate’s abilities. I’m happy you don’t want to keep him on the sidelines.”

“I wouldn’t do that to him,” Peter says. “Besides, he’s never been anything but an asset. Even more now that he's learning to control his magic."

“He’s the other half of your soul, and yet you aren’t overprotective. That bodes well for your future.” And then Sharrat puts a hand on his shoulder. “Good luck, Peter.” She squeezes his shoulder, then drops her hand. “Here we are. Just follow that staircase all the way up.”

“Thank you,” Peter murmurs. That was her blessing, right? Sharrat disappears from his sight in a swirl of blue magic, and he starts walking up toward the roof, smiling. Humming.

He’s looking forward to spending more time with his boy.

Stiles is the first one up on the roof, but he figures Peter will be right behind him. In the meantime, he can stare at the current decor and wonder who put out the big cushions, throw pillows, blankets, and floating lanterns. There’s an actual old phonograph off to the side, along with a stack of records, and what looks like a large picnic basket on the same low table.

He’s too curious to leave it alone. He checks the basket and finds various cheese slices and cubes, seedless grapes, a bowl of cold melon balls, some delicious-looking apple slices, and some finger sandwiches cut into small rectangles.

He picks up a grape. It’s large, but otherwise normal. It pops between his teeth in a small explosion of sweet, juicy flavor.

Peter moves silently, but Stiles senses he’s there before he comes into view beside him.

“What do we have here?” Peter asks, leaning in close enough that Stiles gets a good lungful of his scent.

“Nibbles,” Stiles says. “The grapes are perfect.” He swallows hard. “Why do you smell so good?” He doesn’t mean for it to sound so much like an accusation.

Peter takes it in stride and smirks. “Sandalwood body wash and aftershave. I think Sharrat makes it herself.”

Stiles doesn’t think his is the same. He sniffs his arm to be sure. “Mine is sort of… plain? Might even be unscented. Does that make sense that the guy with the super smeller gets the good-smelling stuff while I get unscented?”

“Let me see,” Peter says, holding out a hand.

Warily, Stiles moves his arm closer. The faint grip on his wrist gives Stiles a not-completely-horrible flashback to the last time Peter held his arm like this, when he offered him the Bite.

He can’t help but flush, and he feels his heart pound in his chest when Peter runs his nose over the inside of Stiles’s wrist. Stiles refuses to voice the sound sitting on his tongue. He swallows it back and asks, “Well?”

“Smells like green buds waiting to unfurl. A young buck growing into his first set of antlers. An iced-over stream that’s just begun to melt in spring. The scent of the air right before a thunderstorm. And…"

"And?" Stiles asks breathlessly.

"When I was small, and my parents were still alive, my mother used to put the laundry out on a clothesline." Peter closes his eyes and speaks solemnly, as if telling his deepest secret. "It's the scent I most equate with home: crisp cotton sheets that have been dried in the sunshine, blown by a summer breeze."

It feels as if something inside is cracking open. "And do I…?"

"You smell like that to me, Stiles. Like home."

Stiles knows better than to laugh this one off. He can't follow the thread, though. He's not ready.

He sniffs at his other wrist. "I'm not getting that at all."

“It’s part of your natural scent; you’re too used to it to notice. I’m glad you used the unscented wash. It’s easier to smell you when the scent’s not covered with artificial perfumes.”

“I guess werewolves are pretty big on scent. I’m glad my natural scent's not, like, offensive or something.”

Peter laughs softly. “Never.”

And that sends a warm glow through Stiles, partly because his brain takes it as praise and he may have a bit of a praise deficit he’s working with, but also because he knows Peter is speaking nothing but his truth.

“So you said that’s part of my scent. Is there more to it?”

“Oh, yes. Everyone’s scent is layered, with multiple notes on different levels. It’s complex, and sometimes it can be difficult to pick out everything that’s there. And then of course your scent will change depending on your emotions or state of health.”

“Does magic have a scent?” Stiles asks, fascinated.

Peter nods and opens his mouth, possibly to talk about magic’s scent, but then he suddenly looks up. “I think our entertainment is starting.”

Thistle runs past them then and hops up on the table holding the picnic basket and phonograph. He puts a paw on top of the stack of records.

Peter says, “I think he’s trying to tell us something.”

Stiles looks up and sees the first bright lights crossing the sky, crisscrossing at first and then spiraling slowly around each other.

Music begins playing, and he realizes Peter put a record on. He doesn’t recognize the music at first, still doesn’t know the song, but he does recognize the singer’s voice.

“I don’t know this one,” Stiles says as Frank Sinatra sings, Gotta have you near all the time, with your dreams wrapped up in mine…

Has Sharrat set up the night as some sort of matchmaking scheme? Everything is all just a little too romantic to be anything but…

He looks away from the sky and finds Peter watching him. “I don’t…” he starts to say, without any way to finish the thought.

“Shh,” Peter says. “Just sit down on the cushions and enjoy the show. That’s all we’re here for.”

Sinatra sings, I’ll never let you go, as Stiles gets comfortable, and Peter sits beside him, close enough that Stiles can feel his heat.

In the sky, the lights change color against the backdrop of pure night. They pull away in halves from each other and then come back brightly together again, like a ballet choreographed for just two dancers.

The showy lights grow brighter and more intricate as the display goes on. Stiles has never seen such a spectacle before, and amazingly it’s just for them. Then giant, fiery rings show up and Sharrat flies in dragon form through them, then down, then up again, remarkably free and beautiful.

Her scales shine wherever light touches them, reflecting like black mirrors. She flaps her massive wings and Stiles feels an ache inside him he’s never felt before.

He’s envious. His heart is somehow in the sky with Sharrat instead of down on the roof where he’s lying against the cushions and pillows with Peter. He wants to be up there with her, wants to fly. He wants to be as free and beautiful as she is.

He yearns.

He doesn’t realize tears are running down his cheeks until Peter takes his face into his hands and thumbs the wetness away.

“You’re okay,” Peter says quietly. He rumbles soothingly, and Stiles doesn’t know how to explain.

There’s a part of himself already up in the sky, and all he wants to do is follow.

If only it were that easy.

Chapter Text

Using magic shouldn't ever get boring, Stiles doesn't think. However…

"Again," Sharrat says.

At least they're outside for this lesson. Sharrat insisted, since there isn't a single (simulated) cloud in the sky, and apparently, Stiles needs fresh air and sunshine.

If he didn't love her, he'd already have told her where she could shove her latest elemental magic lesson.

"How many ice cubes do I have to make, here?" Stiles asks.

"As many as it takes," she answers calmly.

Stiles looks at Peter for some kind of backup, some solidarity, but his wolf is lazing in the grass in his full shift, not paying attention to either of them. His right ear flicks away a dragonfly that is flying around his head. Occasionally, Peter has lifted his head with his ears perked, looking toward the forest. Stiles thinks there's a herd of deer in there. He's got a bet with himself on how long it will take Peter to give in to the urge to hunt.

"Until I can do it effortlessly, right?" Stiles says, fighting a yawn. The warm air is making him sleepy. He wishes he could laze around with Peter and take a nap. He hasn't used Peter as a big pillow yet, but his full shift is so soft and seems like it would be comfortable. There's a spot that looks just like it was made for Stiles's head to rest.

Stiles takes back everything he ever said about Sharrat not triggering boredom or the attention deficit part of his attention deficit hyperactivity disorder.

"Yes," she says. "But you don't have to use the same shape every time."

Stiles tilts his head. "Hmm?"

"Get creative," Sharrat responds, floating a fist-sized bubble of water up from the pond with a graceful wave of her hand. The bubble floats toward Stiles and Peter, the latter tensing in anticipation of being soaked. But before it reaches them, it changes shape and goes solid, frozen into a small sculpture of a dragonfly.

Stiles holds his hand out for it, and Sharrat lets it land in his palm, where it immediately starts to melt. "Whoa, wait a minute," he whispers, then concentrates to make the ice even colder. It won't melt so easily now, and he can admire the thin wings run through with tiny, deliberate cracks. "How'd you make it so lifelike?"

Sharrat raises an eyebrow in an expression that's pure Hale. She's definitely been hanging around Peter for a long time. "Practice," she says, almost sarcastically.

Stiles grins, sleepiness forgotten. "Teach me."

It takes a long time. Stiles tries again and again. The trick is to shape the water and then flash-freeze it before it has a chance to return to its natural form. Peter, at some point, has completely lost interest in staying awake. He rests his massive head on Stiles's thigh and snores from time to time.

Still, Stiles works at water and ice sculpting.

At some point, Sharrat conjures food from the kitchen, and Stiles absently eats apples and cheese while continuing to work.

Hours(?) pass. Stiles is completely caught up in the building up of the water molecules and pressing them together into ice. That's the trick, he learns. Not just to think of the water as an element of his magic, his affinity, but to know it down to its atomic makeup.

"Youngling," Sharrat is saying. She's been saying it for some time.

Something warm and damp rubs his chin and cheek. No, not rubbing. Licking. Peter is licking his face with his wet, wolfy tongue, trying to get Stiles's attention.

"Oh my god, Peter, stop kissing me," Stiles groans, wiping off his wet, slobbered face with his hand. He blinks, his vision going broader than the narrow focus it's been in for too many hours. Spread out on the ground in front of him are dozens of tiny ice wolves, almost all in different poses. Some are howling, some are sprawling, some are lying with their heads between their front paws. Stiles doesn't remember making the things, but he loves them. He wishes he could keep them frozen forever. However…

"You need to drink some water, eat something, and go to bed," Sharrat tells him. "In the morning, you're going to feel like you've been bar-hopping all night."

"Wait, I'm gonna have a hangover without drinking?" Stiles complains. "What kind of bull… crap is that?"

He grumbles some more, but Sharrat is right. He's so thirsty he's probably dehydrated, and he's hungry, too. And so, so tired.

Peter, who at some point slipped into his human skin along with his clothes, offers him a hand up. "Don't worry, darling. I'll drain the worst of your pain tomorrow."

"Do that, and he won't learn the consequences of nonstop, all-day magic binges," Sharrat says dryly.

"I got it though, didn't I?" Stiles asks. He bends over and scoops up a howling ice wolf. It's frozen cold and hard enough that it hasn't started melting yet. "Peter! He looks just like you!"

Unfortunately, Stiles sways on his feet, and Peter has to catch him before he goes back down for the count.

"Very impressive, sweetheart. Perhaps you'd like me to carry you?"

"I'm not a helpless princess, so you'd better not pick me up like one," Stiles says with a scowl.

"I reserve the right to do so if you swoon like a medieval maiden again. How about a ride on my back?"

Stiles is too delighted to get mad about the maiden comment. "Really? A piggy-back ride?"

Sharrat's emotions are easy to read; she's exasperated and fond, just a tinge worried—probably because Stiles is magically exhausted. Stiles shoots her a reassuring smile and then jumps onto Peter's back for a ride back to the castle.

"I guess we'll put off tomorrow's lesson," Sharrat says. "But soon, okay, youngling? I'm teaching you to scry next."

"Sounds fun," Stiles murmurs, planting his face against the back of Peter's neck.

Somehow—he's not questioning the specifics—he gets put to bed in a fresh pair of sleep pants and a clean T-Rex shirt Sharrat gave him for his birthday.

He wakes with the mother of all headaches, vowing never to hyperfocus while working practical magic ever again.

At first, Peter is worried. He sits on the edge of Stiles's bed, watching him sleep after the boy passes out. Magical exhaustion is serious, but Sharrat doesn't seem too concerned. She's irritated that Stiles let it go so far, but she's not worried about his health. Maybe Peter should take her word as the expert and try to relax about it.

As long as Stiles doesn't make a habit of this. Unfortunately, given what Peter knows about Stiles's peculiarities and tendency to hyperfocus, it could very well happen again.

It's funny. As his strongest bond (and True Mate), Stiles anchors Peter to sanity and keeps him from falling into dark places from which he can't return. Now Peter needs to return the favor and make sure Stiles doesn't fall too far into his magic. At least not for too long. Peter doesn't know what 'too far' or 'too long' looks like. But as luck would have it, Peter has an ally in this who can teach Peter a little discernment.

"Why aren't you sleeping?" his ally asks when she catches him in the kitchen when he should be in bed.

Peter turns and raises an eyebrow. "Making hot chocolate. Would you like a cup?"

"No marshmallows," Sharrat states plainly, and sits down at the small table. She has a deck of cards in her hands. Tarot, though, not playing cards. Which is probably a good thing, since he would guess Sharrat's poker face is legendary. She'd clean him out if he attempted to play against her, and he's no slouch.

"How about cayenne?" Peter asks. It's just a formality to ask. He knows Sharrat's craving for spice quite well by now.

She gives a regal nod, and he briefly pictures her as a queen in antiquity. For all he knows, she was, once upon a time. He's curious, but he—like Stiles—has manners. He won't learn her age unless she offers the information freely. She does give hints sometimes, though. Peter and Stiles have a coded timeline hidden in a notebook somewhere, and they add to it when Sharrat randomly drops lore into a conversation. So far, they know she at least lived through the fall of the Ming dynasty. Peter believes she's much older than that, even, while Stiles is having trouble wrapping his head around the numbers they do know.

Peter's also sure Sharrat enjoys dropping vague hints and driving them wild with curiosity. He doesn't mind it much. Dragons have to find entertainment somewhere, after all.

While Peter makes the drinks, Sharrat starts drawing cards. Peter isn't tarot savvy, but he recognizes the simple three-card spread. Sharrat studies the cards, nods, and then picks them back up. She disappears the deck into seemingly nowhere with the soft blue glow of her magic, then watches Peter add extra spice to her hot chocolate with an approving smirk.

"Everything okay with the cards?" Peter asks. "Nothing to be on our guard about?"

"Not yet."

That doesn't sound ominous at all.

Once they both have a cup of hot chocolate, Sharrat asks, "How's the courtship going?"

"Slowly," Peter says easily. "But I have patience."

"I know I don't have to tell you he's been hurt terribly," she says. "It's plain for anyone who cares to see."

"And we both see because of that care," Peter says. He shakes his head. "I know what the aftermath of trauma looks like. The shape of the things you try to hide. He is letting me in, bit by bit. That's all I'll say on the subject, though. I know you care about him, but I'm not betraying his trust that way."

"He's had enough betrayal in his lifetime," Sharrat agrees.

They understand each other. They both love Stiles and want the best for him. Maybe in different ways, but both of them are invested in their boy's happiness.

"You call him 'youngling' a lot," Peter says to change the subject. "Is it just because he's a young dragon, or is there more to it?"

For a moment, Sharrat's face becomes hard and opaque like stone. The emotions along their bond tell a different story, though. Peter feels her haunted sadness. He says nothing, but sends her a warm pulse of comfort.

"You should know this. Maybe I shouldn't be the one to tell you, but..." She shakes her head. Clutches her drink. "The first time a Spark uses magic, something happens to their body. A magical conversion, if you will. I've read many sources that claim it's a sacrifice we make, but I never willingly agreed to it, and neither did Stiles. It's a choice that is taken from us from the beginning. We can never have children."

"Does Stiles know?" Peter asks.

"I told him as soon as I knew he was an active Spark. It was already too late, then."

"Is he…" Peter doesn't know what to ask first. Is Stiles all right with never being the biological father to a child? Is he angry that this choice was taken from him? Did he want natural children, even? Will he want to foster or adopt later in life?

"I can't answer for him," Sharrat says. "I only told you so that you understand me when I say this: Stiles is the son of my heart. I love him as my own, and I knew he was special from the moment I met him."

"I think I understand," Peter says softly.

She doesn't believe him, but she appreciates the sentiment.

They sit in silence for another hour or so, and then Peter excuses himself to go to bed. Sharrat waves him away with a rare smile.

He understands her better, now. And he doubts Stiles has a single clue how much he is loved.

Chapter Text

The headache fades, but the lesson sticks. Stiles needs to be careful not to hyperfocus while working magic. Period. He doesn't have the faintest idea how to safeguard against that, but both Peter and Sharrat say they'll watch out for him.

It's odd to realize he has people watching out for him. Who want him to succeed, but for his own sake and not for their own gratification or status. Who care. Even when his hurts are small, their concern seems… oversized. It's almost too much to comprehend. He has to rely on his bonds to make sure it's real, at times.

Yesterday, he had to recover and rest. Peter barely let him walk outside, and when he did, he insisted that Stiles only went short distances, and he was forced to rest often. Stiles would have complained about this treatment to Sharrat, but she scolded Peter for letting Stiles outside at all when he should have stayed in bed!

"Hey, remember that birthday I had a while back?" Stiles tries to argue. "I'm officially in charge of my own well-being. I'm an adult. Let me be an adult, okay?"

This argument doesn't get far with Peter and even less so with Sharrat, who claims that, since his lifespan is greatly extended now, he won't be a competent adult until he starts acting like one, which may not be until he's thirty-five. Or maybe fifty.

She's joking, mostly, but Stiles can sense a ribbon of truth in what she says. Maybe to Sharrat, who has been alive for hundreds, perhaps thousands of years, Stiles really is just a child and she will continue to see him as such. He doesn't know how long she'll stick around with him, is afraid to hope she won't lose interest in teaching him, but sometimes he gets flashes of a vague, idyllic future where he still gets to have her in his life, even if she is overprotective.

Peter, Stiles thinks, does see him as an adult, has been treating him as an equal for some time. But he gets protective and concerned, too. Stiles has tried to argue that he doesn't need it, that he's been relying on himself for years by this point. Peter doesn't listen, and Stiles starts to wonder if he likes looking out for Stiles. He certainly acts as though he does.

Maybe it's a wolf thing. Instinct for a packmate? Stiles can accept that.

But now it's time for a new lesson. Sharrat is teaching Stiles basic scrying techniques today, and he's a little nervous about it.

He's read about scrying plenty. There's a lot to the art and magic of it, and it can do more than just one thing. It's an all-purpose location and divination tool. (Now he sounds like he's writing an advertisement for it.)

But Stiles isn't excited about scrying now that it's time to learn how. He's had a sense of foreboding he just can't shake since he woke up to the new day. He doesn't tell them, because it feels like a silly little anxiety to have, and maybe it's just because it's a type of magic he hasn't used before. That's probably it.

After a light breakfast—"Scrying can sometimes disorient you, and if you have a full stomach, you might get sick with the vertigo," Sharrat explains—they head up the winding stairs of a tower until they reach a door Stiles has never seen before.

Inside, the room is round, filled with various ‘witchy’ paraphernalia. There are books—is there any room in this castle without at least one bookshelf?—and bottles with old and new labels. There’s a huge fireplace, or rather a fire pit, but there is no fire burning. It does house a giant empty cast-iron cauldron, though. It looks just like a cauldron out of Disney's Hocus Pocus.

But there are other cauldrons and buckets and bowls, as well, all lined up against one of the walls. Some are stacked on top of each other. Some are old and dusty, some are so shiny they look new.

In the center of the room is a ritual circle, already marked with sigils and runes. Stiles recognizes about half of what he sees, but he trusts Sharrat wouldn’t bring them into a room with a harmful space.

Sharrat waves her hand, and the candles around the room light up, and the brighter chandeliers and candelabras dim. “Mood lighting,” she says with a wink.

“Cool,” Stiles says. He knows how she lit the candles now, knows the theory behind the magic. He hasn't tried to do it himself yet, but he thinks soon he might be able to pull it off. Not important right now, just something to think about.

But also, his affinities reside with water and ice, so conjuring even small fires might be harder for him than, say, water.

“Peter, bring us the glass cauldron, would you?” Sharrat asks. “It’s heavy.” She says that to Stiles, apparently to explain why Peter has to be the one to carry it.

Stiles snickers a little, but asks, “Don’t you wish you had super strength in your human form?”

"Alas, no extra strength and no accelerated healing. I do have a better than average sense of smell, though."

Stiles already knows this, but he allows Sharrat to go on with her dragon lesson as Peter carries the glass cauldron and places it where Sharrat gestures.

“I have the spirit of a dragon, the soul of one, the emotions and bonds. And I’m incredibly strong in my dragon form,” she explains. “But in this one, I’m almost completely at a human baseline.”

“Except for the powerful magic,” Peter can’t help but add.

“Yes, there’s that,” Sharrat agrees dryly. “Stiles, fill the cauldron with fresh, clear water.”

Stiles looks toward a sink at the edge of the room, but she stops him before he can go to it.

“With magic, youngling.”

“I haven’t conjured water from nothing yet,” Stiles says nervously. “We’ve only gone over the theory in… in vague terms!” Even if he was just thinking about this, facing the reality has him balking.

Peter sends him some encouragement and confidence along their bond. "You did all the supplemental reading."

Stiles gives him a wide-eyed look.

“You can do this,” Peter says. “I’ll be right here.”

“Listen to your anchor,” Sharrat says calmly. “He’ll make sure you don’t go too far into your magic.”

The feeling of foreboding is getting stronger. But Sharrat is watching him expectantly and Peter has so much faith in him. He can't let them down.

"Okay," he says, and takes a few deep breaths. He places his hands flat over the cauldron and closes his eyes.

He plunges into his magic effortlessly. Water flows in his mind’s eye. It’s his element, after all, and this shouldn’t be hard to do at all. He just hasn’t done anything this blatantly… dragon-like before. Only an elemental dragon-spirited Spark can conjure water from nowhere. This magic he’s doing now places a metaphorical mark on him. He’s… becoming.

“That’s enough, darling,” Peter says, calling him back to himself. Just the sound of his voice is enough to have Stiles take his hands away and open his eyes.

The cauldron is full to the brim.

Sharrat’s praise of, “Very good, youngling,” means less than Peter’s proud nod.

He flushes and looks at the surface of the clear water, which—when still—makes a perfect mirror.

“Now, you scry,” Sharrat says.

Stiles bites his lip, but he already feels what he needs to do.

Sharrat’s voice sounds far away. “It’s your water. Your spirit is guiding the magic. Tell it what you want. Ask questions. And then you will see.”

Stiles looks at Peter, needing… he’s not sure what. Peter comes closer and puts a hand on his shoulder. “You can do this,” he repeats.

“Can you just… keep your hand there?” Stiles asks. “Don’t stop touching me.”

“You need a solid anchor,” Peter agrees instead of replying with the creepy response they’re both imagining.

Stiles swallows hard. Looks at Peter seriously. “I’m trusting you.”

Peter’s eyes flash, and he nods.

Again, Stiles takes a deep breath, and then he looks at his ‘mirror’ to ask the first question. He doesn’t even need to voice it; his magic knows what he wants. He's thinking of Peter, and what would make Peter happy, and then the picture forms.

There's a full moon hanging high over what Stiles immediately recognizes as the Preserve. There's Malia sitting cross-legged against a large tree, an intense look on her face. Her eyes are glowing blue, and her beta shift is, well, shifting back and forth.

"It's okay. I'm here," Lydia is saying. "Think of your anchor. Try to breathe slowly."

"I'm trying!" Malia snarls.

"Try harder," Lydia says calmly. "Keep breathing."

"I can't… something is missing," Malia says. Her frustration is palpable. Stiles wishes he could help her. She's obviously having the same kind of control problem that she had before Stiles helped her find her center.

Has she forgotten the lessons along with Stiles? Is that what she's missing?

"You'll get there," Lydia says with confidence. She's being so patient with Malia, and Stiles is grateful for his friend stepping up to help her. "You've done it before, you can do it again."

Why isn't Scott helping Malia, though? He's the True Alpha. Shouldn't this be his responsibility?

The image fades out. Stiles's vision goes dark, and then bright white, before another picture appears on the water's mirrored surface.

He sees Scott talking to his dad. They both look angry, but Stiles can’t make out their words.

Stiles's magic must have used his frustration and disappointment with Scott as direction for the next vision.

Stiles looks at his dad, who seems… fine? A little angry with Scott, but otherwise good. Dad softens. He reaches over and takes a woman's hand. There, sitting beside his father on the sofa, Stiles sees… “Mom?”

He flings himself away from the image, the magic broken, and Peter catches him in his arms as he starts to shake. In fact, it’s only Peter’s arms that keep him from crumbling to the floor in a dead faint.

“Youngling?” Sharrat asks, worried.

Stiles shakes his head hard and leans back against Peter. “No. She. It can’t be!”

“You saw your mother?” Peter asks and looks at Sharrat as if she’ll provide clarification.

Stiles nods. “She… I don’t understand!”

“Take some deep breaths. Slowly,” Sharrat says. “There you go. You asked a question: what was it?”

Stiles shakes his head. "I didn't ask anything for that vision. I had one vision where I wanted to check in on Malia for Peter, but then I got upset with Scott, and a new thing popped up," Stiles blurts out all at once. "And she was there!"

"Do you want to try again?" Sharrat asks, frowning slightly—that’s her thinking face. Meanwhile, Peter is still holding Stiles upright and rubbing his hands up and down his arms, comforting him wordlessly.

Stiles can’t rely on Peter like this, not for long. He can’t get used to comfort because it never… no one ever sticks around long enough, or cares enough, to…

“It will be all right,” Peter murmurs, and it sounds good, but Stiles knows it can't be true, even if Peter believes it. Seeing that one flash of his 'mother' put it back into perspective.

Bond or not, anchor or not, the only person Stiles can count on is Stiles. So he pulls away and puts some distance between Peter and himself. He doesn’t look at him, either, because… well, if he does, he might be tempted to move back into his arms, and that’ll just hurt more in the long run, once Peter is gone again.

Sharrat moves over to the cauldron. “Hm.”

“What?” Stiles asks.

“I believe you saw a true vision. I just don't know how to interpret it."

"Then what do we do?" Stiles asks. The foreboding is back, but he needs to know what's going on.

"We could try again," Sharrat says, and through the bond, Stiles can feel just how much she hates that idea. "See what else we can learn by watching this… entity."

Stiles straightens. "Alright. I'll do it."

"Not what I meant," Sharrat says.

Peter reaches for him again, but Stiles steps away. "Darling, you're as pale as a ghost."

Maybe because I just saw one, Stiles thinks. He sighs. "Well, what did you mean, Sharrat?"

"Let me investigate this, youngling. I'll find out why you saw someone or something that looked like your mother. I'll figure out what she wants, and we'll go from there together."

Stiles glances at Peter. He wants nothing more than to collapse against him and let him hold his weight, just for a little while.

But he remembers, now. Seeing his parents again, real or not, reminds Stiles of the world outside the Inbetween, where disappointment and pain is the rule, not the occasional exception. How can he be happy with Sharrat and Peter, or rely on them? He couldn't even rely on his own parents to keep him safe or to give him a simple feeling of love. How can he expect that from people who have no reason to give it to him whatsoever?

He stumbles out of the tower without saying more. He feels Peter's presence nearby, but Stiles ignores him until Peter catches him from toppling down the stairs.

Is it irony, coincidence, or life just laughing cruelly at him?

When they get to the bottom of the staircase, Peter takes his wrist and tugs him into a nearby library. Stiles collapses into a chair, but Peter…

Peter falls to his knees in front of him, intensity shining in his eyes. "Tell me what I can do to make this better."

Stiles doesn't even want to know what his scent is telling Peter right now, let alone what's flowing through their bond.

"I'm fine. I'll be fine," Stiles says dully.

"She won't hurt you," Peter tells him, every word part of a vehement vow.

Stiles sucks in a breath.

"I will tear her limb from limb to keep you safe," Peter says. "She won't lay a hand on you."

What does Peter know? What does he suspect? There are secret truths Stiles can never utter, words he can't give up. But he can't hide his emotions from Peter, not anymore. He can't cover up his terror and heartache or the wounds left long ago that have never healed.

Stiles shakes his head. "Why do you even care?"

Peter doesn't answer, but when Stiles shifts forward, he gathers him up in his arms and lets him tremble with all the things he cannot say.

Chapter Text

Peter is frustrated beyond measure. Stiles was making so much progress before the vision of his 'mother' set him back. Peter was planning to come clean and tell him they were fated mates. Before Stiles's setback, it was looking good. Stiles's outlook grew more positive day by day. Peter and Sharrat watched as he bloomed under their care, but now…

Now Stiles is closed off again, and Peter wants to rend the one who caused it. Sharrat does too, though her approach has been more practical than Peter's impotent snarling once he's alone.

Sharrat did a bit of her own magic to find out what is going on and what they are up against. They haven't yet told Stiles what they discovered, but they will. Soon.

Stiles may not see it yet, but this woman or entity who's taken his mother's face is an enemy. A powerful one, able to magically slot back into the sheriff's life so seamlessly in the guise of his dead wife. Peter will have to be careful when he approaches her, and once he learns her weaknesses, he will destroy her. It's what he's good at, and what needs to be done. He will not forget the look on Stiles's face or the way he shook in Peter's arms, terrified and haunted by old trauma. If it's up to Peter, Stiles won't feel that way ever again.

After the scrying session, after Stiles allows Peter to give that small comfort in the library, Stiles locks himself away in the cramped study above their suites. He's never used it before, and Peter has a hard time finding him the first time Stiles hides there.

Peter goes to Sharrat when he can't locate Stiles, that first day. Sharrat tells him Stiles needs some time alone and then sends Peter into the woods to chase deer.

It is the last thing Peter wants, but once he submerges himself in the instincts of the hunt, he finds the chase exhilarating and the kill satisfying.

Sharrat doesn't laugh when he drags the buck to the castle, but she does make Peter dress, skin, and butcher the thing himself. Six or seven minutes after she left him outside, he's hard at work. He uses his claws with quick, expert movements. He hasn't had cause to do this in years, but it's like riding a bike. Sharrat returns with two big coolers and some butcher paper he can package the meat in once he gets to that step.

"May I have the hide?" Sharrat asks. "I had a deerskin blanket once, a long time ago. This won't make a whole blanket, but it might make a nice throw."

Peter makes a mental note of this tidbit of Sharrat's past. He'll tell Stiles about it later.

"All I want is the meat and organs," Peter says. "You can have everything else." He doesn't think she'll use much of it, since he's heard that in order to craft powerful items from dead animals, the caster must have made the kill themselves.

She surprises him, though. "I'll break down everything but the hide for compost. All the plants around here need more than just magic to thrive, after all."

"Has Stiles come out of hiding yet?" Peter asks.

"No. But I'll have him help me with the compost. Getting his hands in the dirt with the flowers and weeds will help ground him. Put his mind back into what's important."

Peter nods. He doesn't know if he agrees, but the light and fresh air should help if the dirt doesn't.

"After lunch, though, I'm going to start teaching Stiles to fight," she says. "I'm volunteering your services as his new sparring partner."

"We've been here for… over a year, sort of," Peter says slowly. "I'm not disagreeing with you; he needs to learn to defend himself, but why now?"

"Because he's going to want to go back, and we can't protect him every moment. The world is dangerous, and a Spark collects enemies. Beacon Hills will just magnify that danger."

Stiles is not ready to leave the Inbetween. Unfortunately, that’s only Peter’s opinion, and he doesn’t want Stiles to think he doesn’t have faith in him. The boy has had enough of that in his life. Sharrat doesn’t say if she thinks he’s ready or not, but Peter can read her now. She’s protective of Stiles, but she wants to ‘raise’ him to be independent and confident. So she won't tell him he can’t go back when he thinks he’s ready.

She will insist he learn to fight, though.

Peter nods, satisfied with her answers. She gathers up all the refuse from the buck and takes it with her. She takes it all when she leaves to wrangle Stiles into compost duty, whatever that might entail.

Peter gets the deer butchered and packed away in the most-used kitchen's cold box, then showers and gets dressed in something comfortable he won't mind ruining during a fight. The deep V of the shirt's collar drops even lower than usual, but that's a plus. Getting Stiles's eyes roving over his exposed chest in the middle of sparring can only be an advantage.

He has roast beef sandwiches waiting for Stiles and Sharrat when they wander in for lunch. Stiles is freshly showered, hair damp, but his nose and cheeks are delightfully pink from working under the sun. He looks delectable.

Peter must look a little too intensely, because Stiles flushes more and calls him a creep under his breath. Peter laughs and slides a plate of food to him.

"Don't eat too much," Sharrat warns. "You don't want to be sluggish when you're fighting."

Stiles's shoulders droop.

"I have magic, I don’t need to… ugh, c’mon,” Stiles whines. He turns toward Peter. “You’re a werewolf; I won’t have any chance against you.”

“But you’ll be able to fight a Ghost Rider?” Sharrat asks. “Or whoever is behind their appearance in Beacon Hills?”

“Ugh,” Stiles says again, but it sounds like agreement. “Fine.” He faces Peter. “You'll go easy on me at first, right?”

Peter grins, and keeps grinning until after they eat, and then adjourn back outside. Sharrat decides Stiles will learn to fight a little way into the forest, in a clearing. It reminds Peter of the Preserve back in Beacon Hills. Maybe that's why she chose it.

"Okay, square up. Let's just see what you've got, youngling," Sharrat says. "Peter, don't main him, all right?" She's joking, but Stiles groans loudly.

Peter's grin returns. It's extra toothy.

“Oh, no fair. You look like a serial killer like that,” the boy lies. “That’s psychological warfare!”

Peter lets his fangs lengthen just enough to show, and Stiles clenches his jaw, slightly flushed. He’s not intimidated, he’s attracted, and his scent is delicious. Maybe sparring with Stiles will have advantages beyond teaching Stiles to stay alive.

Also, it’s nice to know his boy accepts that side of him.

Their first lesson is mainly to get Stiles comfortable with the idea of fighting, to make sure he can fall without injuring himself, and to start poking him to use his magic along with his fists and feet.

Peter makes a feast with the venison for dinner, and his wolf preens when Stiles is appreciative. He seems impressed that Peter took the buck down himself and was responsible for every step from forest to table.

After they finish dessert and stand to leave, Stiles pauses and rubs his hand down Peter's arm in a blatant scenting gesture. He's hesitant with it, as if he's forgotten his welcome, but it's a victory. Maybe Stiles's setback wasn't as bad as Peter imagined.

Every day after that, there are fighting lessons in the afternoons.

It takes a lot to get Stiles up to snuff. Sharrat isn’t exactly a harsh taskmistress, but she does take her role seriously, and she wants Stiles ready for anything. So, beyond sparring hand-to-hand, she has him fighting seriously with magic.

Stiles is awkward with it at first. He knows basic self-defense when he begins, but the main objective with what he was taught as a young human was to get away as quickly as possible, not to fight and win against an opponent. Peter is pleased to find Stiles already knows some dirty tricks and can target vulnerable areas. Well, pleased in theory, but less pleased when it comes to having his balls nearly ripped from his body when Stiles demonstrates what he can do. (Sharrat offers Peter a magically enhanced safety cup after that. She might be joking about it at first, but Peter still takes her up on it.)

About three weeks in—or what passes for such in the Inbetween—Peter is having to up his game and really think cleverly to keep up with Stiles and his magic. It’s a good workout for him. Stiles is a quick learner, and he’s fluid and near-deadly when he’s not thinking too hard about what he’s doing. But he’s distracted easily and loses focus during a fight, which makes him fall back on his klutzy ways.

Sharrat isn’t frustrated, but she says Stiles should practice more before he thinks about heading back to Beacon Hills. She's done more magical investigating, and she's sure the Wild Hunt will soon be defeated. They may not even have to fight on their own, she says. The pack in Beacon Hills is doing an adequate job, and the man who initially summoned the Wild Hunt to recruit a Storm Rider army has… accidentally become an (unwilling) part of the Wild Hunt himself.

Peter laughs when she tells them that, but he understands what she's not saying: Peter and Stiles will be clear to return 'home' to Beacon Hills sooner than later.

“Don’t slack off on your training, though,” Sharrat warns. “It wouldn’t do to get rusty once you’re back in the 'hellmouth', as you call it.”

“I really ought to get you to watch Buffy sometime,” Stiles tells her, and Peter chuckles. Sharrat is much more of a reader than a television watcher.

She smiles. “That concludes fighting practice for the day. I think you both deserve a shower and something to eat. Go clean up, and I’ll get dinner ready.”

“I thought it was my turn to cook?” Peter asks.

“You can make it up to me tomorrow,” Sharrat says. “Cook that spicy spaghetti again?”

“Mm, yes, Peter,” Stiles agrees. “With the way you both feed me, I’m surprised I can still move, let alone fight.”

Sharrat hums. “You need the energy. You’re using a lot of magic lately.”

“I guess that’s why I’m always hungry,” Stiles says, wiping sweat from his temple and forehead with his sleeve.

“Hit the showers, boys,” Sharrat says in a mock-stern way.

Stiles salutes, and Peter smiles bemusedly. It’s not the first time Sharrat has called him a ‘boy’, though he supposes that to a centuries-old dragon, he is relatively young.

In the shower, Stiles gives up on not trying to think of the power and grace Peter shows when he’s sparring, or how his body feels against his when he comes in close to try to use Stiles’s slighter weight against him. The tactic doesn’t work as well now as it did in the beginning, now that Stiles has put on more muscle.

This isn’t the first time Stiles has jacked off to the thought of Peter. He’s lost his shame for it. Peter’s smart and gorgeous; why wouldn’t he get turned on by him? It’s a little embarrassing when he gets a boner in the middle of sparring, but Peter hasn’t called him on it yet. In fact, Peter’s pinned him a few times, and Stiles is sure he felt something big and hard between Peter’s legs, so at least Stiles knows it’s a normal thing to happen. ‘Course it never happened the few disastrous times Stiles tried sparring with Scott.

Ugh, don’t think of Scott. That’s gross. Back to Peter:

His hands grabbing Stiles's wrist before a magic-enhanced punch connects. His eyes glowing, or even just sparkling with good humor, even when they are human-blue. The twist of his lips when Stiles has made a bad joke and Peter is trying not to encourage him but still finds him funny.

The fangs.

Peter’s thick neck—Stiles wants to sink his teeth into it. It won’t leave a mark but… hmm. Maybe with magic.

Peter calling him ‘sweet boy’ in that damn voice of his. Yeah. Stiles’s mouth falls open, and he is thankful for Sharrat’s soundproofing, because he definitely shouts Peter’s name when he comes.

The shower washes away the evidence of ‘Stiles time’, but once Stiles is out and dry, standing in front of the mirror, he performs just a little more magic to make sure the scent of his cum is gone for good.

If he weren't facing the mirror he wouldn’t have seen it, but he did. He does.

His eyes flash like sunlight on snow. He isn’t startled, not exactly. He knew this was coming. He’s been using a lot of magic lately, and he hasn’t stopped learning more once he started feeling a change come over him. Not a physical change, not like his eyes glowing, but something different in him. His emotions have become… stronger. Deeper. He’s had to rely on his tie to Sharrat and, yes, Peter as his anchor, so he doesn’t get overly angry or homesick.

And something else. Something… like his soul is now oversized, too big for his body. Because, he knows, his body is meant to be something different, too.

He’s been slowly transforming into a dragon like Sharrat, and he’s done nothing to stop it. He’s not sure—no, that’s not right. He’s thought about it a lot, and he does know for sure that he doesn’t want to stop it. There’s something about the freedom Sharrat shows when she’s flying that he wants for himself, and he knows its within himself to make that happen.

And Sharrat and Peter both have been so supportive of his magic, even knowing what happens when a Spark leans deeper into it.

He walks closer to the mirror and looks at his eyes. They aren’t really glowing, not like a werewolf, but they’re light blue, almost white, with a dragon's slit pupil. He tries not to think of snakes. Not that snakes aren’t awesome, but because he’s not a snake. He’s… he’s turning into a dragon. Or maybe he is a dragon; he’s just becoming more of himself.

Stiles knows he could stop now. Stop delving into his magic and what he can do. He could put a cap on it right here and now, and that’d be it. No dragon.

But it feels so right.

He gets dressed and doesn’t bother with trying to shift his eyes back. He can see better like this anyway.

He heads down the hall and into the kitchen they use the most. Peter’s already there, freshly showered and looking like a snack. Sharrat lifts her head, and when their eyes meet, her own flash to blue with a slit pupil as well and she smiles beatifically.

“Youngling, your eyes are beautiful,” she says.

Peter turns then, and Stiles wants to duck away, but he doesn’t. He faces the werewolf head-on, showing his eyes.

Peter’s breath catches, and he walks closer, slowly, as if he’s afraid to spook Stiles.

“She’s right. You’re gorgeous, sweetheart,” Peter says.

Stiles flushes. He feels the truth in the statement like a warm caress. Peter really means it.

“You’ll need to decide now,” Sharrat says. “You can’t go any further into your magic without the transformation.”

“I’ve decided,” Stiles says, and takes a fortifying breath. He grins. “I’m gonna fly.”

Sharrat hugs him then. She’s not that demonstrative, so the hug is new. But she hugs like a mom. And Stiles hasn’t had that in a long time.

Once it’s over and they separate, Stiles looks at Peter. “I think this is a good omen. It shows how strong I am, you know? I’m ready to go back and face… whatever's waiting."

Sharrat opens her mouth but closes it again ruefully. “I’m just a call away. If you need me for anything…”

“Hey, I’ll call if I need something or not,” Stiles says. “You can’t get rid of me, now.”

Chapter Text

Thistle comes to see them off. Even a normal cat would know something is up with the way they're acting. Thistle twines through Stiles and Peter's legs, nearly toppling them on the way to the roof. Stiles is glad for Peter's werewolf reflexes when he trips and nearly takes a tumble right down the spiraling stone steps. That puts him right in Peter’s arms, and Stiles is held against him for a long moment before Peter makes sure he finds his feet again.

“Thanks for the catch,” Stiles says ruefully. “D’you think Thistle doesn’t want us to go yet?”

“He may just want to break our necks,” Peter says with a laugh.

Stiles leans down and scritches Thistle behind the ears and at his ruff. “I’ll miss you. But I’m sure I’ll be back. I still need to learn to transform fully and do all the fun dragon shit."

He doesn't mention what they might find in Beacon Hills. He doesn't need to. Peter is mildly obsessed with Stiles's safety, now. The bond has woken Stiles a few times in the night as Peter rolled it around in his mind instead of sleeping.

But now they're going. Sharrat held them back until the Wild Hunt was defeated and the spell broken. Peter and Stiles are no longer erased, though Sharrat's warned that the people who forgot them might take a little time to piece their memories together again.

Sharrat packs them both some lunch as if they are headed out for their first day of school.

Peter doesn’t seem to mind. He's said Stiles has blossomed under the fussing Sharrat sends his way, and so Peter accepts it. Stiles accepts it, too, because it's not over the top, and Sharrat has never outright said anything to make Stiles uncomfortable about the mothering. It's funny when it spills over to Peter, though.

"As long as she doesn’t start calling me 'youngling'," Peter says lowly.

They step through the portal from the Inbetween with Stiles still laughing. Sharrat has excellent control of her portals, too, because they walk right into the living area of Peter's penthouse.

Stiles hasn't started making portals yet. It's apparently beyond his current abilities. Not power-wise, though, because Sharrat says he's more powerful than any Spark she's ever met, including herself. But he has to learn the skill to use all that power before he can do things like bend time and space. And that means more homework. Boo.

Peter lets out a soft sigh of relief, and Stiles realizes he hasn't seen the place since before he was sent to Eichen House.

"See, I didn't wreck it while you were gone!" Stiles says. "And it's only a little dusty now, we can fix this up, no problem."

"I'll call someone in, darling," Peter says.

Stiles snorts. It must be nice being rich.

The couch isn't too dusty, so Stiles plops down on it like he has on so many other days. "Maybe we can get some groceries, too." Then he remembers…

He doesn't live with Peter.

He's been around Peter almost nonstop for what feels like well over a year. Seventeen or eighteen months, at least. They've cooked their meals together and they've eaten together, they've played games together regularly in their free time. They sparred and worked on magical problems and lessons together. They've read in comfortable silence in the libraries. They've gone swimming together in the pools and springs, gone for long walks together in the gardens and the outskirts of the forests. They've lazed in the sun together while magical insects buzzed around them.

Stiles swallows back a sudden lump because he's suddenly very aware that all of that companionship and care is now gone. Stiles has to finish high school and live with his dad, which is practically like living alone.

Peter turns sharply to face him. Maybe he feels Stiles's emotions through their bond, or maybe he smells the scent of the salty tears on Stiles's face. "What's the matter, sweetheart?"

Stiles shakes his head, denying reality. Peter's become everything to him. And now…

"I don't want to leave," he manages to say.

Peter does something he's so rarely done and pulls Stiles into his arms. It feels impossibly good, and Peter smells like Sharrat's sandalwood body wash and old libraries and home. Stiles breathes him in deeply and holds on for dear life.

"Oh, darling," Peter says, hugging tightly and gently shaking Stiles to emphasize the words he says next. "You can stay. You don't have to go anywhere you don't want to."

What a beautiful sentiment, but it's not true. His doubt gets tangled up in all his sadness and longing, but Peter can feel that, too.

"Listen to me. I don't lie to you, remember?" Peter reminds him. "You'll get nothing but truth from me. I don't want you to leave, either."

It sounds too good to be true. But it has to be true. Peter is oath-bound to always be truthful with Stiles. He can't be lying. He really doesn't want Stiles to go.

But Stiles still… he's not brave or strong enough to listen. Not yet. Not before he sees his dad and tries to work something out there. Maybe his dad will understand, but probably not. And Dad is still unwittingly playing house with an entity whose entire existence is a lie. Stiles needs to do something about that, too.

Stiles pulls back, reluctant and unsure of his decision. He can't just think about what he wants. There are other people he has to consider. He's been told all his life, directly and indirectly, that he's not important enough, or he's too much to take. Peter can't really have thought this through for himself, right? If he had, he wouldn't be telling Stiles to stay.

Peter interrupts the spiral he knows Stiles is caught in. "We should take care of the basics first. I need to get a car out of the parking garage, and then head to the vault for a phone and credit cards. Once I have that, everything else will fall right into place. Someone can come in and clean, and someone else can grab our groceries. Are you hungry?"

Stiles shakes his head, but at least he's less upset.

"Come to the vault with me, then. We'll take everything step by step." Stiles is out of sorts, but he just needs a little direction. Thankfully, Peter knows how to do that.

In the garage, Peter eyes his cars. They haven't been cared for or driven in some time, but he has no problem starting the Lexus, so thankfully, the battery isn't run down. He makes a mental note to get his cars serviced as soon as it's feasible. For now, though, this will do.

He drives through town and Stiles starts to tense when he realizes where they have to go. Peter glances over at him. "It's Sunday, darling. No one will be at the high school."

Stiles exhales slowly and shoots Peter a wry smile. "Thanks."

Once there, they park in a hidden corner of the lot, partially obscured from the street by a tree. No one will notice, but if they do, they won't think much of it. Walking to the vault entrance, Peter asks Stiles if he can ward automobiles.

Stiles has apparently given this a lot of thought, and he already has ideas on how to ward and charm his Jeep. He only pauses his explanations in order for Peter to show him the mechanism that opens the vault.

"You're not a Hale by blood, but I doubt that would stop you from finding your way inside if you were determined to do so," Peter says fondly.

"You don't mind?" Stiles asks.

"I trust you," Peter says, walking down the second row of shelves and heading straight for his personal lock box.

Stiles doesn't say anything for a moment, and it's not until Peter feels Stiles's baffled pleasure through their bond that he realizes what he just said. It's true, of course, but Peter isn't used to 1. Trusting anyone or 2. Admitting it.

Peter takes out a phone, some cash, a credit card, and a prepaid debit card he already loaded with enough money to hold him over. He can handle his bank at a later date; for now, he has enough. He closes his lock box again, but then pauses. Something is missing from the shelf. There's a dusty outline of a book there, and Peter immediately knows why.

"What is it?" Stiles asks, coming closer. "Did you get everything?"

"Everything was where I left it," Peter says.

"What's this?" Stiles asks, bending to pick a scrap of paper off the floor. He reads what's on it and then hands it to Peter. "What's that mean?"

Peter smiles. He's not sure what he's feeling right now. "It means Derek didn't steal my little copy of Candide, he merely borrowed it."

Stiles frowns. "Why?"

"Because us Hales are complicated," Peter says blithely. "Okay, I've got what we came for. Do you see anything you want?"

Stiles's eyes grow large. "I don't know? It'd take ages to go through here. And I don't want to just take something from your family's vault."

"We'll come back again when we have more time for you to snoop and browse."

"Really?" Stiles asks.

"Really," Peter says, steering Stiles out of the vault and walking side by side with him to the car. "You didn't finish telling me about your Jeep wards. Can you do the same to my cars?"

Stiles snorts and starts to talk while Peter allows himself to be distracted.

Later, though, he might let himself remember teaching a fifteen-year-old Derek to read in French. Of watching his nephew work out the language in his old 1930 printing of Candide. Derek later took the book from Peter, once he wanted to reread it. It was in Derek's backpack the night of the fire, saved by happenstance. Derek later gave it back to Peter, and Peter put it in the vault.

And now Derek has retaken it, leaving only a brief note in its place.

Come find me when you want it back.

Chapter Text

"Are you sure you're ready?" Peter asks. "We don't have to do this right away." They are at the front door of the Stilinski home, and Stiles's hands are twitching.

But he nods. They've talked about this. While part of Stiles wants to leave it alone and let his dad be happy, he does know it's wrong for this… entity to pretend to be his dead mother. She—or it, or whatever they might be—is taking advantage of his dad and dishonoring Claudia Stilinski's memory.

Stiles already has a complicated relationship with that memory; he and his father don't need this on top of that history.

"I'm here with you," Peter says, as if Stiles needs the reminder. He doesn't. Peter's his—for lack of a better word—anchor. The only way he'll get through confronting 'Claudia' at all is to lean into that.

The door is unlocked, and they slip inside quietly. Stiles isn't sure when his house stopped feeling like home, but it's just plain odd now, leading to a sort of anxious nostalgia that has him trembling and looking to Peter for reassurance.

Peter looks back at him steadily and sends him calm and comfort through their bond. Stiles nods, more to himself than Peter, and then he walks on through the house.

He hears them before he sees them. His dad and 'Claudia' are in the kitchen, and his mother's laugh is replicated flawlessly. It sounds just like Stiles remembers, and that makes his heart clench with grief and rage. How dare this being take advantage of his father like this?

Stiles stares 'Claudia' down. "You need to leave."

She startles when he speaks and quickly moves behind his father. Looking for protection or using him as a shield? It's infuriating. Stiles has to rely on his bonds to keep from screaming at her.

His father, on the other hand, has honed in on Peter. "What are you doing here? Get out of my house."

Stiles tries not to focus on the fact he's been missing, erased for months, and his father is only concerned with getting Peter to leave.

"Dad," Stiles starts to say, but then falters. He didn't know how he thought this would go, but not like this, anyway. He swallows hard when his father looks at him in confusion. "It's me. Do you remember me? The Wild Hunt's moved on, and I'm back where I belong, now. You should… Don't you…"

And then something happens. Stiles can sense magic, but isn't sure where it's coming from or what it is. Residual magic from the Hunt, maybe? He hasn't trained enough on recognizing types of magic or how to stop it when it's happening. He only knows something weird is going on, and then 'Claudia' steps forward.

"He's been better without you here," she says. "He's been happy with me."

"Stiles," Peter murmurs, but he's easily ignored. Whatever he has to say can wait.

"You aren't my mom," Stiles says. She takes a step forward, and he takes one back instinctively, an old jolt in the back of his mind, in his memory, telling him she's dangerous like this.

Meanwhile, his dad has moved back and is leaning against the counter. His expression is vague, a little confused.

"What'd you do to him?" Stiles asks. He means to demand answers, but his voice comes out much weaker than he'd like.

"He doesn't need to interrupt this," 'Claudia' says. In her hand is one of the kitchen knives. One with a purple handle, like the set they had Before. (Mom picked them out, said she didn't want some boring black-handled knives like everyone else had. Purple was her favorite color.)

"Stiles," Peter says warningly. He must feel Stiles's panic coming through their bond.

"I don't want to leave," she says. "I'm happy here, in this life. I'm loved."

"You're only here because I was gone." Stiles swallows hard. "You… you replaced me somehow, but I'm back and now… Just leave."

"No," she says, and moves too fast to be human.

Stiles, who's been using magic with self-defense for a long time in the Inbetween, can move before she stabs him in his heart. The kitchen knife's blade slices into his bicep, but he doesn't feel it.

He's moving away from her and this is Mom, he doesn't want to hurt her, but she wants him dead, thinks he's a monster, and it's not her, just like it wasn't ever her when she tried when she was sick, it was the illness before, just like Dad said, but deep down she loved him, he loves her, he can't…

Peter roars when the scent of Stiles's blood hits the air, and Stiles is relieved he doesn't have to face this alone. Peter will keep him safe from her.

Dad shouts, Mom lunges again, and this time Peter grabs her. She's fast, but not werewolf-fast.

Peter snaps her neck, and she goes down, crumpling to the floor.

"No!" Dad exclaims, whatever magic holding him in complacency now lifted. A loud shot goes off, and Peter grunts. Dad is holding a gun and staring down at Mom… 'Claudia'… on the floor.

Stiles is well and truly re-traumatized. His mother once again tried to kill him as his father stood by and let her, magic or not. And now his anchor has been hurt, and Stiles has no way of knowing if there were wolfsbane bullets in the gun. He snarls at his Dad, vision going icy blue.

"Stiles?" his dad says, but now he's pointing the gun at him. "Your eyes."

"I'm fine," Stiles lies. He's got tears icing up on his cheeks, and it's hard to see, but he doesn't miss it when the body on the floor—the thing pretending to be his mother—turns to shimmering dust.

"Put the fucking gun away," Peter says through gritted teeth.

Stiles goes to him then, looking for the gunshot wound. Dad shot Peter in the chest, right to his heart. If he were human, or if the bullet wasn't mundane, Peter would be dead. Stiles pushes Peter's shirt away from the now-healed skin and lets out a breath of relief. He lets his head fall down to Peter's shoulder for just a moment, and Peter runs a hand down his back.

His father is watching when Stiles looks up again.

"I think I told you to leave, Hale."

Peter's eyes are glowing. "If you think I'm leaving Stiles like this, after what just happened, you're delusional."

"I'm fine," Stiles murmurs, still trembling against Peter.

His father turns to the cabinet over the fridge and takes out a mostly full bottle of bourbon. Stiles wonders idly if he drank at all while Stiles was gone. Probably not. Why would he? He had his loving, wonderful wife and no disaster of a son to make everything in his life more difficult.

"You're not fine," Peter says gently.

Stiles tries to laugh, but it comes out sounding like a sob.

His father takes a drink and says, "Maybe it'd be better if you went with him."

"Dad," Stiles says, but doesn't know what to follow that up with.

"Do you think I want to look at you when the two of you just came in here and murdered… she's…" He takes another drink and shakes his head. "Just go."

Stiles isn't sure which of his emotions to express right now. He's angry, so angry, and still scared, still a little boy being chased by a mother who wants to kill him. He's relieved, and he's worried, and heartbroken, and whoever said dragons had no emotions or were cold-blooded was full of shit. Because he feels too much—he's only just started evolving into something new, and his emotions are oversized; how will he be able to handle it when he's fully dragon?

But he does as Sharrat taught him and falls back on his bonds to steady himself.

He breathes through it when Peter checks the scratch on his arm, which has already stopped bleeding. He submerges himself in Peter and Sharrat's hold on him, lets them carry him along so he doesn't break down.

Once he's sure he's under control, he pulls Peter from the house, leaving his father behind to make sense of his life in a bottle.

Everything is back to normal, right? Yeah.

Peter does not want to leave Stiles alone, but Stiles wants to go talk to Scott.

"Can you wait a little while so you can calm down a little? I can go with you," Peter offers.

Stiles shakes his head. "I'll let you drive me there, but then you should head home."

"Okay. After you give yourself some time, alright?" Peter thinks it will take more convincing than that, but Stiles nods, showing just how out of sorts he is.

They walk to a nearby park. It's dark, and no one is there. The park probably isn't open, even, but it doesn't matter to them.

Stiles sits on a swing. Peter doesn't take the one beside him, but he leans against the frame of the swing-set and watches him.

"I don't need to talk about it," Stiles says, as if Peter was going to make him.

"Not unless you want," Peter says. "Believe me, I know trauma."

Stiles looks up at him. His hands are tight around the chains of the swing. "Guess you can just feel how fucked up I am, though."

Peter can, which is why he's not going to push.

"So, change of subject. What did my eyes look like when they changed?"

"Ice blue with slit pupils. Beautiful."

"I'm sure my dad will freak out about that, too, now."

"Maybe Sharrat can go with you to see him once you're feeling better. Explain it to him."

Stiles shrugs. "Maybe." His heart skips, though—he's not planning to bring Sharrat to any talks.

Stiles takes one deep breath and then another, trying to blow out his residual fear and anxiety. Peter can see it's helping, at least a little. Stiles is still fragile right now, though, and Peter hates that his boy is still going to want to talk to McCall.

"You can always come back to my apartment, and I can order in some Chinese."

"Dumplings sound amazing, to be honest," Stiles says with a little smile. But then he shakes his head. "No, I gotta see Scott. He's got to be wondering why I haven't shown up yet."

Scott McCall is too far up his own ass, in Peter's experience, to care that much about his 'best friend'—missing for months or not.

Stiles gives a rueful glance, feeling whatever doubt Peter has on the subject. "I have to." Then, more teasingly, "Stop looming over me like that, sit down and swing with me."

Peter gives him his most dubious look, and Stiles cracks up.

"C'mon, live a little," Stiles says.

And if he can make Stiles laugh like that, smile like that, it's worth it to be less dignified. He sits on the swing next to Stiles.

"No werewolf strength. No acrobatics. Just plain ole fun swinging. Okay?" Stiles says and starts to swing, pumping his legs.

Peter, because he loves his boy, does as directed and follows suit.

Later, when Stiles is sufficiently relaxed, Peter drives Stiles over to McCall's house. Stiles gets out and leans in to speak to Peter.

"Just leave now, okay? Go home. I'll catch up with you soon."

Peter doesn't like the murky imprecision of 'soon', and says as much.

"Tomorrow," Stiles promises. "After I wake up, okay?"

"Where will you be sleeping?" Peter asks before he can stop himself, his wolf whining at the thought of their mate in an unsafe den away from Peter.

Stiles shrugs. "I'll stay with Scott, I guess."

Peter hates that. But he nods, knowing Stiles can feel how disagreeable the situation is. "You know you can always come to me."

"I didn't use to know that. But… yeah. Thanks." Warm affection zings across their bond, and it belongs to them both.

They're making good progress. Maybe soon Peter can tell Stiles the truth: that he's his True Mate. He hopes it's not too late, that Stiles won't see not telling him sooner as a betrayal.

Chapter Text

Peter drops Stiles off in front of Scott's house. It's obvious that Peter doesn't want to leave Stiles there, but eventually, he rolls his eyes and drives off so Stiles can get on with this.

There's no reason for this talk to go wrong, but after the disaster with Dad, Stiles isn't feeling overly confident.

There was a time—before the Wild Hunt, but hell, before a lot of other stuff—when Stiles would have just let himself into the McCall house with his own key. Now, having been away, having been erased, that doesn't feel right. So he uses the doorbell.

Scott answers the phone with a smile, but Stiles knows all of Scott's smiles, and this one is strained. "Hey, man. Come in. Was hoping you'd stop by."

"You were?" Stiles asks.

Scott gives him an awkward hug. "Sure, yeah! As soon as I remembered you, when your dad called, of course I was." Stiles pulls out of the hug as soon as it feels less rude and more natural. It feels weird. He doesn't have a bond with Scott, and he… it feels weird, like the dragon inside him doesn't like Scott.

"Dad called? Tonight?" Stiles asks, ignoring the twinge he gets from learning Scott needed to be reminded of his existence. He shouldn't judge him though; the Wild Hunt's magic was weird and strong. His dragon side doesn't care about any of this and would rather be with Peter or Sharrat. Makes sense, given that they're his two bonds.

He doubts he'll ever have a bond with Scott now that he's in his friend's presence. It doesn't feel right. They never had a pack bond, did they? So why should Scott be one of his dragon bonds?

Scott sits down on the couch and motions for Stiles to sit, too. "He was worried about you."

"Really?" Stiles asks, hoping that means his dad is less angry with him now.

"He said your eyes did something weird," Scott says, oddly intense. "Did you get Bitten? Or are you possessed again?"

Stiles rears away. He isn't ready to talk about this. "Uh, neither." He gets up from the couch and so does Scott. So much for a comfortable conversation.

"Tell me what's going on," Scott says. "Your dad said your eyes were like… a snake's. Slit pupils."

"Yeah," Stiles says, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's part of my magic."

"What magic?" Scott asks, looking concerned.

"My spark?" Stiles says. "I'm a Spark. I've been getting magic lessons by someone."

"Who? How do you know you can trust them?" Scott asks. He shakes his head. "I don't like this."

Stiles doesn't like how that sounds. "What do you mean? Why does it matter if you like it or not? It's my magic. My training."

"Magic doesn't turn people's eyes into a snake's!" Scott says. He's clearly upset now, and Stiles still doesn't get it.

"Not a snake," Stiles says. "And it does for Sparks."

"How do you know? Just because someone told you?" Scott says with a sneer.

Stiles suddenly feels very protective of Sharrat. "Actually, I read about it in some old books."

"When? Why didn't you tell me about it before?"

"Because I was erased?" Stiles says, throwing his hands in the air.

"I think you should talk to Deaton about this. Something doesn't sound right."

"You haven't heard anything, what do you mean… ugh, fuck it. Scott, let it go. It's got nothing to do with you."

"I'm the alpha here, I can't have someone with unknown magic and a weird transformation we don't understand living here."

"Who's 'we'? Just because you don't understand doesn't mean I don't. I've got it under control. Nobody's in danger or anything."

Scott gives him a hard stare that goes uneasy when Stiles won't back off or look away. "I'll let Dr. Deaton be the judge of that."

"What the fuck, Scott?" Stiles asks, then tries to lighten his words. "Seriously, dude, you've got my ghasts flabbered to all hell. Dr. Deaton doesn't have anything to do with me or my magic. I doubt he even knows much about Sparks to begin with." Not to mention the little 'druids hate Sparks' tidbit he remembers from his reading.

But Scott is shaking his head. "You should go back to your dad. But only if you're not going to hurt him anymore. He… he told me what you and Peter did. Why was Peter with you?"

"Moral support," Stiles says in a dead voice.

"Peter doesn't have morals, Stiles!"

"You know nothing about anything, not me or Peter or my magic. Stop trying to act like you're the boss of me. You're not, and you never have been."

"I'm the alpha!" Scott snarls. "It's up to me to make sure this town is safe, and it's not safe if you're turning into a snake or something. Maybe you're a kanima, like Jackson. Are you losing time?"

"No, I'm not a fucking kanima. I'm something else, and it's completely normal being what I am."

"And what is that?"

Stiles pauses and lets himself breathe. Think. He focuses on his bonds to keep him level. "None of your business."

Scott has the nerve to look hurt. "I'm your best friend, too. Not just the alpha. You can tell me anything."

Stiles's instincts are screaming at him to leave, now. "No, I don't think I can."

"Stiles!" Scott says and tries to grab him. A short tussle breaks out, and Stiles, having learned to defend himself with his body and with magic, can break away easily.

"I'm out," Stiles says, clinging to his bonds. He's so angry. Part of him wants to knock Scott's head against the wall. Maybe through the wall.

"Stiles!" Scott says again, but he doesn't take off after Stiles, or maybe Stiles's magic is hiding him as he runs away.

Running away sounds cowardly, and he's not that. He doesn't think. He just wants to keep from hurting Scott right now, and the only way to do that is to get away from him.

But he can't go home. He's not going back to his father, not until… Well, not now, anyway. But that means he has to walk somewhere, and it's starting to rain. He hears thunder to the west, too, and it doesn't take long for lightning to light up the sky.

He's too scared of another interaction with his dad to get his Jeep, but then again, he's not sure if it's in the garage or not. Last he remembers, he left it at the school when the Ghost Riders caught him. He shivers at the memory.

But that means he's hoofing it all the way across town, in a thunderstorm, to get to Peter's door. Wow, he wishes he had a phone. He can't even get an Uber.

He thinks as he trudges through the rain. Does he know any magic that would help him? Anything to make the trip shorter, or drier? No. Nope. Not at all.

He sees a bike in a yard he passes and wonders if he should steal it. It would get him across town a lot faster. He has no problem with the theft itself—he'll bring it back, and it'll teach a kid to take better care of their things—but it's metal, and he's got a slight terror of getting hit by lightning. Sure, the tires are rubber, but…

Nope, not taking a chance, as irrational as his fear may be.

He should run. He'll get there faster, anyway, and he needs to keep up his fitness. His feet begin to slap on the wet pavement as he goes, and he starts to make better time.

Damn Peter for getting a place so far away. But it's nice to have a place to go. That is, if Peter doesn't take one look at him and his drowned rat aesthetic and laugh outright. He doesn't think Peter will bar the door, though.

No, Peter will let him in. Stiles can't guess what else he'll do. Laugh for sure, but he doubts the 'wolf will be very mean about it. He's been different since the Hunt took them. In the Inbetween, Peter was a friend. Someone he could rely on. Stiles didn't trust it at first, but it's hard to deny Peter's feelings when he can literally feel him through their bond. His genuine affection never seemed faked, even before he took an oath not to lie to Stiles.

And Stiles's affection for Peter is far from a lie. So far, the 'affection' is clearly leaning toward other, scarier descriptions. There's no choice at all now. Stiles could have headed to any other place in the world. He's still friends with Lydia, and her house was closer, so it's not like he doesn't have another place to go to.

But there's nowhere else he wants to go.

No one else he wants to be around right now.

So when he knocks on Peter's door a little after midnight, soaked to the skin, shivering through to his bones, he feels nothing but relief when Peter opens the door to him.

Peter's been worried about Stiles's mental and emotional well-being the entire night. It's not something he's used to feeling. He is not the sort to care about other people's interior lives unless and until it begins to impact his own.

He figured his boy would stay with the True Alpha to sleep and eat, and (hopefully) then catch back up with Peter the next day. He stayed awake for some time in bed reading, dozing fitfully after a while, mostly keeping his attention trained on his bond with Stiles to make sure the boy wasn't in danger again.

Seeing the creature with the face of Claudia Stilinski lunge at Stiles with a knife had sent Peter's wolf into a rage. It took a true mastery of his emotions to kill her cleanly with a twisted neck so that Stiles wouldn't be as traumatized, even when his wolf bayed for blood. His claws and fangs thirsted for her blood, but he resisted. Quite admirably.

And after, it took all of Peter's control to let him off at the McCall house and then not wait around like a stalker to make sure Stiles wasn't in any kind of danger again. Frankly, Peter's wolf is put out. He will not ignore a single instinct he has now that Stiles is close again, not unless said instinct would undeniably hurt Stiles.

So when Stiles knocks on his door, past midnight, in the middle of a storm, looking as if he were dragged through a cold lake by the scruff? Peter can't help himself.

"Get in here," he says, barely giving himself time to lock the door behind them. Now Stiles is safe in Peter's den, right where he belongs. And Peter is taking care of him now, the way he's wanted to all night.

With the gentlest manhandling he can muster, he pushes Stiles through the bedroom into the en suite bath, peeling the wet hoodie from him as efficiently as he can.

He turns on the water in the shower and makes sure it's at a good, steaming temperature. Hot enough to warm Stiles up, but not so hot that it will burn his sensitive human skin. Stiles doesn't say much, just lets Peter fuss.

Until Peter tries to remove his wet jeans and boxers.

"Whoa, wait, I can do that," Stiles insists. "You. You find me something to wear? Something comfy? Wait, do you own comfy clothes?"

Peter leans in and kisses Stiles's forehead. "Yes. Of course I do." Silly boy.

Stiles stills when Peter kisses him, his eyes closing. But then a shiver hits him, and Peter runs his hands down his chilled arms.

"Get undressed, get warmed up in the shower. I'll bring something in for you."

Stiles opens his eyes again, and he looks so… perfect. So Stiles. Open and utterly himself, a little vulnerable, a lot grateful. Peter is tempted to kiss him again, for real this time, but his wolf is insisting he get his mate warm and dry. First.

Peter says nothing else, just nods to himself, and then goes to find something soft and warm for Stiles to wear.

He finds sweats and a t-shirt easily enough. There are some thick socks in one of his drawers, and he discovers a soft hoodie in the rear of his closet. Perfect. He guesses Stiles won't mind going without a pair of briefs.

He delivers the clothes without a word; Stiles is showering still, and the room smells of Peter's favorite body wash. Then Peter heads to the kitchen to heat up something he has saved in the freezer. He thanks his past self for saving a bit of homemade venison stew for 'later'. It's not the same as presenting a fresh kill, but it does appease the wolf.

By the time it's ready, Peter is starting to worry that Stiles has passed out in the shower, but then he comes into the kitchen, sniffing the air.

"What smells so good?" Stiles asks, completely oblivious to the fact that the answer is Stiles himself.

(Well, Peter thinks so anyway.)

"Stew," Peter says. "I know you haven't eaten."

"Thanks," Stiles says. He scoots up into the high stool at the counter, and Peter presents a bowl of stew as if he's done it a million times. Their eyes meet, and Stiles gives him a shyer smile than Peter is used to getting from him.

Then Stiles tucks in. He moans in pleasure at the first spoonful, and Peter clasps his hands behind his back so he doesn't do something embarrassing like grab the boy.

"What's in this? The meat, I mean."

"Venison," Peter says.

Stiles cocks his head. "Did you hunt it yourself, like last time?"

"It's from the same buck, actually. Sharrat sent it here."

Stiles gives him a soft smile. "It's delicious." Then he goes back to eating with gusto.

"Thank you, sweetheart." Peter grabs a towel and wipes off the already clean counter, needing something to do with his hands. He's not a fidgety person, but maybe Stiles is rubbing off on him.

Stiles finishes the bowl and lets his spoon clatter down. "Wow. That was great, and now I'm so tired I can barely keep my eyes open. You might have to walk me to the couch," he jokes.

"You're not sleeping on the couch," Peter argues immediately.

"Peter…"

"No, darling, you'll take the bed."

"Are you sure?"

Peter leers. "As if I want you anywhere other than my bed."

Instead of laughing it off like he often does, Stiles flushes pink. "You gonna join me, then?"

"If that's what you want," Peter says faintly. He's shocked, but he's sure Stiles only wants companionship.

"Good," Stiles says. He bites his lip. "I don't want to be alone, actually, not after everything that's happened. No hanky-panky. I just need the company. Okay?"

Peter comes around the counter and pulls Stiles from his seat. "Darling, I promise I'll never do anything more than you want."

"I think… I think maybe one day I really might want. I do want. I mean, I just. Not tonight."

Peter sucks in a breath. "What are you saying, Stiles?"

His boy's eyes are large, liquid, and guileless. Stiles is shit-scared but brave anyway, just like he's always been. "If you want me, you have me, Peter. But I swear to fuck if you just want to hurt me, I'll hurt you right back in a way you won't be coming back from."

"Stiles," Peter says, breathless with the implications.

"I mean it. I'll find every single poison strain of wolfsbane and make you eat it along with your still-beating heart," Stiles's voice shakes, but his heart is steady.

Peter smiles in wonder at his boy. His boy in every way soon, if he gets his heart's desire. "I don't doubt it for a moment, and that's just one of the things I adore about you."

"I think… I think I… No, we shouldn't talk about it right now. Later. Much later. Tonight I just want to cuddle, if… if you think that's okay?"

"Right now, I want nothing more than to hold you safe in my arms as you get your much-needed sleep, sweetheart."

"Okay."

"All right. Go ahead and get in bed. I'm going to the bathroom, and I'll join you as soon as I'm able."

"Don't take too long," Stiles says. "I don't want to fall asleep without you."

Chapter Text

Stiles is already drifting off when Peter slips into the bed. Peter then manhandles Stiles until he has him wrapped close against his chest.

"Not gonna always be the little spoon," Stiles mumbles, but he can't deny it feels good. Safe. His eyes open wide, though, when Peter kisses his nape.

"Of course not, dear," he says.

"That sounds a little patronizing," Stiles points out. But Peter's arm is firm around him, his hand splayed on Stiles's chest as if Peter needs to do more than hear his heartbeat; he has to feel it as well.

Well. It's kinda romantic? Hell, it's a lot romantic. If Stiles weren't so exhausted, he might turn in his 'wolf's arms and show Peter how much he likes that.

But he is exhausted, and his eyelids are heavy again, as if weights are dragging them closed.

"Sleep, sweetheart," Peter says, and Stiles only barely catches the words before he's obeying without conscious consent.

At first, he doesn't dream. He's somewhat aware of the safety of Peter's arms around him, and that keeps him from going over what happened. But, eventually, his mind does have to process the situation, the confrontation he had with his 'mother' and father.

But it starts innocently. He's a young boy again, playing in the woods. His mom and dad are nearby, talking quietly. And then his dad has to leave for work, leaving Stiles and Mom alone.

This time, though, unlike other times he's been alone with Mom, it's not a special time to bond or learn new words or facts. This time, his mother turns to him, and the look in her eyes is… distant. At first, she looks confused when he asks her what's wrong. But that's when it started.

Memories start falling, collapsing in on each other, and then Stiles is confused and vulnerable, and he has bruises. He has a growing fear that his mother might not love him anymore, might not even see him as her son. He tries to tell his dad that something is wrong, but…

"You have such an imagination. Your mom's fine," his father says, time and again. Almost always the same answers. Even going so far as, "Stop making up stories!"

Then, much later, "She's sick. Be quieter around her, okay, kiddo?" As if it's something Stiles did, something he said.

He knows, in his dream, that there's something inside him that is keeping him alive. Magic, now he can name it, but then it was just luck. Not even, because he didn't realize how 'lucky' he was that he did not drown when she held him under water in the tub, or that he didn't hit his head or neck when she tripped him down the stairs.

Or the time she held a knife to his belly, eyes angry, manic—

"No, Mom, no!" Stiles says as he struggles to get away from her. He needs to run away, the way he ran that day, but his feet feel trapped, and he can't get the ground under his feet.

"Shh, you're dreaming, sweetheart," a voice tells him. "Wake up. Stiles. Stiles, wake up, darling."

He opens his wet eyes, staring uncomprehendingly at Peter in the soft light of the bedside lamp. His breath hitches as he takes in the room, the situation.

He's safe. He collapses against Peter's chest and cries as silently as he can. Peter pulls him closer until he's curled up on the man's lap. Peter hums and makes a noise that's a cross between a growl and a purr. It's soothing, whatever it is, and Stiles relaxes against Peter even more.

"You're safe. I'm so sorry," Peter says, keeps saying.

"Why?" Stiles asks when he can speak the word.

Peter rocks him gently. "She may not have been your mother, but I killed her in front of you. I should have known that would affect you. I did. I tried…" He tried to make it as bloodless as possible, but she was a threat. Stiles knows this.

"God, don't apologize," Stiles says, holding on to him now and not daring to look yet. "I should thank you."

"Thank me?" Peter asks.

"You saved me." He always had to save himself from his mother before. It was always his magic or his quick feet saving him from her madness. He lets out a soft sob at the memory.

"Shh, darling. My sweet boy. I will always save you. I'll do everything I can always to be there if you need me."

"Things like that happen when there's no one else around," Stiles whispers.

Peter doesn't pressure him to explain, just holds him tighter.

But Stiles does want to explain. He wants to share this part of his past with Peter. Wants to tell him the things he's never told anyone else, not even Scott.

"The only reason she never killed me is that my magic wouldn't let her," he confesses quietly.

Peter lets out a soft growl. "She tried to kill you? How many times?"

A humorless laugh is Stiles's first answer to that. Then, the bald truth: "I stopped counting after the first concussion. The head injury made it hard to keep track."

"Your father…"

"She had excuses, and he always believed her. Never me. Not until the end, when she had to be hospitalized because she got hurt chasing me into the road." Stiles remembers the terror he'd had that day, felt her right behind him. He doesn't know, even now, if it was his 'luck' that brought the car around the bend in the road that day, the car that very nearly didn't stop in time. It bumped into her, broke her left tibia, but even the pain of a broken bone couldn't stop her from raving that she was chasing the 'demon' who stole her son's face.

Funny—ironic?—that she came back and tried to kill him again, a demon with his mother's face.

He is pulled out of his thoughts with a gentle kiss to his temple. "I promise I'll always believe you," Peter says in a quiet vow.

Stiles shakes with the aftereffects of his dream. Of all that negativity being dragged back up. He trembles in Peter's arms, but Peter doesn't let go of him.

And Stiles realizes, once and for all, that he never wants Peter to let go. He's in love with Peter. And that…

Fuck, that's terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

Peter holds him and strokes his back. "Do you want to talk about whatever it is that has your heart speeding up like that?"

Stiles pulls back so he can look into Peter's clear blue eyes. He looks… soft, his expression open in a way it only is with Stiles. Even with Sharrat, he's held part of himself back. Even, he suspects, with Malia.

"Do you love me?" Stiles asks him. May as well put it out there.

Peter opens his mouth to answer, but then Stiles kisses him softly instead.

"Because I love you," he tells him, then gives him yet another kiss. He is afraid of what Peter will say. Not because he doubts his 'wolf's feelings, because at this point he's pretty sure they're on the same page, but because whatever way Peter answers will devastate Stiles in a new way.

He's not wrong, because that's when Peter drops a bombshell.

"You are my True Mate," Peter reveals. "I've loved you for years. I loved you before I knew you, and then once I knew you, I understood why you're the only one who could possibly be for me. You're everything, Stiles. My darling boy. You're everything and yes, yes, I love you."

Stiles sucks in a breath. "And you tell me now?" He's not sure if he's pissed off or not. He's moved by the confession but also embarrassed by it. But also confused. Why didn't Peter tell him this before?

Stiles knows about True Mates, having first heard about them from Derek, but then later read all about their (rare) existence and what it all means in one of Sharrat's libraries.

Peter smiles, though it's a bit uncertain. "Well, I couldn't go on any longer without telling you. It wouldn't be right."

Stiles snorts. "You asshole, you know what I mean."

Peter cups his cheek. Thumbs away some lingering damp tears. "I had to make sure you understood it, and that you weren't going to run away. I was prepared to wait longer."

And yeah, that's fair. If Peter had told Stiles they were True Mates at some point in the distant (or even the near) past, Stiles would have run away, but not before laughing in Peter's face. Good for Peter for looking out for his heart. Right?

"Give me a minute," Stiles says, and slips away. He needs the bathroom and to brush his teeth. If this is going where he wants it to go…

He comes out and passes Peter as he's going in. Apparently, he has the same idea, or maybe he just needs to empty his bladder. When Peter comes back to bed, Stiles catches the slight hint of mint on his breath and regains some confidence.

"I'm exhausted, but I don't want to go back to sleep, not after those dreams," Stiles admits.

Peter reaches for Stiles's hand and tangles their fingers together. "Do you want to get out of bed? We can go watch a movie in the living room, or I can make you some coffee, or—"

Using a move he learned in the forest of the Inbetween, Stiles flips Peter onto his back and straddles his waist. "No, I think we should stay right here."

Peter's pupils dilate even as his eyes flash supernatural blue. "If you're sure."

"Oh, I'm sure," Stiles says, and leans down to kiss him with all he has.

Peter has been prepared to wait. He's been prepared to wait for a long time, knowing there is so much history there between Stiles and him. Knowing it would take a lot to get through it, to get over it, if at all possible.

That they were captured and erased by the Wild Hunt, that they then had the time together in the Inbetween that they had was a gift. The existence of True Mates in and of itself is proof of Fate existing, but the way the universe keeps throwing Peter and Stiles together is further proof. There is no escaping the fact that there's more to life than what they can see and hear. There is a force beyond their understanding, and it wants Stiles and him together.

All of this runs through his mind at breakneck pace until Stiles moans into his mouth and steals his breath. Then, all he wants is to pull more sounds like that from his boy, over and over. He wants to spend hours doing just that.

The kisses are minty, but beneath the faint taste of toothpaste is a sweetness Peter can't get enough of.

"Peter," Stiles gasps. "Peter, please…" He writhes against him, and Peter's wolf demands he take control.

With a quick move, Peter has them flipped again, and Stiles is at his mercy. Stiles stares up at him, panting, eyes wide and dark with desire.

"I can't believe…" Stiles says, but doesn't complete the thought.

"Do finish your sentences, darling," Peter teases.

Stiles snorts, rolls his eyes, and wraps his arms around Peter's neck. "I can't believe I get to have this. You. That we have each other."

"You have all of me, if you want," Peter tells him.

Stiles's mouth opens on a soft gasp, as if hearing it said aloud is shocking. Maybe it is. But Peter wants to know what Stiles thinks.

"I do want," Stiles says after a few more moments. "I want all of you, and you can have all of me. I love you."

But he's anxious about what they're doing, Peter can feel. Peter says, "We don't have to do anything right now."

Stiles sputters indignantly. "Yes, we do!"

"You're nervous," Peter points out. He puts a hand over Stiles's heart, where it's racing. "We have the rest of our lives, sweetheart."

Stiles stills. Then gives him a rueful smile. "I am nervous. But that's just because I've never been this far with a guy before, and it being you makes it mean more. I don't want to… to fuck up."

"The only way to fuck up sex is to lie or not communicate what feels good or bad. Okay?"

"You feel good," Stiles is quick to say. He even shimmies under Peter, his half-hard cock going stiffer as he rubs against him. "All of you. But…"

"Yes?" Peter asks patiently.

Stiles bites his bottom lip, then says hesitantly, "I'm your mate, and you're a werewolf. I know what that means."

It seems Stiles is thinking ahead, considering things Peter hasn't. "You mean…"

"You'll have a knot," Stiles says, face flushing darker.

Peter sucks in a breath. Has to close his eyes. Jesus fuck, this boy. Now all Peter can think of is spreading him wide and locking tight within his body.

It takes a moment to calm down, but then Peter says, "We don't have to do that. There are a lot of other ways we can have sex, many ways to feel good. I won't leave this bed unsatisfied, and neither will you."

"Don't act like I can't feel how much you want to knot me," Stiles says with a mischievous grin. "Or even if we didn't have this bond, I'd know just from that look on your face. Your eyes are glowing. I think your claws are out."

He's right. Peter's control has devolved to that of a teenager. It's embarrassing, or would be, if he thought at all that Stiles was laughing at him. But he's not.

"I think it's hot that you want me so much," Stiles tells him.

Peter wills the claws away with great focus, but then Stiles writhes beneath him, wrapping a leg around his hip.

"Stiles…"

"What makes you think I don't want you to knot me?" Stiles asks. His heart is racing, but it doesn't skip. "I do. But it's new and exciting, and I'm going to be a little nervous. Okay?"

Peter doesn't answer, just kisses him breathless, pulling more moans from his boy.

"I want… I want… Wait, Peter, just…" Stiles says between kisses.

Peter pulls back and frowns. "Yes, darling?"

"I want you to bite me, too," Stiles says.

Of course, his True Mate knows how to solidify a mating bond. And of course he wants it.

"It's a big commitment. We're True Mates, but there's still a choice."

"Don't you want to bite me?" Stiles asks, a tremor of something entering his voice, something Peter doesn't like at all.

"I do," Peter says, giving him a quick kiss. "I most certainly do. But Stiles, you're eighteen years old. You don't have to—"

"I'm going to bite you back," Stiles interrupts. "I'm in this. If you want me, you have me. Forever."

And Peter has never had anyone choose him this way. No one has ever wanted him forever, not even his family. And he realizes that Stiles is the same way. His father chose his mother over him time after time, and when a being with her face came back, the sheriff made the same choice.

"You are going to knot me and claim me, and I'm going to claim you right back," Stiles says, voice cracking a little but still so sure.

"Yes," Peter says, soft and in awe and with all his heart. His cock is hard now, throbbing, and he can barely think of anything other than doing just as Stiles says.

"Well, okay then." Stiles pulls his shirt off over his head and smirks. "Take your clothes off."

Chapter Text

Stiles knows the basics, and he's watched plenty of gay porn. He knows, first and foremost, that they need lube. So while Peter is skimming out of his boxers, Stiles reaches into the side table.

"How did you know…?" Peter asks.

Stiles smirks. "Who do you think kept your apartment clean while you were away?"

"I did detect a hint of your scent here. Mostly on the sofa, though."

"Well, I wasn't going to sleep in your bed without permission," Stiles says with a tell-tale blush he hates.

"But you did snoop through my drawers?" Peter asks with a smile.

"Well, duh," Stiles says with a grin. "Here. Or do you want me to…?"

Peter growls, and the bond thrums with his anticipation. "I'll do it."

"Okay. How do you, um, want me?" Stiles asks, not sure what position would be best for someone else to finger him open. He's used to doing it himself, but knowing Peter's going to do it for him has him panting. Nothing's happening, and he's already into it. But at the same time, he's so nervous. This could go wrong. His klutzy side will come out to play, and the next thing they know, Peter will be taking a knee to his nose.

"I want you to relax, baby," Peter says. "Let me take care of you."

Stiles shivers. Peter's never called him 'baby' before. He likes it more than he ever imagined.

"Wait. I will, just one thing, okay?" Stiles asks and turns on the bedside lamp so there's more light to see by. He grabs a pillow and puts it in his lap self-consciously, but he looks at Peter, and he, at least, has no qualms at being naked in front of Stiles.

"Like what you see?" Peter says with a faux leer.

Stiles laughs nervously, suddenly feeling unqualified for the present situation. Peter is beautiful from head to toe. "You're gorgeous, and you know it."

"True. But you should know I find you just as beautiful."

"You like scrawny and pale?" Stiles tries to joke.

"I like you. Love you. You're long, lean, and almost delicately fair. I like the way your body hair stands out against your skin. Here," Peter says, reaching out to run two fingers down Stiles's sternum where he has a thin patch of hair. "And here," Peter continues, fingers tracing down to his navel and below, where his happy trail disappears behind the pillow in his lap.

Stiles shivers at the touch and sucks in a breath. "Yeah?"

"Yes. I can't decide where to touch or taste you first."

Stiles lets his gaze trail over Peter's defined muscles and nods. "Yeah, that's a whole mood."

"I think I need to kiss you some more," Peter says. "I want to taste you… everywhere."

That sounds fantastic, and Stiles quickly remembers his shower. He washed well, just in case. He'd known they were just sleeping when he went to bed, and he was too exhausted for anything else, but he'd hoped. And he'd prepared as best he could. So if Peter wants to taste him everywhere, well, Stiles had the foresight to ensure that won't be a problem.

"Kissing first," Stiles demands, pulling Peter close to him. It feels so different now that they're naked, now that it's skin against skin. Peter's body is hot, his skin smooth over his hard muscles. Everywhere they touch lights Stiles up inside, and he starts to tingle everywhere with anticipation and pleasure.

Peter captures his mouth like it's a prize he's won and has to claim thoroughly for it to count. Peter pulls the lap pillow out of the way and tips Stiles down so that he's lying on the bed again, Peter on top of him as a weight that is both demanding and permissive. Stiles can move, and when he needs room, Peter gives it to him, but then he's right back in position over him.

Stiles has been trying not to psych himself out of this by not thinking about Peter's dick. But it's there, and it's as hot and hard—maybe harder—than the rest of him. Also big. Stiles's mouth waters, but he realizes that sizable length has to fit inside him at some point, and that even after that, it'll get even bigger because of the knot. Stiles wants the knot, wants to be claimed in every way he can be, but he's skeptical. And nervous.

"Shh, don't worry," Peter tells him, nipping at his lips. "You were made just for me. I promise it will feel good. I won't hurt you. Not much. Okay, baby? Let me take care of you."

Stiles moans then, and Peter drags his tongue and teeth over Stiles's chin, his jaw, and down his throat. Stiles never forgets that Peter is an apex predator, that his teeth can easily grow sharp and dangerous against his jugular. But just as he knows Peter is a danger, he knows that he's not Peter's prey, at least not in that respect. Peter will never hurt him badly. Stiles knows he can trust him at his throat. He wouldn't even trust Scott's fangs this close to his throat, but Peter's something else. Peter's his mate.

His True Mate.

The reminder makes him moan, and Peter growls in response. "Want you so badly, sweet boy."

"You have me," Stiles gasps.

Peter finds one of his nipples and laves it with the flat of his tongue, flicks it with the pointed tip, then very carefully bites and scrapes at it with his teeth. It's exquisite torture. Stiles never knew how sensitive his nipples could be until this moment. He arches and moans and tangles a hand in Peter's hair. He's not sure if he wants to drag him closer or push him away, but somehow he ends up just squeezing and holding and moaning as Peter slowly drives him insane.

But it's not enough. It feels good, amazing, but Stiles needs more. He says as much, hell, babbles his need over and over again until Peter growls and flips him onto his belly.

And then the true torture starts. Stiles thought having his nipples bitten was good? When Peter parts his cheeks and licks a stripe from behind Stiles's balls, over his hole, to the top of his ass? And back again? And then… and then Peter is tasting him for real, just like he said he would, and Stiles finally understands what it means to be starving.

Or maybe Peter is the starving one, since he's absolutely feasting on Stiles's sensitive hole. Licking and sucking and very, very gently scraping his blunt teeth—fuck, that feels incredible. All Stiles knows is that he wants, "More! More, Peter, please!"

Peter begins adding a finger because he is a genius. He's Stiles's genius mate, and he's going to fill him up, and it's all Stiles has ever wanted. At least that is how it feels. Stiles can't remember anything else at the moment, so surely he's never wanted anything more than the feel of Peter's smooth, strong fingers stretching and stroking him.

Peter's mouth is mostly occupied, but that doesn't mean he doesn't come up for air and to tell Stiles how good he is, how delicious, how perfect.

Every drip and drop of praise goes right to Stiles's cock, which he's starting to rut against the mattress.

That is, until Peter tuts at him and makes him get up on his knees so that his dick isn't in contact with anything, it just bobs and drools and twitches with want.

And Peter is still stretching him, it seems excessive when Stiles just wants Peter to fuck him immediately now, and to give up on this whole thing where he's trying to fit, what, four of his fingers inside Stiles's hole?

"It's necessary, sweetheart," Peter soothes. "You're going to take my knot, and I don't want you hurting. I don't want any of this to feel anything but spectacular, all right?"

Stiles might answer that, but he doesn't really know what words he might have used. Possibly, "Hurry up, then," in his most petulant tone.

Peter chuckles and kisses his flank, then asks how Stiles wants him.

Stiles has to think for a moment, has to try to concentrate, so he can figure out what Peter's asking. But then he knows.

"On our sides. You behind me. Please, Peter, get inside me. I need you. I need you so much!"

It doesn't take much moving to get into that position, and then Peter lines up and slides right inside him, and he fits perfectly, like he was made for Stiles and Stiles alone.

"Yes, just like this, just for me," Peter tells him. "Fuck, you feel so good around my cock."

Stiles whimpers and pushes back, wanting him deeper.

Peter kisses his shoulder, scrapes his nape with his teeth. He's going to bite him soon, Stiles remembers. How will Stiles bite him back, claim him fully, if he can't…

But then Stiles grabs Peter's arm and kisses his palm. He wants to bite Peter's wrist. It feels like the perfect solution, and it seems a little like Fate, too. Peter immediately catches on, fingers encircling Stiles's wrist in a way that gives Stiles a sense memory of a time before they knew they were meant for this moment.

Something about it makes Peter fuck Stiles harder, and Stiles is on board for this plan. He wants it harder. Deeper. Thicker—hell, he's ready to beg for Peter's knot now.

And he does.

"Please, I need it," he tells Peter. "Love you. Take it, take me, please… Please, Peter!"

Peter growls and pushes one of Stiles's legs into a better position that has Peter's cock fucking deeper inside him, and Peter is panting and growling, sounding more wolf-like than ever before. Stiles knows if he could see Peter's face, it would be shifted. He can feel the sharpness of Peter's fangs scratching his shoulder, and then…

Peter slows. "Knot. Swelling." The words are distorted, coming out from between elongated fangs, and it's the hottest thing Stiles has ever heard in his life.

Peter pulls back, then pushes and pushes until his knot pops inside Stiles, locking them together. Stiles instinctively pushes back, tries to squeeze, but the heat and stretch of it is almost too much. It's everything. It's making him white out with pleasure as he comes and comes without a single touch to his own dick.

Peter roars then, and tries to push impossibly deeper as he comes, too.

It's all too much for Stiles, and he takes a sudden, unscheduled nap.

He's not out for long, but when he resurfaces, they are still knotted together, and Peter is combing his fingers through Stiles's sweaty hair.

"Jesus fuck," Stiles slurs.

Peter laughs. It tugs at the knot in Stiles's oversensitized hole, but Stiles doesn't have a single complaint.

"Can I bite you soon?" he asks instead.

"Only if you're sure," Peter says.

Stiles cranes his neck to try to look at his mate. "You're not an idiot, so don't say idiotic things."

"I'm so lucky," Peter says, as if he's wondering if he's awake, if this is truly reality.

"It's Fate, Peter. That's how it works, I guess."

"All my life…" Peter starts to say, but then he closes his mouth and nods. "Now, bite me if you're going to. And tell me where you want yours."

"Maybe we'll wait until your knot goes down," Stiles says. "How long, do you think?"

"Not much longer," Peter says, hoping he's telling the truth.

Stiles laughs and sighs happily. "What do we do in the meantime?"

Peter presses at a certain angle, making Stiles gasp. "Oh!"

"Maybe we'll see if you can come just like this," Peter says, and makes sure his knot presses against Stiles's prostate once again.

"Oh, you brilliant bastard," Stiles gasps.

"I'm your brilliant bastard, darling," Peter says smugly. Then, for the first time, he wraps a hand around Stiles's cock and gives it a gentle squeeze. "How's that?"

Stiles makes a high-pitched sound not unlike a squeal. Peter laughs and squeezes a little tighter while playing his boy's prostate like an instrument.

"Oh my god, Peter!" Stiles cries out as the scent of tears hits the air, and Peter knows he's close again.

"Do you want to come again, or do you want me to stop?" Peter asks.

"What the hell kind of question is… OH! Oh, fuck. Please, Peter. Please get me off again. Please."

Peter holds him close and strokes him slowly, then finally relents once he thinks Stiles might start plotting to murder him before he's properly claimed. "Come for me, sweetheart. Let me hear you. Let me feel you."

"Peter!" Stiles cries out, and Peter strokes him through every spurt of this orgasm. He's surprised to find his own cock isn't done, and he comes some more, deep inside Stiles's still-tight hole.

"Love you," Stiles says, quite delirious but utterly sincere.

"Oh, baby, I love you, too."

Peter's knot goes down, and there's a gush of come that manages to embarrass both of them once they separate. But then Peter has Stiles's wrist in his hand, and they watch each other steadily as Peter asks once more if Stiles is sure.

"Yes," Stiles says. "I want it. I've… I've wanted it for a long time, even if I didn't understand what exactly 'it' was. Bite me, Peter. Claim me for good."

And Peter could never turn that down. He bites, and Stiles hisses, but then Stiles grabs him and bites down on Peter's own wrist. Surprisingly, Stiles's teeth are razor sharp as he does so, his eyes glowing almost white with slit pupils, making it clear he's no helpless human.

They clean up again, sharing a shower but too fucked out to do much more than fondle and grope a bit as they wash up.

By the time they return to bed, the sun is out and bathing the room in a pink-gold sunrise. Stiles cuddles up against Peter's chest, and Peter holds him carefully. Stiles is so precious to him, and this happiness is so new it feels like he needs to hold on to it delicately, deliberately.

Both he and Stiles are new to having someone one hundred percent in their corner. He doesn't think either of them will be taking this for granted for a long time, if ever.

By the time they wake next, their mating bites have healed into silvery scars that resemble matching crescent moons.

Chapter Text

Waking up with Peter now that they're bonded—truly, 100% werewolf married—should be a joyous occasion. Stiles is instantly aware of his morning wood while tangled in Peter's arms, and Peter is still asleep but just as hard against Stiles's ass.

He could get used to this. It's beyond 'nice'.

But there are also other things happening, and he forgot for a little while about the rift with his father and the weird way Scott talked to him during their last meeting. It's coming back to him now, and he rolls away from Peter—or at least tries to.

"What's wrong?" Peter asks sleepily.

Stiles stills for a split second and then immediately relaxes back into Peter's arms. "Didn't know you were awake."

"Hm. Wasn't. I was having the most wonderful dream," Peter says with a smile in his voice. He kisses the back of Stiles's neck and asks, "Now, what has you worried?"

And it's not exactly what he was thinking about, but close enough to say, "I don't want to go back home to my dad's."

Stiles expects Peter to ask for clarification. He doesn't.

Peter says, "So don't. Move in here with me."

Stiles is, for once, struck speechless. But then the buzzer on the door sounds, and they look at each other in confusion. Who could that even be? No one knows where Peter lives, and no one would think to look for Stiles here.

Well, one person. Peter rolls out of bed and steps into a pair of jogging pants with an adorable little hop, and then he goes to answer the door. Stiles finds the mostly-clean clothes he hastily discarded before and dresses quickly.

Sharrat is holding a gift bag and giving Peter an inscrutable look when Stiles walks into the living area. Stiles is happy to see her. He's surprised at how much he's missed her in the past few days.

Would it be weird to hug her? Not for him, but Sharrat's always been… cold, in a dragon way. He feels her emotions through their bond and knows she's not as distant and unemotional as she seems from the outside, but it's still…

"Come here and hug me, youngling," she says, handing the bag to Peter and opening her arms.

Stiles goes to her with a smile and knows such relief when she has her wiry arms wrapped around him in a true hug. He doesn't even realize he's crying until she starts rubbing his back and comforting him.

"It's all right, youngling, let it out. You don't have to tell me what happened, but I did feel your emotions last night. It's all right."

She must be talking about the confrontation with the thing that wore his mother's face. She can't possibly mean she also felt…

He feels a spike of his own embarrassment right before she hugs him closer and laughs softly.

"Don't worry, I was able to block what you and your mate got up to later. But not before I realized what was happening. I'm so happy for you, youngling."

Stiles pulls back and wipes at his eyes. "Yeah, we. Um."

"I expect to be invited to your human wedding, of course," Sharrat says airily.

Through his now-stronger bond with Peter, Stiles can feel that he's… happy? But in a confused and embarrassed way. Like maybe he's not sure why he cares so much about Sharrat's approval, but does anyway.

"Of course," Peter says after a moment. Stiles sniffles and nods his own agreement. He does know he and Peter are committed to forever, now. A wedding is just a formality at this point.

"Maybe something small," Stiles says. He doesn't want to think about his dad's reaction to his marrying Peter.

Is that okay? Getting married and not telling your father about it until it's already a done deal? Or, oh shit. He really doesn't want to deal with Scott's reaction. But shouldn't he want them to approve? And shouldn't someone who loves him be happy for him that he's found the one person in the world perfectly made for him? Who loves him, who he loves back?

"Breathe, darling," Peter tells him.

Stiles tries.

It's not fair. He wants to be happy. He is happy, and he has every right to be. But Scott and his dad are in the back of his mind, dulling the shine of what is actually a brilliant thing.

"Copy me," Peter says, probably repeating it again, but Stiles has been focused inside his head and not on his wonderful mate. Peter takes an exaggerated breath in through his nose and then slowly lets it out through his mouth. It takes Stiles a little while, but soon he's breathing with Peter.

"Very good," Sharrat says. She looks and feels wistful. "Don't try to solve all the world's problems now. You're practically on your honeymoon. Oh!" she exclaims, and suddenly her eyes are shining. "Would you like to go somewhere? I'd be happy to send you anywhere in the world. Or you could go… Well, maybe not yet. You need to learn more about your power before going Elsewhere. Some planes are dangerous."

Stiles knows immediately that she's not talking about aircraft. Peter is sharply curious but tries to ignore that he desperately wants to see more dimensions. Stiles leans against him, unbearably fond.

"Perhaps we'll take you up on your offer once we settle on what our near future is going to look like," Peter says. "Stiles hasn't answered me if he wants to live here in the apartment, or if maybe we should buy a house."

"You didn't mention a house," Stiles says, frowning a little.

"I didn't get a chance to," Peter says blithely. "And then there's the question: Are we staying in Beacon Hills at all?"

"I don't want to run away from my problems," Stiles says, and he means it. Sort of. He's not a coward, at least not that way.

Sharrat has an answer. "It's not running away, youngling, not when your future is so bright. And it could be so much brighter once you're away from the negativity I can feel is clouding your heart."

Stiles looks at Peter, who is trying not to give his opinion either way. He wants Stiles to figure this out on his own. But Stiles isn't alone anymore. He and Peter are a unit. Partners. "Babe, would you even want to leave?"

"As long as I'm with you, I would be happy anywhere," Peter says. "We don't have to stay here."

"But Beacon Hills is your home," Stiles says, biting at his lip. "The Hales practically founded the town."

Peter looks at Sharrat, then makes up his mind about something. He looks at Stiles and takes his hands in his. Holds them up and kisses Stiles's knuckles. "This right here, me and you? That is my home, now. Forever. I don't care where we go, or even if we never settle down in one place. You are my True Mate. You are my home."

"That is the mushiest thing I've ever heard," Stiles says with a broken laugh, tears standing in his eyes. If he blinks, they'll run down his face.

"You love it," Peter whispers.

"Of fucking course I do, you sap." Stiles presses his face down on Peter's shoulder to wipe away the wetness.

Sharrat clears her throat. Stiles isn't looking at her, but he can feel her warm, indulgent mood. "You have my number. Call me when you decide."

Stiles gives her another hug before she leaves, and Peter kisses her cheek. She seems charmed by him now. Stiles realizes she's like Peter's mother-in-law. Or mentor-in-law. Something like that.

"I don't know about you," Peter says once she's gone, "but I could go for some tacos."

Stiles's mouth immediately waters. "Oh, yeah. We ordering in?"

"I don't mind going out, but be warned, I might look over at you and want to ravish you on the table in the middle of the restaurant," Peter says with a straight face.

Stiles cracks up at the mental picture that brings. "Noted. Let's get delivery, then."

Chapter Text

"I think we should go see Malia. Or have her come here?" Stiles asks, and it's just what has been on Peter's mind. The mate bond must be working overtime, now that they've sealed it.

"I'll call her. Give her directions," Peter says, moving to kiss Stiles's temple. "Thank you."

"Yeah, I never did tell her where you lived," Stiles says. "I know she's your daughter, but I didn't let anyone else know. I figured… This is your place." He shrugs and gives a little half-smile. "I'm the only one allowed to get all up in your space."

"Any time," Peter tells him seriously when he should have used more innuendo. He's losing his edge. But only for Stiles.

"You're such a softie. My mushy mate."

Peter smirks. "No one would ever believe you if you tried to tell them."

Stiles barks a laugh. "Call your daughter. I've missed her, too."

They clean up a little before Malia comes over, Stiles making sure to pick up random dirty clothes from the floor where they were discarded in the heat of the moment. Peter dusts and vacuums. Stiles doesn't tease him for it, since he feels Peter's nervousness at seeing Malia again.

Peter hears her before she knocks, and Stiles looks at him knowingly when he tenses with anticipation. Stiles opens the door to her and pulls her inside, into a hug. Malia releases a long breath that ends in a whine. She smells relieved, too, but a little like old stress and fear.

"Hey. Hey, Malia, what is it?" Stiles asks soothingly, rubbing her back.

"It's been hard," she says quietly.

Peter's not sure where he fits in this reunion, or if he should just hang back. Maybe even leave the room.

No, this is his home. And he really wants to keep looking at his daughter, now that he can. She's here, and safe, and though she seems somewhat upset, she's healthy and whole.

Stiles looks at him over Malia's shoulder and gives him an understanding smile. "We missed you."

"I missed you, too," Malia says. "I didn't know what I was missing at first. Everything was… hard. The full moons. My control."

"Yeah?" Stiles asks, encouraging her to say more. He's good with her. Peter wished he knew how to treat her.

She pulls back to look at Stiles fully. "Lydia helped, but she's not you. But I didn't kill anyone!" She smiles tremulously.

It clicks, then. "Stiles is your anchor," Peter says.

Stiles doesn't seem too shocked by that revelation, but it's plain he hasn't thought about it much. "Really?"

Malia glances at Peter, but her gaze isn't hostile or annoyed. She seems curious. "Yeah. You and… Peter." She sniffs the air. "You're together now?"

"Is that a problem?" Stiles asks her carefully.

"Why him?" Malia asks, eyebrows spelling out her bafflement in a way that screams Hale. Stiles huffs a laugh, picking up on it, too.

"He's my soulmate," Stiles says plainly. "I love him."

She looks over at Peter then and asks without asking.

"We're True Mates," Peter tells her.

Her expression clears, then turns thoughtful. "Huh."

Stiles, who's been worried since she walked in (since they called her, really), finally relaxes. He smiles and hugs her. "Thank you."

"For what?" Malia asks.

Stiles shrugs.

"For not overreacting negatively," Peter explains.

"Derek told me about True Mates," she says. "I understand. You're both really lucky to have each other. Why would I be upset about that? I'm happy for you." She pulls away from Stiles and sniffs the air. "What's that smell?"

Another knock sounds on the door, and Peter smirks. "Food."

"Enough for me, too?" Malia asks boldly. "I'm starving. I could eat an elk."

Stiles laughs and gets the door, gets the food order. "No elk here, but I think there's probably plenty of lamb."

After they demolish all the Indian food, with Stiles confiscating the most spicy dishes for himself, they start to talk. There's some awkward joking about Malia's past relationship with Stiles, but Peter feels no jealousy. He has everything he could ever want in his mate; why would he be jealous of his past? Even if it is a little sticky that Stiles's past includes Peter's daughter.

But they look at each other, Peter and Malia, and an understanding passes unvoiced between them. Stiles's happiness is the most important thing.

They talk more, sliding into less awkward topics, such as things like school. Stiles is disappointed to have missed three months of his senior year.

"Of course, to us it was more like we were gone a year or so," Stiles explains to Malia, then glosses over the Inbetween. There'll be time to speak of that later, Peter's sure.

Malia shrugs and says she has to go to summer school in order to graduate, but after that, she'll get her diploma, and she's proud of that fact. Peter is, too, though he only gives her an indulgent smile. He isn't sure he's allowed to be proud, not having had anything to do with her successes or growth. Stiles isn't afraid to speak of his pride, though.

"That's amazing, Malia," he tells her. "You've really come a long way."

"I couldn't have done it without you and Lydia," Malia is quick to say.

"Scott didn't help at all?" Stiles asks.

Malia shrugs. "Scott…" She sighs, smelling of frustration. Then she shrugs again. "It took a lot to get him to believe me and Lydia about you. About you being missing, I mean. He got it, finally, but I still don't think he felt it the same way I did, or even Lydia did."

Stiles feels hurt, but in a detached way, like he is used to it. Peter reaches over and runs a hand across his shoulder. Stiles touches his hand and returns to the subject. He mirrors Malia's shrug and sighs. "Yeah, he doesn't seem the same as when I left. I don't know. I don't know what's going to happen next."

"With what?" Malia asks, but Peter already knows. It's up to Stiles if he wants to share, though.

"Turns out, I don't just have a little spark of magic like we thought. I'm a literal Spark, which is a kind of rare magic user, and—"

"Let me stop you right there," Peter says. "You aren't a magic user; you're nothing like a druid or a witch. You're a magical being on your own, which is a big deal."

Stiles turns pink and swats at Peter. "Hush, I'm just trying not to brag too much."

"Darling."

"Fine," Stiles says with a huff. He looks at Malia and flashes his dragon eyes, frosty blue with midnight black slit pupils. Gorgeous. "Sparks turn into dragons. I'm not… human anymore. I actually never really was human."

"Whoa," Malia says, going still. Peter can sense the animal in her respond to the powerful creature in Stiles. She flashes her own blue eyes and smiles. "A dragon? Like… fire-breathing, gold hoarding, village razing?" She narrows her eyes and smiles teasingly. "Are you kidnapping any princesses? Oh, or like in Shrek, you can marry a donkey."

Stiles laughs out loud. "Already did that. Married the biggest ass I could find," he says, leaning toward Peter and making dramatic kissy faces.

Peter should be annoyed. Instead, he is hopelessly charmed by his mate once again. "It takes an ass to know an ass."

"Yeah, you know my ass, alright," Stiles snorts.

"I don't need to hear about that," Malia says with a theatrical frown. But then she smiles. "This is unreal. Have you told anyone else yet?"

Stiles's mirth dies down, and he shakes his head. "No. See, Scott's emissary is Deaton. Deaton is a druid. And druids are like… naturally repelled by Sparks. I don't know what'll happen if he finds out about me. Maybe nothing? But maybe nothing good."

"And your dad?" Malia asks quietly.

Stiles shrugs.

Malia nods, but then smiles. "You've got to tell Lydia, though. She'll kill you if she's the last to know."

"We're seeing her next," Stiles says. "She's practically my best friend at this point."

Malia watches him. "Mine, too. I've been staying with her a lot, lately."

"Not with your father?" Peter asks, immediately concerned but hiding it well from her.

"He doesn't know what to do with me. And I was having so much trouble with my control because of missing my anchor…"

"I'm sorry," Stiles says quickly as the scent of guilt rises off his skin. "I didn't think anyone would care if they couldn't remember me. I mean, we were erased. Totally."

"It's not your fault you got taken by the Wild Hunt!" Malia says before Peter can. "Stop feeling bad about it. You couldn't help it."

"Yeah, but."

Peter sends a soothing warmth along their bond. "Darling, you're entitled to your emotions, but know none of us blame you for your disappearance."

Stiles looks at Peter then, their eyes meeting for a long moment before he nods slowly. "Yeah. Yeah, I know. I just wish I could have been here."

"It wasn't all bad for me," Malia says. "I learned better control for it. And I learned who was my friend and who just… said they were." Peter isn't sure whether he's angry at Scott for failing his daughter, or just satisfied that the boy-alpha finally showed his true colors to her, ruining their rapport in the meantime.

"The pack did defeat the Wild Hunt," Stiles says, oddly enough. Playing devil's advocate?

Malia rolls her eyes. "Not really. Scott diverted a train and then the Nazi turned into a Ghost Rider because he'd been doing too much… Well, sorta eating them, actually, but I told the pack I didn't want to know all the details. But it seems like Douglas kind of ruined himself."

"What was his endgame, anyway?" Stiles asks. "I saw some symbols and events through scrying, but the details were hard to piece together into a… you know, coherent story."

"Oh, he wanted to merge dimensions and lead the Ghost Riders as his own personal army to take over the world. Really gross Third Reich ideas of ruling, too." Malia makes a moue of disgust. "But then all the um. Ghost Rider juice he'd been drinking, or using as a drug or whatever, it turned him into a Ghost Rider, and they took him with them back through to ride with the Hunt forever."

"Hoisted on his own petard, hmm?" Peter says. "A fitting end for him."

"Yeah, totally agree," Malia says. "Lydia could tell you more details, but really, it's foul. I don't even want to know what I do know."

"He was a Nazi?" Stiles asks. "Like… a real one?"

Malia shrugs. "So it would seem. He'd been one of the Dread Doctor's old experiments from the bad ole days."

Peter looks at Stiles, frowning, then remembers when Stiles told him about the Doctors and their plans with the chimeras.

"Oh, but speaking of the Dread Doctors, guess who's back?" Malia asks.

"Don't tell me…" Stiles says, dismayed.

"Yeah, Theo apparently crawled his way out of hell back to the land of the living."

"Nobody ever stays dead in this town," Stiles grumbles.

"That's not always a bad thing, sweetheart," Peter reminds him. From the burst of affection and love he feels through the bond, Stiles doesn't mind at all that Peter came back.

Stiles rolls his eyes and turns back to Malia. "So does Theo need putting down again? What kind of trouble is he causing?"

Malia shakes her head. "He's not actually done anything yet other than help Scott a little and, um, make heart-eyes at Liam."

"That doesn't mean he won't turn against us later," Stiles says. "I mean, I'm gonna hold a grudge against the bastard for a while. But if you think I should let him live…"

"It doesn't matter one way or the other to me," Malia says. "But he did seem… contrite? Sort of? Apparently, he spent all his time 'away' getting tortured by his dead sister."

"Oh, what's one more supernatural teenager with PTSD, hmm?" Peter says. "Of course, I'll tear him apart if he hurts either of you, and I think he needs to hear that directly from me."

Stiles gives him a warm feeling through the bond, but Malia looks insulted. "I can handle him myself if it comes to that."

"Of course you can, I have faith in your abilities," Peter tells her. "But I'll back you up if you need it, too."

"It doesn't hurt to scare Theo, though," Stiles tells her. "He should know who and what's off limits."

Malia blinks at him. "You're different. You sound… colder."

Stiles is stung, but he gives no outward sign. "Yeah, it's… a dragon thing, I guess."

"Can you tell me more about it?" Malia asks. "I've never known anything about real dragons, just stuff from movies and shows."

Stiles seems to come to a decision. "How about you come with us to Lydia's? I'll fill you both in at the same time."

"Sure, when are we going?"

Stiles looks over at Peter's phone for the time. "It's not late or anything, how about now?"

"I'll let her know we're coming," Malia says, grinning. Then she grabs Stiles for another hug and hesitantly runs a hand over Peter's shoulder to scent him subtly. She smells embarrassed when she does it, and almost belligerent about it, but Peter eagerly returns the motion, and she gives him a hesitant smile and a quick nod.

"I missed you, too," she admits to Peter. "Not the same as Stiles, but I knew. I had these… holes in my life where you should have been. Where I'd think about something, and I should have thought about you then, but I couldn't. It was like reaching in the dark for a thought that wasn't there. You know?"

"I understand the sensation, yes," Peter admits. "My memories of you were taken, and ever since I found out about you, I've been grasping for… you."

"Oh," Malia says. She looks at Stiles, who gives her an encouraging smile, and then back at Peter. "I wouldn't mind if you wanted to make new memories with me, sometime." She shrugs, like it's no big deal, but he can see the tension in her, the way she's holding herself. She's not good at hiding her emotions, yet. It's the same way Stiles acts when he wants something but is almost sure he won't get it.

"I'd like that," Peter says carefully. Stiles ducks into the other room, presumably to use the bathroom before they leave for Lydia's. "Maybe we could go… shopping? Together?"

"I don't need you to buy me anything," Malia says quickly.

"All right. But…" He glances toward the doorway Stiles walked through and lowers his voice. "I want to buy Stiles some things. Mating gifts. Maybe we can look at rings."

"Like wedding rings?" Malia asks quietly.

Peter nods.

Her eyes light up. "Okay. We can do that. Sometime."

"Sometime soon," Peter agrees.

Malia smiles, and there's the light, breezy scent of hope rising from her now. Peter knows he's probably giving off the same chemosignals.

"It's about time you came to see me," Lydia says when she opens the door to them. She squeezes Malia's hand and pulls her in, but her eyes are all for Stiles for one long moment. It makes him feel guilty for leaving her for so long. They'd been getting closer, and then he was gone. Not that it was his fault, but guilt always seems to well up in Stiles whether he deserves to feel it or not.

Her gaze flicks to Peter and back to Stiles. Then she quickly pulls Stiles inside the house and hugs him within an inch of his life.

Peter closes the door behind him with a quiet snick and stays silent, just watching. His presence is calming, or rather anchoring.

"I knew you were missing," Lydia tells Stiles. "I could feel it, it was… I just knew. I didn't always remember, but I knew."

"If you hadn't remembered me, it probably would have taken you a lot longer to figure out what was happening around here," Stiles tells her.

"Lydia was the first of us to know we were missing someone," Malia says. "But I was next!"

"Honey, who's at the door?" Natalie Martin calls before she walks into the foyer. Her eyes sweep over them all and then ping-pong back and forth between Stiles and Peter.

"Hi, Ms. Martin. You remember Peter Hale, right?" Stiles asks smoothly. Inside, he's poised, ready to defend his mate. Peter's amused by this; he can feel it. Amused and indulgent.

Natalie nods slowly. "I remember you, too, Stiles. Now, at least. I heard from Lydia that we narrowly averted another major catastrophe."

"It's over now, Mom," Lydia reassures her. Stiles notices the way her hand keeps creeping back into Malia's. They've definitely grown closer in the past three or so months, and Stiles is… relieved? Part of him was worried before the Hunt that Lydia wanted more from him than friendship. Now that seems less likely, even before he had to let her down easy with news of his relationship status.

Peter sends him a questioning feeling along their bond, but Stiles gives a small shrug to convey they'll talk it over later. Now isn't the time for Stiles to start speculating aloud about Malia and Lydia's relationship. That's the kind of thing you talk about in private, away from the people you're gossiping about.

"I have a meeting to get to, but I can cancel if you need me to," Natalie tells Lydia. "Do you need me here for something?" Her eyes cut over to Peter again, more openly mistrustful this time.

"Mom, it's fine," Lydia says. "I know how much that account means for you."

With only a little more waffling, Natalie picks up a slim briefcase and heads out, leaving the rest of them to visit alone. And talk. There will be so much talking, Stiles already knows.

Lydia takes up being a perfect hostess and offers them seats in the living room, then asks if anyone wants a drink.

Malia and Stiles ask for water, and Peter declines a beverage. But once that's out of the way, Lydia zeros in on Stiles and Peter and demands an explanation. Many explanations. For everything, but starting with Peter's presence.

Stiles reaches out to pat Lydia's shoulder as he starts at the beginning, but Lydia grabs his arm and turns his wrist over, exposing his mating mark.

"Is this what I think it is?" Lydia asks in a tone that is trying to stay even.

"I didn't even see that yet," Malia says, looking over curiously.

Stiles sits up straighter and steels himself. "Peter and I cemented our bond. Ta da!"

Lydia looks unimpressed. "You're eighteen, Stiles. Are you sure? You can't take that back."

"Then it's kinda dumb to ask now if I'm sure, isn't it?" Stiles says.

Lydia looks at Peter then, who obligingly bares his own wrist and the scar Stiles left there. Lydia frowns. "That doesn't look like a human bite."

"I'm not human," Stiles tells her, steady as a rock on the outside and leaning heavily into his anchor to stay that way.

"You were turned?" Lydia asks. "What… wait. No. I need all the information. Start from the beginning."

"That's what I was trying to do to begin with," Stiles says, feeling a bit irritated but smiling a little to soften his words.

Lydia narrows her eyes. "Wait. Wait, I'll be right back." She gets up and leaves the room, but quickly returns with a notebook and two pens. "I have a feeling I'll need to take notes."

Stiles starts over again, giving his own perspective of that last day when he was erased and forgotten, taken by the Ghost Riders. About waking in the Wild Hunt's station. About Peter miraculously appearing and saving his life.

Peter says a quiet phrase that Stiles remembers him saying before. "It had to be you." The same thing he said when he recognized Stiles that day.

"What was that?" Lydia asks.

Peter shakes his head. "Just pondering the essence of Fate, if you will."

"Why can't you talk like a normal person?" Malia asks, but Stiles knows her. She's not as peeved as she sounds. Peter is growing on her, or maybe now that he's back after being forgotten, she's less likely to be annoyed by him.

Lydia looks back at Stiles. "Okay, so Peter saved you and… then what?"

"I was looking for a way back home, but Peter was worried I'd get myself hurt or worse by trying. So we had a little argument."

"Darling, that was hardly an argument."

"I said some things I regret. It was an argument."

"You weren't wrong, though," Peter says.

Stiles stills. Remembers what he said to Peter that day. Shakes his head. "I was wrong, though. Because I'll always come for you."

Peter reaches over and places a hand over Stiles's where he's been fidgeting. "I know. Just as I'll always come for you, now. You'll never be alone or feel unloved again. I promise."

Stiles sucks in a breath at the words. Of course, he'd been reflecting, transferring his own fears onto Peter that day. He'd been afraid then that no one would find him, that no one would care enough to save him. He took it out on Peter at the time, and that was wrong. "Still. I'm sorry I said those things."

Lydia clears her throat, eyeing their closeness suspiciously but not mentioning it quite yet. "So you had words. What happened next?"

"We watched a young man try to escape on the back of one of the Riders. He was obliterated. Turned to dust."

"Peter saved me again by keeping me from trying the same thing," Stiles says. "But then Sharrat came for me."

"Your magic teacher?" Lydia asks. "She… stole you from the Wild Hunt?" Her eyes are wide.

"She's quite powerful," Peter says with a smile.

"She took us somewhere the Ghost Riders couldn't follow," Stiles says. "And we stayed there with her for about… well, over a year, probably."

"You were only gone for three months," Lydia says.

Stiles nods. "Time moves differently in the Inbetween."

"What's the Inbetween?" Malia asks. "Where is it?"

Stiles looks at Peter, and Peter takes his cue to explain succinctly. Once he's finished with that explanation, Stiles starts to talk about Sharrat's 'house' and some of the wonders they found there.

He continues the story linearly, pausing once he gets to the night he learned the secret of Sparks and dragons.

Lydia's note-taking becomes more frantic as she tries to record everything Stiles reveals. Malia, once Stiles is done explaining, sits back and lets out a long breath.

"Well, I always knew there was something special about you," Malia says with a smile.

"Stiles is unique in every way," Peter says, "completely special all on his own without bringing the powers and dragon transformation into it."

"Of course you'd say that, he's your True Mate," Malia says.

Lydia drops her pen, and it rolls away across the floor. "True Mate?"

Stiles twitches a finger, and the pen flies to his hand so he can give it back to Lydia. "Yes. We're True Mates. Super special fated soulmates from the start." Lydia stares wide-eyed at the pen. Oh, the magic. She's never seen him do magic before.

Malia doesn't seem to care about that part. She wants to know something more important. "So, can you breathe fire yet?"

Stiles's shoulders shake as he laughs. "No. My, um, affinity? It's not fire. If I was going to breathe anything, it'd probably be some kind of ice wind."

Lydia looks at Peter with her speculative face on. "That actually makes sense. Tied into the True Mate thing, I suppose."

Stiles understands what she means immediately. "Yeah, I wouldn't even want to attempt to breathe fire around Peter."

"Appreciated," Peter says wryly.

"Ice can do a lot of damage on its own," Lydia says.

"Can you make it snow?" Malia asks. "Or cool down rooms? Or drinks? It's been getting hotter, and it's almost summer. That could come in handy."

"Are you joining us for the last week of school?" Lydia asks Stiles. "Are you going to be able to graduate with the rest of your class?"

Stiles grabs Malia's bottle of water, which is still almost full. It takes hardly any concentration at all to turn the water frigid. He hands it back to Malia, who squeezes the plastic to release the ice that's formed around the inner walls. "Nice."

"Yeah, I have the grades to graduate high school. I won't be valedictorian or anything—"

"You were never going to be," Lydia says primly. "That's my spot."

Stiles laughs. "Well, then, I mean I won't be salutatorian, either. That actually was a possibility before the whole… erasing thing."

"I'm sorry," Lydia says, sounding sincere.

Stiles shrugs. "Well, my academic plans have changed, too, so it doesn't matter as much, now."

"What do you mean?" Lydia asks. "I thought you were going to that pre-FBI program at GWU?"

Stiles shakes his head. "So much has changed. I'm becoming a dragon. I have magic—powerful magic I'm still learning. I want to lean into that, see where it takes me. Plus, now I'm mated, and we're going to get married, too."

"Okay, I can see where maybe a gap year is a good idea, but why is Peter a factor?" Lydia asks. "I'm sure he'd support whatever you want. Right?" she directs to Peter, and it sounds like a threat.

"Of course," Peter says.

Stiles knows in his bones that Peter will be alpha again one day, maybe even one day soon. And he'll need Stiles's support to build a strong, stable pack. Stiles can't be alpha mate and emissary for Peter if he's studying at GWU or Quantico. "I'm not sure yet where we're going first, but…"

Peter looks at him then, wide-eyed and awed. Stiles understands. They haven't discussed this yet.

"Darling…"

"I know Beacon Hills is our endgame. I'm not dumb, Peter, I'm already on board with your plans. As long as you don't kill Scott to take over this territory."

"I want to be in your pack," Malia says. Now, everyone is surprised, but she has a serious look on her face. "That's what you're doing, right? Starting a new pack."

"And that's okay with you?" Peter asks her carefully.

Malia scoffs. "All Scott talks about lately is going off to college. He's not sticking around. He's going to abandon the territory and his pack. You should wait until he leaves and then just take over."

Peter tilts his head. "I thought you liked Scott?"

"I do. But he's not really my friend, and he's not a great alpha, either. You'll do better."

"I agree," Lydia says. "Scott's still my friend, but Malia's right. He's not a good alpha for this territory. He should be alpha somewhere else, somewhere more peaceful. Beacon Hills needs a tougher alpha who'll take care of dangerous problems in a more… permanent way."

Malia says, "Scott's either going to abandon this territory, or he's going to get killed here. All you need to do is wait out the inevitable."

Stiles can hardly believe what he's hearing. He and Peter share a long look, then Peter's smile grows. Fuck, he's sexy. Stiles wants to jump him when he's showing all his ambition along with his fangs. But he's a grown-ass man now, not a hormonal sixteen-year-old. He can control himself.

He clears his throat, and Peter gives him a knowing look. Asshole. Stiles looks away, cheeks flaming. "We're moving away at first, though. Maybe somewhere up north of here, or even on the East Coast."

Lydia looks contemplative, but she lets the subject drop in favor of asking questions about Stiles's magic. Then Malia wants to know more about Sharrat and the castle. Stiles wonders if he'll be allowed to take them to the Inbetween one day.

By the time Peter and Stiles leave, they both feel good, and Stiles is bolstered enough to face his dad. He's going to get his things, and if his dad is off work, Stiles will have to let him know he's moving out. The situation isn't ideal, but Stiles is hopeful. Maybe his dad won't take it as badly as he fears. Maybe he's had time to think about the 'Claudia' being and how she wasn't really their family at all. Maybe his dad is ready to make nice again.

Maybe not with Peter, but certainly with Stiles. Stiles was gone, and now he's back, and…

Well, Stiles is trying to be optimistic, anyway.

Chapter Text

Stiles needs someone who can do some heavy lifting. Werewolf strength beats dragon-in-human-form strength every time. He remembers Sharrat mentioning that, too. Apparently, he's susceptible to all those human downsides: weakness, injury, and his senses are only slightly improved—unless he wants to transform. And he's not ready for that yet. His magic has to grow more, become more settled in his body, and he also has to become more comfortable with the idea that he's an actual dragon and not just the human he's assumed he is all his life.

Stiles wants to be a dragon, wants to fly, wants all the cool (haha, ice dragon pun) abilities that come with it, but his mind isn't there yet. In fact, if he pushed the transformation now, before he's ready, he might get stuck in dragon form until the magic wore off. And that would definitely suck. Even with Peter and Sharrat helping him through it, it would still suck.

Where did that train of thought originate? Oh, right, werewolf strength. He's got a few boxes to fill, mostly with books, and that's why Peter is accompanying him today to his dad's house. To carry boxes for him. And, a little, to be the moral support he needs to face his father again.

Peter pulls the car in front of the house, but not in the driveway. The cruiser is there, but so is Scott's motorbike. As Stiles gets out, he watches Scott leave through the front door. Scott seems to notice them right away, his head swiveling toward them immediately.

Stiles takes a deep breath and stands beside Peter. Then he grabs the three empty moving boxes they brought and shoves them at Peter. "Here. Take these inside. Let me have a minute with Scott alone?"

"Let me know immediately if you need something," Peter says lowly.

"It's just Scott," Stiles says. "I'll be fine."

Peter doesn't acknowledge the True Alpha in any way; he doesn't even look at him as they pass each other in different directions. Scott actually turns around after Peter's gone past, every line in his body screaming confusion and wariness.

"Hey, Scotty," Stiles says, leaning against the car. Scott gives a tentative smile and walks up to him.

"Hey, buddy. You um. What are you doing with Peter?"

"Nothing new," Stiles says. "He's helping me carry boxes."

Scott frowns. "I could have done that for you. Why haven't you called? And I tried to call you earlier but nothing went through."

Stiles tries not to look annoyed. "I lost my phone when I was taken by the Wild Hunt. Haven't had a chance to get it replaced yet. Why were you trying to get a hold of me, anyway?" You didn't seem too thrilled to see me last time.

"Oh. I wanted us to hang out. Catch up for real. I'm sorry about last time, you were just… I wasn't prepared for the whole…" He gestures at Stiles's eyes.

"You want to hang out?" Stiles asks and can't help but feel hope. He still loves Scott as a brother, and it hurts to feel like he's lost his best friend. It's been ages since they've been able to just screw around, the two of them, playing games or scarfing down Doritos in the name of brotherhood.

"Yeah, man. I've missed you," Scott says.

"Okay, sure. Name the time and place," Stiles says. He doesn't smile much, but he feels the smile in his heart. Maybe things will be okay.

"How about… tonight? At Derek's old loft? The pack's made it a lot more comfortable since Derek left it to me."

"Derek gave you his loft? That's worth… a lot?" Stiles asks, flummoxed.

"Oh, I don't own it or anything, but when Derek left, he said we could use it for pack meetings and stuff like that. So now we've got a sectional, and recliners, and game consoles, and a big plasma TV! The kitchen is usually stocked with good snacks, too." Scott makes puppy eyes that usually do not affect him, but now give Stiles even more hope for their friendship.

"Okay," Stiles says, and lets a smile through. "What time?"

Scott frowns. "I promised to have dinner with Mom, but after that, like maybe eight o'clock?"

"Sure, I'll be there," Stiles says, and then Scott brings it in for a hug that is much more awkward than usual, but it's been a while since they've done that, so it's understandable.

Stiles, though, feels… off. Weird. Something is pinging his bullshit detector but everything Scott has said sounds reasonable and believable.

"It'll just be us, right?" Stiles asks him.

Scott opens his mouth, then shuts it again. Ah. He doesn't want to lie outright, but…

"I know I've been gone a while, but you aren't planning a pack party for me or anything, right?" Stiles jokes.

"I know you don't like surprises like that," Scott says, "I'd totally give you time to prepare if it was something like that."

And he's so earnest that Stiles forgets what he was worried about. This is Scott. Adorable puppy that he's always been. The worst thing that could happen is that Scott gets caught up with a new girlfriend and forgets he had plans with Stiles.

"Alright," Stiles says. "Tonight."

Scott grins at him, all sunshine and rainbows, and hops on his motorbike. Stiles walks away and heads into the house, where (hopefully) things are okay. He hasn't heard any gunshots, so maybe his dad is being civil to Peter after all.

Peter smells it as soon as he walks through the door. Whiskey, and not any maker Peter would consider decent. He walks slowly, not wanting to cause a scene with a drunk sheriff, but what he finds in the living room is a man too drunk to be lucid.

Peter stops to consider the man. Sheriff Stilinski is staring at an old photo album he has open on his lap, but Peter doubts he even sees the pictures anymore. The sheriff doesn't even register Peter's presence.

Peter shakes his head and goes upstairs, dismissing the scents of cheap alcohol and well-worn grief. Peter is in the house for a reason, after all. Hopefully, McCall will keep Stiles occupied until the books are packed away, and that way Stiles won't have to confront the sad sack downstairs.

Unfortunately, that's not what happens. Peter only has one box filled when he hears the door open and Stiles's rapid heartbeat move around downstairs. Stiles says something, too quiet for Peter to understand.

The further into his magic Stiles goes, the closer to the dragon he evolves, the fuller and richer his emotions become. He is blossoming in that way, blooming into someone who just feels so much more than a human could ever even conceptualize. Being a wolf at his core, Peter recognizes it as awe-inspiring Other but also tenderly Alike. Before, they were a good match. Now, they resonate on the same frequency, their full spectrum of emotions perceivable only to those with the proper senses. And Peter's senses are tuned to Stiles faultlessly.

So along the bond right now, Peter senses how much Stiles is hurting, how angry he is, how aggrieved. A human faced with the sheer magnitude of these feelings would, at the very least, yell and throw something if he wasn't too busy murdering the cause of his ire.

But Stiles has learned, with Sharrat and Peter, to lean on his bonds for stability and to hold his feelings to himself where they can't hurt others. It's part of his dragon training to compartmentalize and to lean on his bonds, his anchor, for the stability he needs.

If he hadn't learned this, Peter is quite sure the sheriff would be nothing but blood and goo right now.

Peter abandons the boxes he's filling and heads downstairs in case Stiles needs his anchor closer. Sometimes, Stiles still needs physical touch to ground himself with.

Stiles glances over his shoulder when he feels Peter come closer. He sends relief along their bond, and Peter places a hand between Stiles's shoulder blades.

"Wake up," Stiles says to his father.

"Huh?" the sheriff says vaguely. "Not asleep."

"Look at me," Stiles says.

His father squints up at him, then looks behind him at Peter. His expression changes then. He sneers. "Murd'rer. Ought to 'rest you."

Stiles sighs quietly. "How long have you been this way?"

"Way?" the man snorts.

"Yeah," Stiles snipes. "Drunk off your ass and feeling sorry for yourself."

The sheriff shakes his head slowly. Then he shrugs, as if to say he doesn't know or care.

"I'm moving out," Stiles tells him. "Not that I think you'll remember this conversation, so I'm leaving you a note, too. I'll put it on the fridge."

"Leave then," the sheriff says. He shakes his head sadly, then takes care to speak more clearly to deliver the cruelest blow. "You changed, Stiles. You're not my son anymore."

Peter feels the sudden pain as if it's splitting him in two instead of his mate. But Stiles stands tall, only the barest tremble in his fingers when they reach back to find Peter's. Peter takes his hand immediately, lacing their fingers tightly.

"Go upstairs and see if there are any more shirts you want to keep," Peter murmurs in his mate's ear.

Stiles turns and searches his expression. "…Nothing permanent, okay?"

"I won't lay a finger on him."

Stiles knows he's telling the truth, but he can also probably feel how much Peter wants to kill his father for the pain he's caused.

Stiles pulls Peter's hand to his lips and kisses his knuckles. Then, without a backward glance, he heads upstairs and leaves Peter alone with his father. The trust isn't something Peter's had much in his life, not like this, but he can't ponder that right now. He has something else to do.

"You don't deserve to have a child at all, let alone a son as extraordinary as Stiles," Peter tells him.

The sheriff looks like he doesn't even understand what he's hearing. Then he says, "He's not my son. He's a… a snake. A monster."

"I happen to know monsters very well," Peter says pleasantly. "Your son doesn't even come close. In fact, he's the type to take a monster and make him feel like a man again. You know how he's done that?"

"You fuck him, Hale?" the odious sheriff asks. "Must be what you want him for, right? Sick bastard."

Peter continues without acknowledging the crude accusations. "Stiles looked at me and saw me. Understood me, right from the start. And above all else, he loves me, too. Imagine that."

"He can't love anymore. He's a monster."

"You're fortunate he can still love, Sheriff. If he didn't love you, you'd be dead already."

"That a threat?"

"No. I'm just stating the obvious, but you're so drunk and blind to your son's true nature that you can't understand it."

"Get out of my house," the sheriff says, struggling to stand on his own two feet.

"Sit back down before you hurt yourself," Peter says. "Go back to wallowing in your self-pity and misplaced grief. I can't believe you. Your son is alive, and he's amazing. And yet you disown him in favor of, what, a dead memory?"

It's then that Stiles calls from upstairs. Peter sneers at the sheriff. Then he heads up, dismissing the drunken man once again.

Stiles takes his hands when Peter returns to him. He looks down and kisses his knuckles once again. "No blood. Thank you."

"Anything for you, sweetheart. Even if it means curbing my more murderous impulses."

"I know how strong those impulses can be," Stiles murmurs. Then he points to two boxes. "You get those, and I'll get the other one. That's all I'm taking. Books, a couple of changes of clothes, and—"

"And?" Peter asks.

"I was going to take some old pictures of Mom and Dad from when I was a kid, but… I don't even want that much."

"You might change your mind."

Stiles shoves a big manila envelope at Peter. "You hold onto them, then."

"Is that all?"

Stiles looks around his bedroom and nods. "That's it. Let's go home."

Chapter Text

Peter cooks, and Stiles watches him. It's not the first or even second or third time Peter's cooked in front of him, but something about the domesticity of the event makes Stiles fall for him all over again. Maybe it's the the steam has frizzed Peter's hair a bit, making it fluffier. Or maybe it's how he wears his jeans slung low on his hips with no shirt, shoes, or socks. His skin looks so smooth and touchable, and Stiles is allowed to touch, now.

Doesn't stop Stiles from worrying, though. "You really shouldn't cook without a shirt, babe."

Peter tilts his head and offers Stiles a sip of sauce from a big wooden spoon. "I'm safe. Try this?"

"Mm. Maybe a little more red pepper flakes," Stiles says, smacking his lips. "Otherwise, perfect. What do you mean, you're safe? Just because you heal doesn't mean splattering grease on your skin won't hurt."

Peter rolls his eyes. "I suppose I could put a shirt on. Can you run and grab one for me?"

Stiles does that, picking out one of Peter's softest V-necks.

"I would have thought you'd prefer me half naked," Peter teases before he tugs the shirt on.

"Not in the kitchen!"

"You have some strange hangups," Peter teases. "What if I told you I want to suck you off right now? Here?"

"The kitchen is where the food lives," Stiles says primly. "Food and sex are to remain separate. You wanna blow me, you do it in any other room."

"But I have to keep an eye on the sauce," Peter says, a smile teasing his lips.

"No blowjobs for me, then."

Peter grins. "Not now, anyway."

"Oh, I definitely don't mean no blowies ever again," Stiles snorts. "Just, you know. Nothing in the kitchen."

"I learn something new about you every day."

"Uh huh. And it goes for food sex, too."

Peter raises his eyebrows in question.

Stiles starts ticking off his nopes. "No painting me with chocolate and licking it off. No whipped cream on my dick. No… I don't know, no sushi on my nipples. No food on my body at all unless it's an accident."

Peter smiles and tugs him closer for a chaste kiss. "That's totally fine. I don't care much for food on skin, either. Gets too sticky."

"Right? Sticky, dirty, unhygienic. I'd rather you piss on me than— I mean. I don't know what I mean."

Peter barks a laugh. "I think this is a conversation for another time. We've got plenty of time to explore our kink preferences."

Stiles is blushing now, but he's relaxed and laughing about kink with his mate. His soon-to-be husband. He knows this is a good thing. But now he's curious about what Peter might like, kink-wise. Does he have kinks?

Of course he does. This is Peter. Well, hopefully their likes and dislikes line up in favorable ways. They should, though. After all, they were quite literally made for each other. They're Fated. Everything they've done so far has been amazing. They fit together like… puzzle pieces. Like peanut butter and chocolate. True Mates.

"What's got you feeling so full of joy?" Peter asks as he plates the pasta.

Stiles shrugs. "Just thinking about how well we fit."

Peter looks up and gives him a look so full of love and awe… like he still can't believe he has this. Stiles understands. It's still so new and amazing that he feels like he should pinch himself more than he actually does. He's counted his fingers a few times, and for once, it's because of how good things are going.

They eat dinner together—pasta with a quick but delicious bolognese sauce. There's a glass of wine on the side for Peter and Stiles tries some for himself. He's not a big wine drinker, but he doesn't spit it out or anything. It's actually… okay. He only drinks half the glass, though.

After dinner, he helps Peter rinse their dishes and load the dishwasher until Peter peers at his phone and says, "You're going to be late meeting Scott. Do you want me to go with you?"

Stiles bites his lip and looks for his shoes. "No. You know how much Scott hates you. You being there would just make things worse. Tense. It's tense enough with him right now, and I'm trying to…" Stiles sighs. "Look, I know we're not gonna be best friends like we used to be, but I don't want to lose him completely."

Peter, unfortunately, is stung by Stiles's words and Stiles doesn't realize it until he looks up at Peter's stony face and feels the hurt he's feeling.

"I don't mean you make things worse all the time!" Stiles says, backtracking and trying to make the situation better. "My word choice could have been better there. I just… I'm not ready to shove my relationship with you in Scott's face. He knows there's something there, but—"

"Darling, please stop talking," Peter says, stepping close and kissing his forehead. "I understand. I know you didn't mean to say anything hurtful. You'd never intentionally hurt me."

"No, I wouldn't."

"I love you," Peter says. "I can't stand McCall, but I do realize he's important to you."

"He's not more important than you are. Okay? You're the most important. You're my mate. My partner in crime, the Butch Cassidy to my Sundance Kid. The Bonnie to my Clyde."

"I would look fantastic in a flapper dress. Maybe a little beret?" Peter says with a twinkle in his eye. "But thank you for not using the Joker and Harley Quinn as a model couple."

"Oh, hell no. The Joker abused the fuck out of her."

Peer kisses him on the mouth, then, and Stiles soon forgets what he was doing. Or saying. Or where he was supposed to go?

"Keys are on the hook by the door," Peter tells him when he pulls back for air.

"Hmm?" Stiles asks, dazed by Peter's mouth.

"Go hang out with McCall for a few hours. When you get home, we'll continue this… conversation."

Stiles snickers and rubs his cheek against Peter's. The scruff on Peter's cheek tingles pleasantly against Stiles's face. "Okay, I'm going. I probably won't be too long, but don't worry if it is. Sometimes Scott gets carried away with Mario Kart. We both get pretty competitive."

"I love you," Peter says, and Stiles shoots an arrow of light-filled love down their bond. Peter startles. "You're getting better at that."

"I have incentive. I don't want you ever to feel alone again."

"Oh, sweetheart," Peter says. "You're never getting rid of me, you know."

Stiles shoots a pair of finger guns at his mate. "Counting on it."

The parking lot is empty except for Scott's motorbike when Stiles pulls into a space at Derek's building. It's been so long since he's been here, but everything is the same. On the outside, anyway. He's looking forward to the changes Scott told him about on the inside. Stiles is happy Scott's looking out for his pack, making sure they have a comfortable space to spend time together. It's good. It's the kind of thing Stiles wanted back when he was working with the pack.

The pack. Not his pack. He's sure now he doesn't want to be a part of Scott's pack. Scott may always be his brother, but he's not his alpha. Hell, Stiles is pretty sure a dragon would never submit to an alpha like that, anyway.

Well. Maybe if Peter were alpha.

He puts that thought away and focuses on the moment. He's tentatively hopeful. Kind of excited. He hasn't spent one-on-one bro time with Scott in forever, even if you discount the year in the Inbetween. This is a good thing, right?

The loft is dark when Stiles opens the loud, rickety elevator door and steps out of it. "Scott? You here, buddy?"

"Right here," Scott says, startlingly close, and goes in for a hug.

Except the hug is weird. Hard. Too tight.

"Hold him," a familiar voice says.

"I've got him," Scott says.

"What the fuck?" Stiles tries to say, breathless and confused, but then there's the prick of a needle at his neck.

He places the other voice. It's Deaton. And Deaton's just injected him with something.

By the way his legs go out from under him, along with the rest of him going numb and useless, too, Stiles identifies the substance. Deaton just shot him full of kanima venom. Fuck!

A light switches on. Scott grabs him and carries him over to the middle of the room, where Stiles can see the sectional Scott mentioned. He was right; it looks very comfortable. Too bad Stiles can't appreciate it. He's not even put on it.

No, Stiles gets the middle of a ritual circle to rest in. Fucking hell.

Deaton being in on this, he sort of understands. Stiles is a Spark, and druids hate Sparks. According to the lore, it's a deep, well-documented kind of aversion, and this is exactly the kind of thing Stiles worried about when he thought about Deaton learning about Stiles's magical evolution and the whole dragon thing.

But Scott? What the hell is he even trying to do here? And why? Stiles is confused and feels so betrayed.

"Try to keep him calm while I ready the ritual," Deaton tells Scott.

"I will. It's okay, Stiles. It'll be good, you'll see."

What kind of surprise rite that forcibly puts Stiles in the middle of a ritual circle could possibly be good here? And calm? Yeah, the time for calm is long past.

Fuck. Time to call in the cavalry. Without an ounce of grace or subtlety, Stiles yanks on the two bonds he has, practically crying out to Sharrat and Peter that he needs help now. They respond immediately, both of them alarmed and questioning. Peter knows where he is, though. He can come get him out of this mess. And Sharrat has all kinds of esoteric magic up her sleeve; she can probably scry for him in a matter of minutes.

"Wait, what's this on his wrist?" Scott asks, picking up Stiles's arm and baring his mating mark.

Deaton frowns. "It's a good thing I came prepared." He rummages through a pocket of his jacket and then places what looks like an amulet around Stiles's neck. Just like that, Stiles's connection to Peter is strangled and cut off. He goes from feeling the heat of Peter's rising anger and urgent determination to feeling… nothing.

Stiles cries out at the absence.

"What was that? Why did he do that?" Scott asks.

"Nothing harmful," Deaton assures him. "But it seems you were right about Peter Hale's influence. He and Stiles initiated some kind of bond."

Stiles glares at Deaton. He's being vague on purpose. If Stiles's mouth were working, he'd tell Scott exactly what kind of bond it is. Maybe if Scott understood he's fucking around with Peter's mate he'd realize the danger he's in. As it is, Stiles throws some mumbled, incomprehensible swearing toward Scott and Deaton. Deaton seems unperturbed, but Scott looks offended.

"We're just trying to help you, man," he says earnestly. "There's something bad inside you, now. Deaton told me all about it. Maybe you don't know yet, but there's this… parasite in you. A dragon. It'll take over your whole personality if we don't stop it. You'll stop feeling things and turn into a cold, evil person who only cares about your hoard. Let us help you."

If Stiles could bite Scott, he would. He wants to rip Scott's throat out with his teeth. Now he understands Derek a bit better. That threat is exactly what Stiles needs right now. Well, maybe not for Scott, who's just gullible and misguided. But Deaton? Yeah, he deserves some throat-ripping.

"How long do you think it'll take?" Scott asks Deaton.

Deaton places an object beside Stiles. It looks like an ancient sculpture of a dragon, but Stiles can't even place where it may have originated from. There are dragon myths all over the world, in almost every culture. The sculpture here looks a little like it could have come from anywhere. Everywhere.

"It can't take too long," Deaton says. "We need to work before Peter finds us. He's probably already on the way, if Stiles reached out to him via his bond."

Scott stands tall and rolls his shoulders. "Let me take care of Peter. He can try to get past me, but I'm an alpha. He's just a beta. Or maybe even as weak as an omega, since he doesn't have a pack."

He knows nothing about Peter. Peter is strong. Peter may not be as strong as Mr. True Alpha McCall, but he has a mate bond, and Stiles and Sharrat are his pack.

But Deaton seems to agree with Scott. He nods and begins to chant. At first, when nothing happens, Stiles thinks he's fucked it up, and relief flows through him. But then… a pull.

Deaton is pulling the Spark, the part of him that fuels the Dragon, out of Stiles and into the sculpture. Fuck. Stiles knows more about his magic now, knows it isn't separate from him. He is the Spark. He is the dragon. Deaton is pulling Stiles's spirit out. His life energy. But Stiles can't speak, can't try to convince Scott to stop the ritual.

Stiles is scared, now. He needs Peter. Surely Peter is on his way. God, he hopes Peter doesn't get hurt. Wait, no, Peter is coming to Stiles's rescue. His mate is in danger. Peter's gonna try to fuck Scott up. Deaton, too.

But Peter is just one against an alpha and a druid with who knows what kind of power. He's strong enough to drain Stiles's life force. That's pretty bad. Maybe he can do the same to Peter, if he has to.

Stiles feels himself getting weaker. Already, he can't move, but now his vision is going dark at the edges. He's… dying?

He hears metal tear apart and concrete smash to pieces, to powder. He hears his mate's howl, full of promised violence and retribution. Scott growls, and they clash, but Stiles can't move his head to watch the fight.

Deaton's chanting gets louder, more desperate, until there is a flash of blinding light and a roar that Stiles recognizes. It's not a werewolf but a dragon.

Sharrat has arrived.

A wave of magic settles over Stiles, and he feels the effects of the kanima venom dissipate. She has got to teach him how to do that.

Stiles tries to sit up, but he's weak. Has Scott been tossed out a window? Peter's got his clawed hands on Stiles's shoulders as he helps him sit up, but Stiles is so dizzy and weak that Peter is doing all the work.

Peter is almost completely wolfed out, and Stiles can tell by the look on his face that he's angry and concerned for him, but Stiles can't feel him through the bond.

Oh, right, the amulet. He tries to lift his hand to touch it, to take it off, but his hand is shaking and feeble. He feels like an old man. All that's missing are the wrinkles and liver spots.

"What is it, my love?" Peter's never called him that before. Is now the appropriate time to start feeling warm and fuzzy about his mate?

At least Deaton has stopped chanting. Stiles cranes his neck over to see where he saw him last and…

Well, only half of Deaton's body is left, and that part is slightly charred. The rest of him? Sharrat is in her smaller dragon form, just the right size for the loft. She's all black and silver scales with blood dripping from her maw. The missing part of Deaton is…

Well. Sharrat ate it? Ate him.

(Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy.)

Somehow, during Stiles's observations, Peter realized the amulet around Stiles's neck is doing something. Peter removes it with a claw that slices through the leather thong it hangs on, and Peter pulls it off to throw across the room.

The bonds open once again and Stiles can feel Sharrat and Peter's presence there. Peter is still worried. Stiles would try to reassure him, but he's worried, too.

"Th' statue," Stiles slurs, and Peter reaches toward it with intent to destroy.

"Stop!" Sharrat says. She's back in her human guise, not a speck of blood left on her. Neat trick. "Don't touch the statue. It's holding Stiles's essence. If we break it here, the magic will rush back into him and he'll transform fully in the backlash. We won't be able to keep him safe in this place."

"So what do we do?" Peter asks. He squeezes Stiles's hand. "His pulse is thready and he's… we're losing him. He's lost so much… magic? Life?"

"Yes," Sharrat says. "We need to transport him and the statue to the Inbetween. At least there, we can handle whatever happens."

Stiles wishes he could tell her something. He loves her. She's like a mom to him, when he hasn't had anything like a good parent in so long. He kept waiting for her to grow bored with him, to forget about him, but she's not going to, is she? He can feel it. She loves him, too.

He looks at her and knows she can feel his love for her and his gratitude that she loves him, too. She doesn't smile, but she sends what feels like a warm hug along their bond.

"Let's go then," Stiles whispers. He has tears standing in his eyes, and he's overwhelmed, but he also gets that he's in danger every moment they stay here, with his essence still pulled out of him.

Peter kisses his temple and lifts him gently into his arms. Sharrat carries the dragon statue in one wiry arm and opens a portal with the other.

Stiles is fading fast. The last thing he sees is the magical light of Sharrat's house on the other side of the portal. He's going to be safe. His mate and mentor will make sure of it.

Chapter Text

The portal opens out to the castle grounds, not inside the building itself. The tower is in the distance, but not so far away that it would be difficult to reach in an emergency.

Except the emergency is here and now. It's Stiles in Peter's arms, almost too weak to hold on around Peter's neck.

"Lay him on the ground," Sharrat says. Peter does as he's bidden, carefully placing Stiles's pale form on a bed of sweet-smelling clover.

Stiles's eyelids twitch as if he's attempting to wake more fully, but just doesn't have the energy to do so.

"His lips are turning blue," Peter says tersely.

"I can see that." Sharrat's holding a big rock, now. Conjured, apparently. "Step back. There's no telling what will happen when I break the statue. It's holding almost all his magic, his life, and it's going to rush back into him all at once. Be careful."

Be careful? Peter is much more concerned about his mate than himself. Maybe she means he could accidentally hurt Stiles.

But he steps back as she says, since she's the one who understands what's happening here.

There is no countdown. Sharrat doesn't even seem to need to bolster herself. As soon as Peter is about twenty feet from Stiles, Sharrat smashes the dragon statue with her rock.

The immediate effect is an explosion of blue-white light, the same color as Stiles's dragon eyes. It's cold that comes from the light, though, not heat of any kind. Peter holds himself still so he doesn't go to Stiles immediately, and that is when he notes that his breath is fogging with each exhale. He can't see anything through the frosty air at first, and he waits, near-shivering, for it to clear. And then it does, and Peter sees Stiles for the first time in his full dragon form.

He's larger like this, of course, bigger than the form Sharrat took in the loft when she stopped the ritual in her straightforward, bloody way. But Stiles is not quite as grand as Sharrat's full-sized form, like the one she took the night of Stiles's birthday light show. Stiles is colored much lighter, too; at first glance, he appears entirely white. His scales shine like polished opals, smoother and less jagged than Sharrat's. Peter isn't sure, but he thinks this is an indication of Stiles's youth. His scales simply look newer, as if he's just been born.

He is, Peter realizes. Through the bond, he feels Stiles's confusion and fear, too. His mate wasn't ready to become fully dragon yet; he still had years of study before even attempting this form.

"He wasn't ready, so he'll be disoriented and upset for a time. He'll need a lot of help to come back to himself in his mind, but his magic won't be able to sustain the dragon form for too long. He'll be human again without any interventions. We just need to wait."

As soon as she begins to speak, Stiles's massive, horned head swings around so he can listen. He huffs when she's finished, and snow falls from his nose and mouth.

"Does he recognize us?" Peter asks in a low voice, gaining Stiles's immediate attention.

With Stiles's clear sky eyes focused entirely on himself, the hairs on the back of Peter's neck stand up. It's not fear he feels, though. It's an awareness. Stiles has never been so Other before. There's a keen intelligence in his eyes, just as there always is. But now it's not human. It's hard not to wonder just what is going through Stiles's head right now.

"He should know who we are," Sharrat says, and some of Peter's tension flows away. "He won't attempt to hurt us. He isn't feral. Just… new to being a dragon when he wasn't yet ready for the change."

Stiles seems impatient with their conversation, and Peter can feel his restless confusion. Stiles stands, his wings unfolding to show their smooth iridescence. He places his clawed feet beneath himself and pushes up on four muscular legs. He flexes his talons against the frost- and snow-covered ground.

Peter thinks Stiles will stretch, next, learning the give-and-take of his body in that way, and he's fully prepared for movements reminiscent of a big cat. But Stiles isn't learning right now, he's too fidgety for that. He shakes his head like an animal with water in his ear, causing the spikes around his neck to flare out, almost like a spiky lion's mane, before they lie back down in their previous places.

And then there is a loud crack, like a whip, as Stiles's tail strikes up and down against the ground, loudly displacing the air.

The sudden crack surprises Peter and Sharrat, but it downright spooks Stiles, who jumps back from the noise. That's how he loses his balance and nearly faceplants in the snow. He catches himself at the last moment with his wings, though, which shoot out to help him balance.

The leathery wings are as distracting for Stiles as his new tail. The pointy edges of them are tipped with more claws, which Stiles seems to find fascinating. He attempts control of his wings, one after the other, and considers them. Along the bond, Peter feels nothing but sharp curiosity now.

"How long do you think he'll stay like this?" Peter asks Sharrat.

"Like I said before, it's Stiles's own magic sustaining the transformation. He hasn't built his magic up to a level that would keep him in this form for more than about a day, is my guess."

Peter is relieved. As beautiful as Stiles is in his dragon form, being unable to communicate beyond their bond has him uneasy, especially after he almost died.

"In th meantime, Stiles is dealing with a different structure of mind. He has new instincts and has to get used to and learn to control his dragon form. I do think it will be easier for him with you here, though. Your bond is strong, and you are his anchor."

"What do you feel from him?" Peter asks curiously.

Sharrat shakes her head. "It is a terrible breach of etiquette to ask a dragon to share what she feels within her bond with another dragon."

Shit. "I apologize, madam," Peter says, tipping his head to her in a casual bow. They are close now through Stiles, practically family. The apology should suffice.

Sharrat gives him a rare smile. "I doubt I feel anything different than you do through your own bond. Stiles is every bit as intelligent and complex as he is when in human form. But it will remain… different. He is a being of wild magic, and right now he is just discovering what that truly means."

Stiles has been ignoring their conversation until now, acting bored with them. He starts pacing in a restless circle, looking all around. He zeroed in on something, past Peter and Sharrat, toward the magical forest.

He cocks his head. Sharrat has told Peter in the past that a dragon's senses surpass even those of a werewolf's. Stiles hears something Peter hasn't picked up on, and soon his dragon mate is stalking toward the wooded area. With every heavy step, a footprint of frost appears. Well, he won't be hard to track if he gets too far ahead.

"I suppose we're following him," Peter says.

"You follow," Sharrat corrects. "I will keep an eye on him from a distance. I'll need to act quickly to corral him when he takes to the air."

"Takes…? You think he can fly already? Is that something he'll just know, or…?" Peter trails off. Stiles is still a klutz in human form, even after many fighting lessons that should have instilled a sense of grace and fluidity. But Stiles has remained clumsy, and as far as Peter has seen, it has transferred to his dragon self, as well. Therefore, imagining him flying on his first day as a dragon has Peter nervous.

"He has the intelligence and the instincts. He'll fly."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Peter mutters.

Sharrat shakes her head. "Just remember, dragons are extremely hardy. Not much can injure us in that form. So even if he falls out of the sky itself, he won't come to harm." She tilts her chin, thinking. "Well. His ego might gain some bruising."

"That's reassuring, at least," Peter says. He understands. But keep an eye on his dragon mate anyway, if only to admire his new form.

He jogs into the woods to catch up to where Stiles has already disappeared. It's not hard to find him, though. Peter only has to follow the large patches of frost that are Stiles's footprints.

Stiles lopes off after the sound he heard, tripping over his massive feet twice. Once, his talons get stuck in a log, and he tumbles down, chin first. It's good Peter is a ways behind him. He doesn't want his mate to see him klutz his way through the forest for the first time. Aren't dragons supposed to be graceful? Sharrat has never tripped over her talons.

Well, at least he doesn't have to stalk his prey soundlessly. He doesn't think it's the type to run at the first sign of trouble. His prey thinks itself a predator, and that's a big mistake against a dragon.

The day is too warm. Stiles has never thought much of summer beyond the way it gives freedom from classes, but now that he's thinking of it with new ice dragon sensibilities, he hates the heat.

Stiles frostily huffs about it and wishes he could turn on the damn A/C. Oh, wait, he's in his full dragon form, as odd as it is. He can change the weather. He doesn't even have to concentrate on it, just starts smirking—as well as a dragon can smirk—when snowflakes begin to flurry in the woods around him.

The beast in the forest is part grizzly bear and perhaps, through some unethical magical experimentation, part elk. Maybe even moose, given its sheer size and I give no fucks attitude. The result resembles a giant bison with antlers at first glance, until you get a better look at its double rows of carnivorous fangs and realize it is no such thing.

A dead animal, decomposed beyond recognition, is impaled atop the beast's antlers. It is a trophy the beast carries upon its brow like a rancid jewel in a crown. The rotting sight proclaims the beast is king here.

Stiles will dethrone it. He doesn't care for the jewelry, though. Stiles's slim, curving horns need no further decoration.

The beast hasn't lost all its natural sense; Stiles can see from its careful expression that it knows the smart thing to do would be to run from the larger, more dangerous creature stalking it. But there's something else in its eyes—perhaps from being the biggest, meanest thing in the forest for so long, or perhaps because it knows it is not a natural beast and can therefore not be expected to act naturally—a madness, a fury. A fire consuming it from the inside that has raged within since it was created.

The beast stills once Stiles prowls into full view. It eyes him with wary hunger. It wants a fight. It wants spilled blood gushing and flesh violently rent. The beast tilts its head back to invite a challenge, to force its confrontation. The echoing noise it makes reverberates through the now-snowy trees like an eldritch foghorn. It sounds wrong, just as the entire beast is wrong. Stiles is wild, and Other, but this thing is an abomination.

Stiles will put it down as a favor. The beast cannot be at peace in its existence. Something inside Stiles, a new instinct he holds at the core of his being, tells him this is the right thing to do. The only thing to do.

He roars his dragon roar and pounces. They clash, experimental beast against fabled being. The beast is eager for violence and brute force, but Stiles is the wildness of magic itself. There is no competition. The beast dies within minutes, and Stiles looks up only in time to see his mate standing very still, his eyes on Stiles and the dead beast, and he feels… right.

Peter. Mate. Love.

Anchor.

Stiles drops the beast and forgets it in favor of coming closer to his mate.

"I'm sorry I missed the fight, darling," Peter says, though his words are as dry as a winter wind in a desert. Maybe he needs something to drink. He certainly sounds parched.

Stiles finds the stream easily. His affinity for water makes it a small matter. He pushes Peter along with his snout when the silly wolf slows to check Stiles for wounds.

There are no wounds. What blood did spill came entirely from the beast. Well, maybe Stiles got a scratch or two, but they are long healed now.

"I get it, you're fine. Now, where are you taking me?" Peter asks.

Stiles huffs and blows snow into his mate's fluffy hair. Oh! Stiles is king of this forest now; maybe his consort deserves a crown, as well. Peter does not have horns or antlers of his own. Perhaps…

"Stiles, what are you doing?" Peter asks as Stiles completes the icicle crown for Peter's head. Stiles clumsily places it atop Peter's hair and sends a smug feeling of satisfaction and love along the bond. It's the first time he's used their bond intentionally since he woke up as a dragon, and it makes Peter happy. "Thank you, darling. I'll treasure it for the whole half hour before it melts. It is summer, after all. Despite your snow."

Stiles huffs. Peter's crown is pretty. It won't melt. Stiles will make sure it doesn't. He has the magic to make it so.

Once they're at the stream, Stiles nudges Peter closer so he can take a drink. It's a magical stream, free of parasites or diseases. Not that werewolves have to worry about that, anyway.

"What now?" Peter asks, not drinking.

Stiles nudges more insistently. But… Stiles isn't used to the dragon body yet, and he can't yet gauge his strength. His gentle push is more of an abrupt shove, and Peter flails his way down to splash into the stream.

In the ice-cold stream. In the snow. It's so cold Peter gasps as his lungs seize up from the pure shock of it. Stiles yanks him out again, but it's too late. Peter's soaked to the bone.

His mate is going to freeze, and it's all Stiles's fault! The crown, which fell into the stream when Peter did, is forgotten.

"Motherfucking fucking fuck!" Peter says, or at least tries to say around his chattering teeth.

Stiles snatches him up (carefully, he has to be mindful of his razor-edged talons), tosses him on the back of his neck right under his horns (where it's safe), and starts racing toward the castle. He's fast, but it's not fast enough. Peter needs a hot bath, dry clothing, warm food, and a toasty bed. His blood is still running high after the fight, and his adrenaline is still pumping.

Stiles doesn't realize he's flying until he's up in the air and cutting through the wind to take Peter to safety. There's nothing to it, really. He flaps his wings and holds his legs tucked in close to his body. It is all instinct, no lessons needed.

"This is ridiculous," Peter says, holding tight with both hands around one of Stiles's horns. "I'm not dying, here. Yes, you are a very good mate for looking out for me, but I really thought I'd skip your first flight, at least as a passenger. Not sure I trust your flying without Sharrat's careful guidance… you don't even have a pilot's license yet. Yes, that's a joke, thank you ever so much for that snort of frost in my face. Stay focused, Stiles! Don't fall out of the sky, please and thank you. Don't look down—no, don't look at me, either!" Peter always hates losing control of any situation, and Stiles can feel him along the bond, fighting his panicked wolfy brain to stay calm. Peter takes a fortifying breath, teeth still clacking together now and then. "I'm fine. I'm freezing cold, but I'm not dying of hypothermia if you don't get me inside within seconds. I'm a werewolf, darling, I don't— No, don't fly faster!"

Sharrat joins them in the sky then. She feels like concern and pride wound around a ball of parental love. Stiles trills at her and sends back a feeling of exhilaration, but underneath that is his worry for Peter. Sharrat seems to understand and leads him to the largest tower roof, then transforms effortlessly into her human form.

Stiles can't transform like that yet, doesn't know how even to begin to do so. No one asks him to, though. Sharrat simply reaches for Peter and helps him down.

"I'll take it from here," Sharrat promises.

Stiles doesn't like that he can't take care of his mate. He wants to be the one to strip him out of his icy clothing and help him submerge into one of the indoor hot springs. He has to leave it to Sharrat, though. Well, Sharrat is a trusted friend, practically family now, and he wouldn't leave Peter alone with anyone else. Well, maybe Malia, if he thought father and daughter wouldn't bicker too much in the meantime.

Stiles needs to find a way to contact Malia and Lydia now, he knows. Disappearing on them again without a trace? He can already hear Lydia's shrill screaming. Malia wouldn't yell, not much, but she would sulk. And no one wants to face a sulky coyote. Stiles feels guilty now just imagining it.

"Rest, for now," Sharrat tells Stiles. She inclines her head toward her own massive nest of pillows and sumptuous blankets to the side of the roof. "Meditate, if you can, and perhaps your magic will run down enough for you to transform back to human."

Stiles huffs and turns around on top of the nest, making a place for himself before he settles. He's tired. So much has happened in the past day, and it's all catching up with him. It would be a good idea to start his meditations, but his whole massive body, still new to him in a million little ways, is begging for rest.

The sun never really sets in the Inbetween, at least not with regularity, but he can see the sky glowing with sunset colors as the light slowly dims around him.

It's as good a time as any to fall asleep.

Chapter Text

Stiles doesn't meditate; he falls asleep instead.

The worst of the past couple of days plays out in his dreams. He knows he is dreaming, is at least lucid enough for that, but it doesn't make the rapid-cycling show in his mind any easier to watch. It's horrible, actually. It doesn't matter to know it's a dream when he can't wake to get away from it. From the truth of what happened.

His father disowned him. Peter thought he was out of earshot when he spoke to him, but Stiles didn't shut himself into his room to pack until after he heard his father call his own son a monster just like his mother had all those years before. In his dreams, the words are scrawled in the air and circling his head like an aura.

Monster.

Not my son.

And then his brother, his formerbest friend, lured him into a trap that almost killed him. Stiles had been… excited. Tentatively hopeful that he could somehow repair his relationship with Scott. That maybe they could become, if not best friends again, then at least good friends.

But Scott held him in place as Deaton shot him full of kanima venom. Scott spouted bigoted lies about dragons, about Stiles, and stood by while Deaton drained him nearly to the point of death.

Stiles is forced to relive the fear he felt, the desperate moments when he thought he'd never see Peter or Sharrat again. His new family. His loved ones. He has people he loves who love him back, something he didn't think he'd ever really have again. Not since his mom got sick and her mind turned her into someone who didn't love him anymore, who only hated him and…

And now, she's gone. Even the phantom of her is gone, killed by Peter's own hands in Stiles's defense. His father hated it, blamed Peter and Stiles for getting rid of a memory he was too desperate to see was just a pale imitation of what they'd lost. Maybe that act was the last straw, but Stiles's father had stopped caring for Stiles long before that day.

In fact, as Stiles's memory shows him moments and patterns from a whole lifetime, he realizes that what his father felt for him was never the unconditional love a parent should have for their child.

If Stiles didn't have Sharrat and Peter, if he didn't have their strong bonds anchoring him and giving testament to the love they both hold for him, that realization would have broken him.

But Stiles isn't broken. He's not healed seamlessly or scar-free, but he has put himself back together into a configuration that works for him. He'll never be the boy he was before all the trauma—hit after hit, rolling from one crisis into another all his life—and he won't be the boy who tried to stuff up the holes and plaster over it all with a goofy smile and dark humor. He won't be just that, anyway. He's still all that, but he's more, now. Because the gaping wounds inside him have been tended with care and are healing by love and newfound family.

So what if they aren't his "real" family? His biological parents didn't do such a great job of keeping him sane, safe, or happy. They fucked him up so bad he thought he couldn't even be loved, that he wasn't worthy of it.

And then Sharrat came along. And Peter. Even Lydia and Malia, to an extent.

He's loved, now, and he's not even fighting it. He gets a little scared he might lose it, but that's the chance you take when dealing with messy emotions.

He realizes his dream has stopped showing him the bad things, now. He is at peace. He is loved. He floats in that realization for a while, letting the positive emotions he feels through his bonds bolster and surround him. It's nothing but good, and he hopes he can keep these positive thoughts once he's awake.

Can he speak in this dream? He hasn't needed to, but he wants to hear it 'aloud', even if it's just in his head.

"I'm loved." It's scary to say the words, even just in a dream. The words are so precious to him, so fragile. Not fragile like weak, just… in need of protection. Like Stiles himself, when he's in human form.

Maybe that's all he needed to understand, he realizes as he wakes slowly. He's back to being pale and skinny and fragile, but he's wrapped up in Peter's arms so he knows he's safe. Peter will keep Stiles safe, and Stiles will hold onto his mate's heart and protect it, too.

Peter pulls him closer once he realizes Stiles is finally awake.

"Was I out for long?" Stiles asks.

"Sharrat said it was a healing trance," Peter says, sounding disgruntled. "It took about a day."

"I guess… I do feel healed," Stiles says, thinking of the revelations he received in his dreams.

"She also said it wasn't just your magic that needed to heal. Your spirit, your… heart. They needed it, too."

Stiles turns and props his head in his hand so he can mirror Peter's position. "It might take a while to heal from completely… what Dad said. And what Scott did."

"Oh, sweetheart," Peter says softly.

"But I don't have to do it alone," Stiles says. "You and Sharrat love me unconditionally—you know me and love me anyway."

"I can't speak for Sharrat, but darling… I know you and love you because of it. Not 'anyway', not in spite of your faults or flaws or whatever you're thinking. I just love you."

"Yeah. That'll take me some time to get used to," Stiles says. "But… I think you might need reminding of that, yourself. I love you for you, too. I know you, Peter Hale. I understand you. And I love you for it."

Peter doesn't answer that. Seems to go speechless. The bond is going crazy with all the emotions he's feeling. Gratitude. Awe. Joy. Suspicion, even though Stiles understands that, too.

Stiles kisses him gently, a promise that he gets it.

Peter doesn't let it remain just a promise. He deepens the kiss, pouring all his love and devotion into it.

It's good to know they're on the same page.

Chapter Text

Amazingly—or maybe due to Sharrat's magical time and space manipulation—they get back to Beacon Hills in time for Stiles to walk across the stage in cap and gown and graduate.

Peter stands at the back of the crowd so he can keep an eye on everyone in the space. Malia, surprisingly, chooses to stand with him. She's not graduating, but she tells Peter she helped Lydia with her Valedictorian speech, and she doesn't want to miss it.

Sharrat is in the crowd, too, though closer to the stage. Scott, who is present to graduate himself, doesn't give her a second look. He never saw her in human guise, and he's terrible at using his werewolf senses, so it isn't hard to believe he can't sense her magical aura. She appears to every other mundane human in the space as some classmate's glamorous grandmother. She does get a few appreciative glances from some of the older adults present.

Sheriff Stilinski isn't present. Good. If he had dared to show up, Peter—and possibly Sharrat—would have committed violence against his person. Stiles has already had to talk Sharrat out of going to visit the man for 'a little chat', and while Peter wants the man dead and disappeared for the pain he's put Stiles through, he's doing his best to keep to Stiles's wishes that they just ignore him and forget Stiles ever had a father.

How the sheriff could ever hurt Stiles or abandon him or even just not love him makes no sense to Peter. Then again, the man doesn't have much sense, does he?

Malia elbows him in his side. "Stop stewing. We're here to support our pack."

"I'm not stewing," Peter lies.

His daughter rolls her eyes and leans against him slightly. It's… comforting, and calming, and not something he'd ever expect from her.

The rest of the ceremony blurs together. Lydia's speech focuses not on academics or striving to be the best, but on relationships and friendships she's made and lost and recovered. The students in the crowd seem to remember her close friendship with Allison Argent and think they can pick up on what she's talking about. But it's much more nuanced than that, and even Peter doesn't understand every reference she makes. He knows Stiles does, though.

And Stiles's pride in Lydia and his love for her help Peter understand their friendship a bit more. He used to be jealous of the girl who was constantly stealing his fated mate's attention. Now, he's grateful for the support and love she now returns, because Stiles needs all the support and love he can get. He's stronger for it. Healed by it.

As Lydia steps off the stage, Malia asks, "So where are we going when we leave Beacon Hills, anyway?"

"We?" Peter asks, stunned by the question.

"We're pack now, aren't we?" she asks. "Besides, I'm not losing my anchor again . I go where Stiles goes."

"What about Lydia?" Peter asks.

Malia shrugs. "She wants to go to college in Massachusetts, so maybe we could find a place there? It's as good a place as any to wait Scott out. I mean, if we still want to return to Beacon Hills."

Peter nods absently. He has plenty of contacts in Boston and Cambridge, and Sharrat's home base—one of them— on the mortal plane is in Salem—she loves the irony. Peter doubts it will be hard to talk Stiles around to moving to Massachusetts, really. Hell, he's probably already thought it through.

The best thing about the area, though, is the wildlife reserves and forests all around Boston. There are several (mostly old, but some newer) packs there, and they live in relative harmony with one another. Being close to the city and major universities has them used to new werewolves, even packs, coming in to share territory with them. No one should have a problem with their small pack moving in, especially when they only boast two shifters. It's possible that Sharrat already has ties to the packs there, or at least to their emissaries—if they're other types of magic users and not druids like Deaton.

He almost misses it when the graduating students start walking across the stage to get their diplomas. He doesn't know many of them, but his eyes track Scott like prey when he walks. The boy doesn't even sense that he's in danger.

Malia elbows him again when he bares his teeth. "We're not turning their graduation into a massacre, so put those away," she hisses.

Peter relaxes again and sighs. "A pity, really."

When 'Stilinski' is called and Stiles walks, Peter can feel his nerves. But then Sharrat begins to clap and whistle, and Peter follows her lead. So does Malia. So do many of Stiles's fellow graduates. Lydia even moves from her place to give him a hug, which is probably against some rule, but what are they going to do to her? It's too late, now. They've already given her their highest honors.

One of the teachers claps Stiles on the back as he walks past. Peter can hear him all the way in the back. "Good job, kid. I never want to see you again," he says cheerfully.

Peter recognizes him then. It's Bobby Finstock, Stiles's lacrosse coach. His favorite teacher, too, he's said in the past. At least he was before Sharrat came along.

"Don't worry, Coach. I'm getting the fuck out of Beacon Hills ASAP," Stiles answers, just as loudly.

Laughter echoes through the crowd.

Scott McCall looks… gutted. And then, after all the other students get their diplomas and there's a last word from their principal, McCall attempts to grab Stiles.

Peter is moving before he knows it, intent on breaking both Scott's arms. His audacity, really.

Sharrat gets there before Peter, though. Her eyes are cold, her demeanor just as icy. Peter's never seen her eyes go reptilian in her human form before, but they do now.

"You will never touch him again," Sharrat pronounces, and Peter can feel the heat of her magic. The place where she has grabbed Scott to pull him away, his forearm, is smoking. The satin robe he's wearing smolders, and Peter can smell Scott's skin blistering from Sharrat's hold.

Peter almost expects Stiles to try to stop Sharrat, but he doesn't object. Instead, he asks, "Did you know?"

Scott's eyes are wide. He's trying to pull away from Sharrat's grip, but she's put some magic into the hold, and he's not getting out of it.

"Know what?" Scott asks, voice high and defensive.

"That Deaton would try to kill me," Stiles says.

Scott shakes his head. "He didn't try to kill you, he was just trying to… to exorcise the demon! The dragon!"

Stiles stares at him, then finally just shakes his head in disgust. "You're an idiot. A gullible, ignorant little boy playing at alpha. You two almost killed me that night. If Sharrat hadn't stopped Deaton, I'd be dead."

"It wasn't like that!" Scott says, and then cries out in pain as Sharrat does something else Peter can't see.

Somehow, Malia has glared away anyone who thought to stick around. There aren't any witnesses, or a least none who'd say anything.

Stiles looks at Sharrat. Her face shows no emotion whatsoever, but they know her well, now. She's livid. Stiles is… tired.

"He's nothing. He's not even worth the energy you're expending," Stiles says.

Sharrat drops the smoking arm, and Scott pulls away, cradling the burned limb to his chest. He'll heal. Eventually. Probably.

"Thank you," Scott says to Stiles.

Stiles gives a flat look. "Don't ever speak to me again. I never want to see you again. Don't ever come to me for anything. Don't look for me when I'm gone. If I ever hear word of you again, I might just do the world a favor and get rid of you for good."

"Stiles…"

"Don't even say my name."

Scott turns to Peter, ready to fling angry accusations, but Stiles makes a chopping gesture in the air in front of Scott's face, and he says nothing.

Peter realizes he can't. Stiles stole Scott's ability to speak.

"Very good, sweetheart, is that new?" Peter asks admiringly.

Stiles shrugs. "First time using it."

Peter hums and wraps an arm around Stiles after, leads him over to Malia and Lydia, away from a gaping Scott, who is still holding his burned arm to himself.

"Nice trick," Lydia says. She glances at Scott and dismisses him just as quickly. She didn't think twice about dropping the friendship once she heard what he and Deaton did—and what they nearly did—to Stiles. "Is it permanent?"

"Nah," Stiles says. He leans against Peter's side. "Can we go now?"

"Milkshakes at the diner?" Peter asks.

But Stiles shakes his head. "I just want to go home. Malia, Lydia, I'll talk to you tomorrow. Okay?"

The girls both hug Stiles, then, and kiss his cheek. Lydia nods at Peter—they've come a long way, but they aren't embracing each other, at least not yet—while Malia gives him an awkward side hug that doesn't last nearly long enough.

Stiles gives Peter an indulgent, knowing smile, and Peter resigns himself to being known this well for the rest of his life.

The girls leave to speak with Sharrat, who is still glaring Scott's way and keeping him from following Stiles and Peter out of the venue.

Peter feels something and looks down. Sees Stiles shyly putting his hand into Peter's.

Peter entwines their fingers and brings Stiles's hand to his lips for a kiss. Their eyes meet, and love passes between them through their bond. Peter smirks, winks, and looks away again.