Chapter Text
14, 15, 16 —
Stiles loses track of the ceiling tiles he’s counting when his eyesight temporarily blurs. It’s to be expected (pain meds are starting to kick in), but he still shuts his eyes for a moment, hoping it will help restore his vision. He’ll have to start counting all over again.
And why is he counting ceiling tiles in one of the small exam rooms off of Beacon Hill’s main ER, while he’s the most bored any person has ever been in the entire History of Boredom? Because his former (he’s seeking dissolution) best friend stole his phone and cruelly abandoned him in an elusive search for service.
Okay, maybe Scott owed Deaton a call to let him know he wouldn’t be in to work, but how long could that possibly take? Though knowing Scott, he might have seized the opportunity to update the rest of their friends on Stiles’ injury. Or maybe Scott was looking for an excuse to take a break from him, which Stiles couldn’t even blame his best—former best friend for. Stiles knows he can be a lot to take (like a lot a lot), especially when he’s feeling miserable.
Regardless of the reason, ever since Stiles’ ex-best friend decided to become the star of his own Unsolved Mysteries episode, Stiles has been left to entertain himself with such fun-filled games as Count the Ceiling Tiles and Let’s Imagine How This Broken Wrist Will Negatively Impact Life for the Next Few Months. (Admittedly that last one is a bit long—he’s working on something more catchy. Something like… Everything Is Terrible. Yes, that sums it up perfectly.)
Stiles stretches his legs out on the bed, trying to get more comfortable. The back of it is angled so he can sit upright and rest his injured arm on a small exam table next to the bed, a bandage wrapped around his right wrist to control the swelling. The on-call ER physician, Dr. Anderson, had left him like this after his examination, right when he’d been paged and had to leave. On his way out the door, he’d sharply warned Stiles five times not to move (…it’s possible they’ve known each other for years).
Stiles turns to the clock on the wall, watching the second hand pass smoothly around. He challenges himself to see how long he can go without blinking (fun new game discovered!) but it makes his eyes sting and water, and he keeps losing sight of the second hand (fun new game isn’t that fun, after all). If only he had his phone to time himself with…
Stiles’ mood is diminishing at a precipitous rate. Every few minutes he registers another terrible feeling to add to his already long list of Today’s Terrible Feelings. He’s restless and anxious. Bored and uncomfortable. Distressingly alone, waiting for the doctor to return, mourning the loss of a best friend who decided letting his boss know he couldn’t make it to work was more important than Stiles—
No, he won’t dwell on Scott, who probably vanished into the same black hole that swallows most of the phone service in Beacon Hills (oh God that’s not a thing is it? It better not be a thing).
Of course this would happen while his dad’s in San Francisco for a state required law enforcement training. He won't be back for several days, but Stiles had talked to him earlier to fill him in on this latest…incident. The sheriff hadn’t said anything to imply he was upset with Stiles (or more accurately, his persistent inability to remain uninjured), but Stiles is certain he must be. It was such a stupid way to get hurt, falling on his wrist during a sparring match… Peter certainly won’t be happy about that particular detail—
Stiles tries to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach, made worse by the drug-induced fog encroaching on every corner of his mind. Maybe he can avoid telling Peter what happened. For…the next…ever.
Except now that he’s thinking about Peter, Stiles just wants to see him. Peter fixes things. It doesn’t matter if the other man’s angry or upset or disappointed—he fixes things, anyways.
Since Peter can’t physically heal him, he’d fix this a different way. If Peter were here, he’d distract Stiles and make him laugh and get him to forget about his misery. Peter has this remarkable ability to make him feel better about anything.
But Peter’s busy, having planned to spend about half the day consulting for his old firm. He regularly handles issues for them, even occasionally takes on a problem client, and it’s not for the extra money (though that is nice—Stiles has seen the bills Peter sends out and they’d tempt him to pursue a legal career if he didn’t already have his heart set on forensic science).
The truth is Peter has enough wealthy clients of his own to live as lavishly as he wants while supporting an entire pack (not that he needs to, considering he has the Hale trust for that express purpose, anyways). The real reason Peter has continued consulting is because his former firm connects their pack to a vast network of powerful allies, in both the regular and supernatural worlds, and it’s their first line of defense against any threats that come their way.
The part-time work happens to perfectly align with Peter’s interests. He’s constantly searching for new challenges—the more daunting, the better. Stiles actually considers him more of a fixer than a consultant: people go to Peter when they need to solve their impossible legal (and extralegal) problems, and there’s immense profit in that. It allows Peter to leverage his skill set in exchange for virtually anything he wants (which has to do with their pack, more often than not).
Weapons and resources. Increased protection for themselves and their town. Unspecified future favors (which Peter happily accepts as payment, but refuses to ever owe). And as time goes on, Peter increasingly uses his legal career to accomplish the kinds of things that he can’t (or doesn’t want to) have their names attached to.
So even though Stiles wishes the older man could stop by the hospital, he’s aware that his constant injuries are significantly less of a priority in the grand scheme of their life—a life which takes a lot of time and money and work to manage.
For that reason, Stiles had not only delayed calling Peter, he’d deliberately downplayed the accident in his voicemail once he did; he doesn’t want Peter to put off something crucial for him. Especially not when Stiles did this to himself.
The thought of explaining to Peter what happened, having to see his disappointment…
Falling Into Self-Pity. What an upbeat new way to pass the time. (Who’s he kidding, that game is nothing new.)
Sometimes Stiles wonders…how long until Peter gets tired of this? Sure, their alpha might consider it an interesting challenge right now to try and reduce the frequency of Stiles’ injuries, but how long until he realizes they can only do so much? When is he going to finally accept that all of this—easily preventable injuries and ER visits and Stiles’ general lack of self-preservation—is as much an indelible part of Stiles as his brilliant intellect and sarcastically hilarious wit?
Stiles isn’t prone to accidents, he’s a goddamn magnet for them. Disaster follows him around, a shadow he can never fully escape, no matter how much light he surrounds himself with. Mishaps and injuries happen to him much more frequently than to anyone else he’s ever met, which tells Stiles that he’s the deciding factor. He’d accepted it a long time ago, for lack of other options, but he wouldn’t blame anyone who chose to keep their distance from the trainwreck he can be, even on his best days.
That’s not to say he’s afraid Peter would ever kick him (or anyone) out of their pack. Peter’s been very clear on that point: a pack is a family, and families are forever. But that doesn’t mean other things won’t change if Peter gets frustrated enough. Or…unhappy enough.
Peter could start remembering that he has a hundred other (better) things to do than spend time with Stiles. Especially if that time is in a hospital, of all places (and one where Stiles is on a first name basis with most of the staff, depressingly enough).
Or Peter might decide that…he wants more space. That it’s more trouble than it’s worth to look out for Stiles the way he does. That Stiles needing his help with something doesn’t automatically mean Peter has to give it. (To be honest, he’s been waiting for Peter to figure that out for a while, it just hasn’t happened yet.)
Stiles feels absolute dread at every possibility. There are a thousand small but meaningful ways in which Peter could easily shut him out of his life. Of all Stiles’ fears, that might be the worst: a lifetime where he’s always a part of their pack, but forever separate from Peter.
He takes a series of slow breaths, trying to push his worries to the back of his mind, where they belong. He blames himself for this. (And Peter—can’t forget Peter.) They’ve become such close friends, which is a story of a thousand moments built upon one unshakable foundation: restructuring their pack with Peter as their alpha. It changed everything.
But things had been changing even before then, which was how Peter had become their alpha in the first place. He’d slowly become a part of their group, to the point that it was difficult (impossible, even) to imagine life without him. He’d made himself indispensable, and then he’d made his offer (an ‘offer’ from Peter being synonymous with ‘a mild threat to comply or else’) and they’d unanimously accepted. Not due to coercion from Peter, either, but because once they talked about it, they’d realized it couldn’t be anyone other than him. There was no one else more invested in making sure they stayed alive. No one who had the drive or the desire or—most importantly—the ability to lead their pack. Peter has it all in spades, and he’s proven repeatedly that they made the right choice.
That’s how Peter became a safe and stable presence in their lives, one whom Stiles relies upon to a degree which would have frightened him in the past (he’s Peter!), but never does in the present (he’s Peter). What does scare him is the thought of losing the close relationship they’ve built. It’s why giving the alpha a reason to put some space between them is such a distressing thought. Stiles doesn’t want to be a weakness. Or a burden. Or not good enough.
He doesn’t want to be a disappointment to anyone, but especially not to Peter.
His eyes fall on his bandaged wrist, physical proof of every way in which he’s lacking—
Stiles angrily cuts off that line of thinking. It’s a disservice to himself and he’s supposed to do better than that. (Peter claims to know Stiles can do better than that—Stiles doesn’t necessarily believe him, but he’s trying.)
He needs a distraction, so he runs a finger over the bandage, daring to press lightly to see how effectively his pain has been dulled. There are echoing twinges up and down his forearm, but nothing like earlier.
It’s a slow day at the hospital, so Stiles had gotten an X-ray done pretty quickly. He’d been hopeful at the initial quick pace of things, convinced he’d be out of there before nightfall, but his hope is dwindling as the afternoon hours tick away. Stiles might be hurt, but not enough to take precedence over a lot of the other people here. And that’s fine, Stiles can wait. He’s…great at waiting.
Where is Scott? Did he go to L.A. to find service? And what’s taking Anderson so long, for that matter? When the doctor had been called out of the room, he’d promised he’d ‘be right back’—for all that means to doctors. Stiles might not see him for another 12 hours.
He can hear the bustle of the hospital around him, beeping machines and muffled conversations beyond the doorway, occasionally interrupted by a page or the sounds of new people being brought through the ER, but he can’t shake the feeling he’s been forgotten in the back corner of the hospital.
Where he’s completely alone.
The fingers of his uninjured hand twitch with the need to check his phone for messages. He wants to text Peter or…Peter. He shakes his head at himself, because okay, Peter might be the only person he wants to talk to right now. And the other man wouldn’t even have to reply! Stiles would happily keep up a one-sided conversation to stave off his boredom and loneliness, all while knowing Peter won’t have a chance to read his messages until later this afternoon. (He probably hasn’t even gotten Stiles’ voicemail yet.)
But Stiles can’t text him because his (EX) best friend refuses to charge his phone in a responsible fashion, so Scott’s phone had died, as per usual, and he’d taken Stiles’ to go call Deaton. (The hospital has intermittent service at best—which has always been a fun challenge on the occasions when Stiles was being hunted in it—but that’s neither here nor there.)
His suspicion from earlier is getting stronger the more time goes by without Scott returning. A small part of him hopes Scott really is talking to their pack because it means Stiles won’t have to do it. He hadn’t been looking forward to that, mostly due to how disgruntled their friends had been when Stiles insisted they stay back at the house instead of accompanying him and Scott to the hospital. They’d been all set to ignore him and come along anyways, right up until he threatened to tell Peter they wouldn’t listen to him. (It’s a neat trick to get their compliance, which Stiles only uses when he really—okay, he’s lying, he uses it all the time.)
Of course, Stiles would love it if his friends were here, but most of them can’t help him in situations like this. There’s nothing for them to do at the hospital except sit around or pace while feeling useless. And feeling useless makes them more determined to ‘help’ him, which leads to them feeling worse when they can’t. Besides, who wants to spend their day in waiting rooms? Stiles is only at the hospital because he has to be. He’s not going to be responsible for others suffering the same fate if he can help it.
The trade-off is that he’s stuck here alone. Stiles automatically reaches for his phone before remembering he might never see it again. He sighs and throws his head back against the bed behind him—alas, the dramatic move is pointless, seeing as no one’s around to witness it. (He makes a mental note to do it again when Scott returns.)
Stiles’ mind never stops, so when he’s trapped for a while with no outlet, he accumulates a pent-up energy which has nowhere to go, and it doesn’t take long before he feels like he’s going to snap. Despite the doctor’s warning to stay put, Stiles is close to getting up to search for him. Or Scott, or Melissa, or anyone. He’ll make small talk with a random nurse or patient if he has to. Anything beats being stuck alone back here.
There is, however, the small matter that if he gets up and leaves the room, he might aggravate his wrist. The pain had been excruciating earlier, even with Scott’s intermittent help (Stiles never lets him take too much of his pain at once), and Stiles is in no rush to hurry along its return. Not to mention, if he injures himself further, he’ll have to hear it from the doctor…and his dad, and his friends, and Peter. The alpha’s not even here, but he’ll know what happened. He has an extensive network of spies in this town (and Stiles strongly suspects most of them are in their pack).
Great, now he’s thinking about Peter again. And he can’t talk to him. Stiles shuts his eyes, desperately trying to recapture the mildly drugged state he was feeling several minutes earlier. He’ll even take a nap if it’s his only reprieve from a worsening mood, but despite trying to relax and clear his mind, it doesn’t work. Nothing works.
He presses his hand to his eyes. If he’s stuck counting the ceiling tiles again he might end up throwing himself out the nearest window (they’re on the ground floor, but Stiles could make it suitably dramatic…he wouldn’t have to try that hard, either, seeing as such a move would likely break his other wrist).
He resigns himself to all the lectures he’s going to receive and is about to slide off the bed, but he freezes when he spots Peter in the doorway, wearing sunglasses inside like he thinks he’s the star of an 80’s music video.
Stiles stares at him, convinced he can’t be real. Wishing for things, for people, doesn’t make them appear. That’s not how life works. (Not for Stiles.)
At least…that’s not how it used to work.
Maybe things are different now, because Peter Hale’s leaning against the doorframe, hands clasped loosely in front of him. He’s wearing the new suit he’d modeled for them two nights ago, the only difference being he’s now sans tie and has the top button undone on his dress shirt—the juxtaposition of casual and professional makes him look even better than he did the other night, a feat Stiles had…not known was possible.
(Peter insists on a 10 point rating system when he’s trying to decide on an ensemble, and this one had earned a 9.3 after averaging their scores. Jackson’s 7 got tossed for jealousy and Isaac’s 10 was stricken because he gives every suit Peter wears a 10. Stiles personally felt it should have gotten a 20, because damn, but he’d wisely kept that opinion off his own scorecard—yes, Peter has them fill out actual cards, with comments, ‘for his future reference’.)
Looking that good comes with a price and Stiles will never be able to afford it—first, because he’s a perpetually broke college student, and second, because he’s fiscally responsible with what money he does have, thank you very much. He’d nearly had an apoplectic fit when he learned what that suit cost. Peter spends money as if it’s his job—
But who cares about any of that because Peter is here. For the first time today, Stiles feels like everything is going to be fine.
“Peter?” he asks carefully, due to a not entirely irrational fear the man might turn out to be a drug-induced hallucination. After all, he’s been standing in the doorway, unmoving, for at least 20 seconds now.
But no, Peter was merely waiting for the acknowledgement, since that’s when he breaks out into an impossibly sunny grin.
“Oh Stiles, my Stiles,” he cheers, co-opting one of Stiles’ usual sarcastic greetings for him and turning it affectionately warm. He pulls his sunglasses off in one fluid motion, making Stiles wonder if he’d worn them for his whole walk through the hospital. (Knowing him…yes.) “How are you?”
Stiles is smiling so much it hurts. “Never better,” he tells Peter, and in that very moment, it might be true.
Peter crosses the small room, stopping next to the bed on Stiles’ uninjured left side. “Want to fill me in?”
“I’m waiting on some tests.” He watches Peter’s expression to see if he’ll get away with neglecting to mention what caused his injury in the first place. So far, so good. “The doctor treating me had to step out, but he should be back…whenever he gets around to it.”
Peter noticeably pauses, like he wants to comment on that last, slightly bitter remark, but he ultimately goes another route. “How’s the pain?”
“Not too bad, I can’t feel it unless I move my arm. Whatever they gave me is starting to work…maybe too well. It’s making things…” He’s not sure of the right word. Distant? Muted? Fuzzy? All of the above and more.
“Sweetheart…” Peter’s eyes are sharp in a way Stiles decidedly isn’t feeling. “Are you high?”
Stiles takes a few seconds to consider the question. “Not yet, I don’t think. Probably on the way.” He has a pretty extreme reaction to most forms of pain relief; even when one of the wolves takes his pain, his world becomes unfocused and blurry before too long. His brain has trouble handling it or something. (It means they’re all pretty careful about it, lest he become incoherent for hours.)
“Stiles Stilinski high,” Peter’s lamenting, to the ceiling (or maybe something above it). “As if you don’t test my patience enough.”
“Hey!” Stiles objects. “That should be my line to you. And some sympathy would be nice.”
Peter drops the humor and promises, “You have all my sympathy,” in a dizzying change of tone. He leans in to press a kiss above Stiles’ ear, pausing there to breathe in deeply. “I don’t like it when you’re hurt.”
Stiles feels the same tugging in his chest he always does when Peter says things like that. He keeps waiting to get used to it and he never does. “That makes two of us,” he agrees, turning his head more towards Peter and taking a steadying breath. It’s different on an instinctual level, but it comforts each of them the same.
Peter waits a few extra seconds before pulling back, eyes sweeping over him. “Tell me if the pain gets worse.”
“Sure thing, Dr. Hale.”
Peter’s mouth quirks up at the moniker, but he’s serious when he remarks, “This is your fourth ER visit in the past three months.” It’s a mild statement, innocuous and matter of fact, as if he’s commenting on the weather outside. Despite that, Stiles feels himself tensing all over. It’s a set-up for the conversation Stiles has been dreading since he hurt himself: a refresher course on every poor decision he made that led him here.
Technically, he’d been tackled by Isaac during an impromptu sparring session, but it wasn’t Isaac’s fault—Scott had yelled something at Derek, which distracted Stiles in the split second before Isaac took him down. 99.9% of the time, anyone who fell like he did would have been fine, but Stiles isn’t great at sparring (understatement of the century) and he’s particularly bad at recovering from a mistake or wrong move. After being tackled, he’d thrown his free arm out to try and save himself, hitting the ground in the exact wrong way…and that had been that.
If Stiles had been paying better attention, like he was supposed to, he’d have evaded or blocked or fallen ‘correctly’, employing any of the techniques Peter and Chris Argent have spent vast amounts of time trying to drill into their heads during the joint training sessions that Peter decided their entire pack needed several months ago.
(“Most of you suffer from an alarming reliance on brute force, coupled with horrifyingly non-existent finesse,” had been Peter’s ‘official assessment’ during that fateful pack meeting. “So you’re going to learn how to effectively fight and defend yourselves. That goes double for those of you currently trying to escape.” He’d said the last while grabbing the back of Stiles’ shirt to keep him from leaving the room for perfectly valid reasons that had nothing to do with running away.)
To be honest, Stiles shouldn’t have agreed to spar with Isaac today. He’d ignored that voice in the back of his head, the one that sounded like Peter asking if he thought it was the best idea. Stiles had been tired this morning, and there was a chill in the air that kept him shivering, and Peter hadn’t been there.
If he had been, there’s no way he would have let Stiles join the others. It had definitely been a ‘stay on the sidelines’ or ‘only spar with Peter’ kind of day. (He doesn’t get hurt when he spars with Peter—the other man spends about 50% of their matches saving Stiles from himself, which might sound high, but it’s down from 56% a month ago, according to Peter. And no, that’s not a joke. When Peter cites statistics, it means he’s literally done the math.)
Stiles should have trusted his intuition. But his friends kept asking, and Isaac needed a partner, and Stiles figured what could a round or two hurt…
His wrist, that’s what it could hurt. With the facts laid out, it’s evident that Stiles’ injury isn’t anyone’s fault except his own. It’s certainly not Isaac’s, who’d only been in a position to hurt him because Stiles agreed to spar when he shouldn’t have.
So it’s Stiles’ fault, really, that Isaac is wracked with guilt right now. And that was another reason Stiles hadn’t wanted anyone at the hospital with him and Scott. It’s selfish, yes, but it’s also self-preservation; if he had to watch Isaac on the verge of tears for hours, Stiles most likely would have had his own breakdown. (It’s been close enough as it is.)
Peter is watching him, still patiently waiting for some type of response to his (accurate) remark about this being Stiles’ fourth ER trip in a single season. Stiles’ eyes stray back to his injured wrist and he swallows around the darkly familiar feeling coursing through him. Disappointment. If he feels this much of it in himself, there’s no way Peter doesn’t feel the same.
“Hey, you,” Peter says quietly, “whatever you’re thinking right now? It isn’t true.”
Stiles snaps his eyes back up to Peter in surprise. “I don’t… What are…” Then he sees it. “You already know.”
“I didn’t get your voicemail until I left my lunch meeting and I’m sorry about that. I should have gotten it sooner, but the service in the restaurant was terrible. I did notice that your message was light on the details—an oversight I’m sure.” Peter says that with a wry smile; he knows all of Stiles’ tricks because they use a lot of the same ones. “Luckily, your message wasn’t the only one I got. There were a lot of texts, along with a barely coherent voicemail from Isaac. You should know that he was…fairly distraught.”
Stiles hadn’t thought anything could make him feel worse about what happened today, but he’d been wrong. “Peter, it wasn’t his fault,” he starts speaking unnaturally fast, “it was mine because I’m the one who agreed to spar and I knew I should have said no but I didn’t so you can’t blame—”
“Breathe.” Peter sets a hand on his arm, waiting for Stiles to do just that. “It wasn’t his fault or yours. It was an accident.”
“But I should have—”
“No,” Peter interrupts. Like it’s that easy. “And don’t worry about Isaac. I talked to him, he calmed down, and he’s fine. Though I’m sure he’s going to try and make this up to you for a long time.”
He’s relieved Peter had a talk with Isaac, but Stiles can’t… He can’t have this conversation right now—not feeling the way he does, with the drugs in his system on top of it. Hearing about how upset Isaac had been is making everything in him twist into knots. (Stiles doesn’t do well when his friends aren’t doing well.)
“Can we talk about something else?” Stiles pleads, more desperate than he wanted, but any other topic would be preferable. He’s not doing a great job of holding it together.
“Anything you want,” Peter offers, tapping his arm before pulling his hand away. He doesn’t say they’re going to revisit the topic at some point—Stiles knows it as a fact, by now. (Peter never lets anything go for too long, which Stiles finds infuriating and reassuring in equal measure.)
Stiles glances at the doorway, smiling when he thinks of the moment he spotted Peter standing there. It reminds him there was something he’d wanted to ask. “How long were you lurking over there, watching me?” He rolls his shoulders carefully, not wanting to pull at his injured arm. (Remarkably, he’s already feeling better.) “You do realize that past a certain length of time it gets creepy, right?”
“I might lurk,” Peter concedes, “but I take offense at the accusation I do so creepily.”
“Then stop staring at people while you do it!”
“You’re forgetting how stealthy I am.” It’s one of Peter’s favorite things to compliment himself on. “You didn’t realize I was watching you for…quite some time.”
“You know that makes it creepier, right?”
Peter shrugs, unrepentantly smug. “I think it proves my stealth.”
Now Stiles is even more curious about the question Peter had ignored, most likely on purpose. “How long were you standing in the doorway?”
“From the time I arrived,” Peter checks the clock on the wall, “until you noticed me.”
Stiles exhales. Slowly. This is one area where he and Peter are very much the same: they both excel at talking their way around things. They can twist words, change meanings, and answer questions truthfully without giving away an ounce of real information. They expertly wield language to achieve their own ends. There’s no one Stiles would rather debate with than Peter, who keeps up with him to the point that he sometimes feels like he’s arguing against himself. It’s exhilarating, even when Stiles wants to shove Peter out a window (especially when he wants to shove Peter out a window).
“I’m not getting a real answer, then?” Stiles already guessed he wasn’t.
“I can say with certainty it was nowhere near my record for how long I’ve watched you while you were unaware.” Though Peter’s speaking with humor, it’s not a joke.
“That’s another creepy answer,” Stiles scolds, in warning. He has to point these things out because Peter so often strays outside the lines. The alpha operates on a scale of ever-increasing intensity, and if he goes unchecked for too long, people who don’t know Peter (and half of those who do) have a good chance of winding up scared to death.
Take, for example, this very moment. If Stiles didn’t expect the scrutiny as par for the course (he’s Stiles Stilinski: Peter Hale’s Favorite Stalkee) he’d be feeling rather unsettled about the way Peter’s studying him. It makes Stiles feel like nothing is hidden, an unnerving ability which Peter has possessed as long as they’ve known each other. He’s figured out things about Stiles that even Stiles wasn’t consciously aware of until Peter pointed them out.
That used to concern Stiles a lot more than it does now, which is not at all. He has no idea when Peter’s very nature became a source of comfort rather than something to fear.
“Observing people while they’re unaware is how you learn things,” Peter lectures, nonchalantly spinning his sunglasses around on his finger. (He has to be doing it to show off; he knows full well whenever Stiles does it, there’s a 1 in 3 chance he’s going to blind the person closest to him—which is usually Peter, who thankfully has excellent reflexes.) “That fact doesn’t change whether you label it ‘creepy’ or not.”
“I could switch to ‘disturbing’?” Stiles kindly offers.
“Did I mention how much I enjoy watching people?” Peter flashes him a grin that’s in no way apologetic. “You happen to be one of my favorite targets.”
Like that’s news. “I’m your favorite target for everything!”
“Whose fault is that?”
Stiles scowls at the implication. “I’m pretty sure it’s yours.”
“No, sweetheart,” Peter counters, successfully teasing a smile out of him, “it’s definitely yours.”
“Wow, so you’re doubling down, huh?”
“Doubling down would be revealing I watch you while you’re asleep.”
Stiles gapes at him. “What could you possibly learn while I’m asleep?!” Oh no, why did he ask that of Peter Ha—
“Do you want a list?” Peter’s offer is serious. As if it’s a completely normal thing to provide upon request: an analysis of what someone’s sleeping habits reveal about them. (Stiles knows he could do it, too…he might ask about that at some later date.)
“I swear to God,” he vaguely warns, “if I wake up one night to find you looming over my bed…”
“I am insulted, Stiles.” Peter points the glasses at him in rebuke. “You would never know I was in the room.”
“Of course not.” Stiles rolls his eyes to the ceiling, hiding his amusement under the cover of exasperation. “How could I forget you’re a Professionally Certified Stalker?”
“Thank you,” Peter says, pleased with that description. (Stiles can’t win for losing.) “And I hardly have to sneak into your room at night to watch you from the shadows. You fall asleep in the living room all the time.” Peter’s eyes are getting warmer by the second. “Often right next to me.”
He’s…not wrong. And what's more, it’s a rare occasion when they aren’t touching in some way. Stiles is an equal-opportunity cuddler—he’ll happily curl up alongside anyone within reach—but once he and Peter are in the same room together? Forget it. They eventually find their way back to each other, like gravity.
“Peter, am I…enabling your stalker tendencies?” (Look at them, they’re a tragic Lifetime movie in the making.)
“You more than enable me.” Peter reaches over to tap his sunglasses on Stiles’ forehead. Stiles makes an ineffective grab for them, but Peter’s too fast. “You do half the work for me, darling—you’re the easiest victim I’ve ever had.”
That scale for Peter’s behavior he’d mentioned? Stiles has taken it upon himself to label the various levels, for everyone’s convenience (and amusement). They’re firmly in Peter-Lite territory right now: beyond regular societal conventions, but not far enough beyond them that it’s immediately apparent. This also happens to be Peter’s default setting, mostly for the simple reason that he doesn’t agree with where ‘normal’ boundaries should be. Their pack is so used to this version of Peter that they hardly blink at anything he says or does in this range.
There are a few middle levels based on different parameters (it’s likely Stiles has thought about this way too much), but all roads lead straight to the top level: Peter-Max, as Stiles had won—yes, won—the right to call it. (Peter had objected based on the grounds it ‘made him sound like an energy drink’ but his veto powers are limited to matters of actual consequence, and as such, it went to a pack vote, which Peter lost. Unanimously.)
Of course, the alpha had quickly learned to embrace the label that once made him roll his eyes. The top level of Stiles’ scale is where Peter loves to be: it’s when he’s at his most intense or overwhelming or terrifying. He might even be laughing while he’s any (or all) of those things. If Peter is undeniably out there in some way, he’s most likely in the top range, which consists of him saying and doing things 99% of people would never say or do (on the off-chance they even thought about saying or doing them).
An average person dropping their inhibitions can be a scary thing, but Peter Hale without them? That’s when people suspect, with all seriousness, that Peter’s ‘sanity’ is little more than a surface-level facade he wears to interact with the world. And why wouldn’t they think as much, given the chaos he once left in his wake? But Peter is reformed, and most importantly, he’s legally sane. (“Legally is what counts,” Peter likes to say with a wink, which does not clear up any confusion.)
No matter how much good Peter does in his life, there are people who will never believe he’s changed. They don’t think anyone can emerge from the kind of darkness that had taken him over. Not intact. Not whole. They believe that Peter losing most of his family had ensured he’d never be truly sane again.
In an ironic twist, the myth of Peter Hale’s continued insanity is a major factor in the safety their pack enjoys.
Or is it a myth? Stiles has spent endless hours mulling over that question, and he’s come to understand that like so many things, the answer isn’t black or white. Peter is whatever shade of gray he needs to be depending upon the moment, the situation he’s in, and the people he’s with. As such, Stiles no longer believes Peter’s relative level of sanity even matters. Not when Peter is the one who decides. If Peter’s behaviors controlled him instead of the other way around, then Stiles would be rightly terrified, but Peter’s every action is a deliberate choice—no matter how frightening, or alarming, or legitimately crazy that choice might seem to everyone else.
And the motivation behind those choices? It’s always to keep them safe. So as far as Stiles is concerned, Peter can do whatever he wants, provided he remains alive, stays out of jail, and doesn’t get himself committed. (Preferably for the next 60 or so years.) Is that really too much to ask? Stiles doesn’t think so, but Peter sure loves to act like it is.
“You’ve fallen into a trance,” Peter says, which has the effect of snapping Stiles right out of it. “Is it the drugs? Or is this,” he waves his hand around, “all Stiles?”
“It’s all Peter.” Stiles recognizes his mistake the moment he says it. “You know what I mean!”
“I certainly do. You must still be dazed by my grand entrance. Which you failed to compliment by the way.” Peter lets his sunglasses hang from his finger as a prop, in case Stiles forgot. (It’s tempting, but Stiles doesn’t bother making another grab for them; he’d never get close.)
“I was hardly dazed,” Stiles scoffs, ignoring the whisper in his head that reminds him how ridiculously happy he was when Peter showed up, sweeping into the room like he owned it—that’s obviously not the same thing as ‘dazed’. “We’ve been over this,” he firmly reminds Peter, for the hundredth time this month alone. “No matter how over-the-top your entrance is, it doesn’t make you Tony Stark.”
(Stiles has to deal with the aftermath for weeks—weeks—whenever a Robert Downey Jr. movie wins the vote on pack movie nights. It doesn’t even have to be from the Avengers universe! Merely seeing the actor is enough to remind Peter that Tony Stark exists and they are ‘spiritual soulmates’—or whatever it was Peter had tried to explain during one of those same movie nights, while Stiles was falling asleep on his shoulder.)
“Stiles, I have perfected that entrance to the point everyone swoons, yet you didn’t. Not even a little.” Now he’s meticulously studying the sunglasses, like maybe they were what prevented Stiles from having the correct reaction. “Did you miss the part where I suavely pulled these off?”
Stiles replays it in his mind and almost laughs. (The move was so perfectly Peter. Stiles loved it.) “Believe me, I missed nothing.”
“Do I need more flair?” This is Peter wanting feedback on how he entered a room. “I never feel like I have enough flair.”
“You. Peter Hale. Not enough flair.” Stiles briefly closes his eyes when all his dramatic head shaking leaves him dizzy. “I don’t remember hitting my head when I fell, but I must have a concussion.”
“You don’t.” Peter pets the top of his head a few times in what Stiles gathers is appreciation for the fact his brain is uninjured. “And please don’t give yourself one right now.”
“Stop saying things that make me shake my head,” Stiles challenges, causing Peter to laugh at the mere suggestion. “That’s right, you couldn’t if you tried.”
“Joke’s on you,” Peter says archly. “I’d never try. Now, since you supposedly weren’t impressed with my spectacular entrance, I could leave and come back—we could do a second take.”
Stiles runs his left hand through his hair to fix whatever way Peter surely messed it up. “You can’t let anything go, can you?”
“Never,” Peter promises (or threatens) as he drags one edge of his sunglasses down Stiles’ left arm. The touch causes Stiles to jolt and then smile, but it quickly turns into a glare once he realizes he can’t scratch his arm with his right hand. “Sorry,” Peter laughs, running a hand up and down his arm before Stiles can truly start whining about it. “Now, about that second take…”
“You’re aware we’re currently experiencing real life, right?” Stiles has to remind Peter of that fact fairly often. “This isn’t a movie or a TV show. You can’t redo every scene you don’t like.”
“Sure I can,” Peter says coolly, and to prove it (or to spite him), the older man slips on his sunglasses. “Now, pretend I just walked in—or do you want me to actually leave and come back?”
“Peter.” Stiles tries so hard to sound stern.
“You’re right, I’ll stay here.” He pulls his sunglasses down an inch so he can see Stiles over the top of them. “Don’t want to go overboard.”
“You. Don’t want to go overboard.” Stiles silently repeats that to himself. It makes no sense in any universe. “You’re telling me this as you’re on the verge of…redoing your entry scene.”
“Shhh, honey,” Peter holds up a hand for silence, quickly yanking it out of reach when Stiles tries to slap it in rebuke. “I’m getting into character.”
“As yourself?”
Peter’s composure breaks, laughter surprised out of him as he pushes the sunglasses back up, no doubt to finish ‘getting into character’. After his amusement fades, there’s a smile left on Peter’s face that’s nearly identical to when he first arrived, except there’s something…gentler about it. Peter had been trying to cheer him up when he first walked in, but that’s not his goal this time.
“Hello, Stiles,” Peter murmurs, as he slowly pulls his sunglasses off. The eyes behind them are piercing enough that Stiles swears he can physically feel them as Peter’s gaze moves from his head to his toes and all the way back again. When Peter’s done with his perusal, he meets Stiles’ eyes and steps close enough to the bed that Stiles has to slightly tilt his head back to maintain eye contact. “How are you, sweetheart?”
“I’m—” Stiles snaps his mouth shut in horror that he’d been about to answer Peter’s question—but it’s not a real question! Peter was ‘redoing the scene’, because in Peter’s world that’s a perfectly normal thing people do every day. Stiles’ brain must have short-circuited somewhere along the way if he’s allowing himself to get drawn into—wait, the drugs! It has to be the drugs.
“You’re…?” Peter’s toying with him now. “Second take, darling. What’s the verdict?”
Stiles thoughtfully taps the fingers of his left hand on his knee. Peter obviously knows, but Stiles will not admit he was affected. He settles for an entirely truthful, “It wasn’t any better than the first time.”
“You’re not lying.” Peter’s eyes narrow. “But I saw your reaction…” In the amount of time it takes him to pocket his sunglasses, he figures it out, expression turning diabolical. “My dear Stiles, did you like them both?”
“Uh… No?” He hopes phrasing it as a question will help, but alas, his heart rate increases all the same.
Peter takes that for the answer it is, clapping once in enthusiastic victory. “I knew I perfected that entrance!” His level of enjoyment has ratcheted all the way up to delighted, and Stiles tries not to be charmed, but he’s never great at that. Not when it comes to Peter.
“Fine,” Stiles huffs, as reluctantly as he can while smiling, “it…wasn’t terrible.” He ignores Peter’s incredulous scoffing to add, “But everyone can dramatically take off their sunglasses, okay? Even I could prob- don’t look at me like that!”
“You’d somehow hit me with them,” Peter says fondly. “I just know it.”
The prediction is eerily close to what Stiles had been thinking earlier. Most likely because it’s…reflective of reality. Best to move on. “My point is that it’s not some fantastic magic trick to take off your sunglasses—”
Peter audibly gasps. “I cannot believe the way you descri-”
“—and it still doesn’t make you Tony Stark,” Stiles loudly finishes, pretending not to hear Peter’s ongoing protests.
“Are you saying I’m not a genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist?”
Someone save him. “I love that you pick the most obvious lines to quote,” Stiles says dryly, causing Peter to look suitably affronted. “And you are literally none of those things.”
Peter tsks at him in censure. “I’m not a genius?”
“Not the kind who can make us billionaires by inventing cool stuff. Clearly.”
“Who’s this ‘us’ you speak of?” Peter’s superior air is quickly returning. “You better watch it, or when I do make my first billion, I won’t be sharing any of it with you…kid.” He has the gall to wink when he tacks on the nickname.
Stiles reminds himself Peter routinely does this kind of thing to him; it only seems worse because of the drugs. He simply needs to strengthen his resolve and he’ll be fine. “You’re. Not. Tony. Stark.”
“No, but let’s face it, I play him very convincingly.” Peter’s unaccountably smug, which only furthers his claim. “Would you like me to continue the demonstration?”
Stiles…actually would. Oh, God, no. He tries not to hyperventilate at this newfound revelation; if Peter figures it out, he will use it to torment Stiles for the rest of their lives. Unless…has he figured it out already? It’s the kind of thing Peter notices, after all, and the horrifying thought leaves Stiles all the more desperate for an escape, glancing around for his phone only to remember he doesn’t have it. Because his best friend— former, former!—can’t charge his phone to save his life.
“Where is Scott?!” Stiles absolutely doesn’t wail, while staring forlornly at the door.
Peter doesn’t call him out on the none-too-subtle change of topic. Instead, he embraces it with a casual, “Yes. Let’s talk about Scott.”
Everything in Stiles goes on high alert. That was too easy, it has to be a trap, though he has no idea what Peter might be gearing up for. “Who cares about Scott?” Stiles asks with some forced laughter, as if Peter won’t remember he was wondering where Scott was four seconds ago.
“We both care about Scott,” Peter assures him, and Stiles bites back a sigh at the man’s unfair ability to instantly disarm him (how does he do that, seriously?). “But I was thinking, specifically, about how I called you on my way here.” Peter’s calm, but definitely not happy. “You, Stiles. And who answered your phone?”
Stiles comes close to wincing at the reminder of how much Peter dislikes it when he doesn’t have his phone. It’s pretty unfortunate, really, considering Stiles has a difficult enough time keeping himself together, let alone all his belongings. As such, he loses his phone on a semi-regular basis: he’ll misplace it in the house or leave it in his car or let someone use it who doesn’t return it as promptly as they should. And the last one’s not his fault.
“I am the victim here, okay?” Stiles conveniently leaves out that he hadn’t put up so much as a token protest when Scott asked to borrow his phone. No, Stiles had handed it right over. (A decision which he’d come to regret less than a minute after making it.) Stiles is totally fine throwing Scott under the bus, especially since he’d promised he’d only be gone a few minutes…and that was, oh, five or six years ago. “Scott never came back! He more or less stole my phone, did he mention that? Or that he let his own phone die and that’s why he needed mine?”
“He did not provide any of that additional information, no.” Peter glances upwards, long-suffering, as usual. “Sounds like it’s time for a reminder at our next pack meeting about the importance of always being able to reach each other.” Peter starts counting on his fingers for some reason. “Tell me, how many chargers have I bought for your other half?”
Stiles tries to think. He’s pretty sure the answer is somewhere around…a lot. His shrug is as helpless as it is fond. “He keeps giving them away to people who need them.”
“Ugh, I know,” Peter’s smiling despite his complaint, “it’s so Scott. I’m going to buy a charger for every outlet in the house, and everyone’s car. No, make that two for each…”
“He’ll still give them away,” Stiles warns.
“God, can’t he give one to himself since he’s always the most in need?” Peter asks, of no one, and Stiles breaks into semi-hysterical laughter; he’s not entirely sure why, since the joke wasn’t that funny. Or was it? He can’t tell, which makes him laugh even more. (This is why Peter limits his access to drugs, which is ironic given that Peter improves his mood much more than drugs ever could, yet Peter hasn’t limited Stiles’ access to him.)
“Stiles.” Peter is not smiling in the way that means it’s all he wants to do. “You laughed at that twice as long as a sober person should have. Don’t spiral on me, sweetheart.”
“But Peter,” he whines, only half-kidding, “I love to spiral!”
“I love it, too.” Peter’s eyes are merry enough it feels like Christmas. “Believe me, kid.” (Stiles inwardly sighs at the veiled confirmation Peter had figured that out before him.) “But I’d like you to stay with me a little longer.” He searches Stiles’ face. “Think you can do that?”
“A little longer? I don’t—no, I don’t like that idea,” Stiles hears himself saying, as Peter tilts his head in concern. “Maybe I’ll stay with you a lot longer. Like…forever, how about that?” What is he even saying? And why is there so much worry in it? Stiles swears he has no conscious input into the words he’s speaking.
Peter’s concern fades away, replaced with indulgent amusement. “If we’re talking in a general sense, I hope you know leaving wasn’t an option for you, anyways.” He reaches over to tug on a few strands of Stiles’ hair. “You are aware you’re never leaving me, right?”
“Peterrr,” he sighs, even as he feels a reassuring warmth at the declaration, “that’s the line in a Lifetime movie right before someone gets stabbed.”
“Your choice in entertainment is questionable, at best,” Peter remarks, as if he’s not usually watching right along with him. (Peter likes to critique everything the stalkers do ‘wrong’.) “And I’d never stab you—you might die, and we just covered that you’re not allowed to leave me.”
“Thank you for that…promise not to stab me.” He stares for a moment when Peter mouths ‘you’re welcome’ at him. “But maybe I was thinking I’d be the one to stab you—hey, stop that!” He actually has to hit Peter on the arm to get him to stop laughing.
“I’m sorry. Truly.” Peter rubs a hand over his mouth, like he’s trying to erase his own enjoyment at this turn in the conversation. “It’s just outright laughable that you think you’d ever manage such a feat.”
“I could if I were determined,” Stiles insists, unreasonably offended at Peter’s (accurate) assessment of his skill level. Peter might let Stiles get away with all manner of things when it comes to invading his personal space, but the older man has an instinctive reaction against either of them getting truly hurt. It would be virtually impossible for Stiles, a relative beginner at this whole ‘effective fighting’ thing, to ever get past that.
“No,” Peter’s countering, as if he read Stiles’ mind, “you couldn’t. But I’ll see your challenge and raise you: prove me wrong, right here and now.”
Now Stiles is concerned. “…Peter.”
Peter’s eyeing the drawers and cabinets around the small room. “You think they keep scalpels in here?”
Stiles blinks. “What?”
“Wait, how could I forget,” Peter pulls a folded pocketknife out of the inside pocket of his suit jacket, “I always carry this with me.” He’s smirking because he definitely didn’t ‘forget’.
No. No. Weapons entering the picture is never good for either of them. “You can’t be serious. We’re in a hospital and I’m injured!”
“Your left arm works, doesn’t it?” Peter extends his hand, the knife in his palm. “So take this, my dear, and back up your claim. I’ll even shut my eyes to give you more of a fair shot.” When Peter does just that, Stiles reaches over— not to take the knife, but to close Peter’s fingers around it. What is he supposed to do with this man.
“Open your eyes, you absolute lunatic,” Stiles orders, not without affection. “I’m not going to try and stab you.”
“Because you know you couldn’t do it!” Peter smugly declares, thankfully dropping the knife back into his pocket.
“Because I’m not insane,” Stiles corrects. “And also…?” When Peter waves a hand at him to continue, Stiles throws his uninjured arm up in dismay. “I never actually want to hurt you, Peter.”
Peter’s expression softens at that. “I know you don’t. That’s my point. Of course,” he adds wryly, “you couldn’t physically manage it, either.” He laughs when Stiles scowls at him all the more. “But I knew you’d never seriously try.”
“And what if I had?” Stiles challenges. “You can’t just go around offering people knives and asking them to stab you.” At times Stiles wants to shake him, he swears. “There are too many people out there who would take you up on it. Happily!” Peter’s smile only gets wider, causing Stiles to realize that imaginary scenario is something the older man would enjoy. (Absolute lunatic, indeed.)
“Oh Stiles,” he says breezily, entirely unconcerned with the warning, “have we hit Max on the scale?”
“A long ways back. You might have missed it on account of being crazy.”
“You rate things too high,” Peter tells him for the millionth time, a response which should be even more concerning than offering Stiles a knife (only in Peter’s mind would challenging people to stab him be rated ‘too high’ on Stiles’ scale). But it doesn’t concern Stiles. It never does.
Stiles can pretend all he wants, but Peter at his highest level—which causes every reasonable person they know to back away—never fails to draw Stiles closer. He’s sure that says a lot about him (probably things he should discuss with a therapist), but he’s made his peace with it.
Peter wants him here. In his life and in his pack—they all belong with each other. Stiles knows that, but his anxiety causes him to doubt everything on a pretty regular basis. And Peter… The fact is, the other man’s constant, over-the-top declarations and reassurance make the worried and uncertain and insecure parts of Stiles feel better.
(So maybe he needs too much, and maybe Peter holds on too tightly, but Stiles doesn’t care. Those two things happen to balance out pretty well, in his opinion.)
“Stilinski.” Peter using his last name means he’s been trying to get his attention, and Stiles tries to pull it together (even if he’s not as far gone as Peter thinks, he might be like…medium gone). Peter slides his hand around to the back of Stiles’ head, tilting it so they’re looking directly at each other. “Focus on me.” Stiles manages a nod and Peter hums in approval, dropping his hand. “Stop. Losing. Your. Phone.”
“Peter!” Stiles’ eyes widen at the way he mistakenly yelled his name. “My phone loses me!” Look at that, he’s still yelling.
“Stiles.”
“Come on,” Stiles complains, relieved when his voice comes out at a more normal volume, no matter how plaintive it might sound. “Scott walked away with it. What was I supposed to do? You must see how it’s his fault.”
Peter doesn’t shake his head. He doesn’t have to for Stiles to get the message, loud and clear. “He asked if he could have it, didn’t he? And what did you say?”
This is so unfair. So, so, so unfair. “Maybe we don’t have to get into the issue of blame…”
“Not blame. Responsibility.”
“Yes, responsibility! Feel free to lecture Scott about how he’s responsible for keeping his phone charged so he doesn’t have to resort to petty larceny. And abandoning best friends.”
A flicker of amusement passes over Peter’s face. “Scott’s poor choices don’t make yours any better.” He lets that (aggravatingly true) fact sink in for a moment. “You gave him your phone, which left you alone and injured, with no quick or easy way to contact any of us.”
“I’m already at the hospital,” Stiles tries, though it sounds weak to his own ears.
“Right,” Peter says darkly, “nothing terrible has ever happened to you in a hospital.” Okay, point (or 50) to Peter. Before Stiles can think of a comeback for that (if he even could), Peter adds, “Don’t try to tell me you were fine, sweetheart. I know how you feel about being alone.”
Stiles tips his head back and sighs. Who told Peter he could use all these facts against him? Of course Peter knows he hates being alone; Stiles has told him as much. (As if Peter didn’t figure it out long before then—it’s hardly a coincidence that Stiles hasn’t spent a night alone at his own house in months.)
So many of the terrible things that happened in Stiles’ life have been while he was alone, and he would have given anything to have someone there with him. Anyone. Even Jackson’s company is preferable to the blood-chilling realization he’s had too many times in his life: that no matter what happens, no matter how much he’s suffering, no one is coming to help him.
Those fears, which are the worst at night, seem pretty overdramatic during the day, but that’s never enough to completely erase them. It’s a beautiful, late autumn afternoon, and Stiles never would have thought it possible a year ago, but Beacon Hills is an epicenter of calm. He’s safe here, and most of the time he even believes and accepts that fact. But there are times…things that remind him of the way life used to be.
A shadow that moves strangely, out of place. A sound in the night he can’t identify. His reflection in the mirror, seeming to trail a half-second behind his actions.
The slow, rolling approach of a distant storm that feels like it’s coming for him.
All tricks of his mind. (God, he hopes that’s all they are.) And they’re particularly cruel ones, because he’s as safe as he can ever get, yet the things he’s lived through have already begun haunting him for the rest of his life. The others help him, though. They lived through it like he did, often right next to him, and that makes the burden easier.
Some of them make it easier than others.
Like Peter. Who’s standing next to his bed, trying to make sure he’s okay. That he’s always okay.
For the second time in 10 minutes, Stiles looks at him and wonders… What is he supposed to do with this man.
Stop arguing with him, for one. “Alright,” Stiles relents, “my afternoon might have been…awful. I probably shouldn’t have let Scott take my phone.” He steadfastly ignores Peter’s look after that ‘probably’. “But I couldn’t say no, Peter. He’s my best friend.” No matter how much Stiles might temporarily claim otherwise.
The older man sighs, but it’s relenting; Peter’s a lot more lenient when the heart of a matter comes back to them helping each other. “You’d do anything for him.”
“Like you wouldn’t?” Stiles takes great pleasure in pointing out the hypocrisy. “For any one of us?”
“That’s different.” Peter’s aiming for impassive and ultimately failing. He must know he’s already lost. “It’s my responsibility. I’m the alph–”
“You did it before,” Stiles says, refusing to let Peter get away with his well-practiced spiel, not when Stiles knows how much it isn’t true. “Before our pack, before all…this.” ‘This’ being some vague word to encompass how inextricably intertwined all their lives have become. How necessary they are to each other. “You were always taking care of us. Whether we liked it or not.” He can tell Peter’s about to take offense, so Stiles disarms him with the truth. “That’s not criticism. It’s why we wanted you.”
“I couldn’t…not do it,” Peter admits, which is something Stiles had already known. “I started enjoying life again,” he’s referring back to the truce which eventually led them here, “and I couldn’t let you all ruin that by dying on me—which one of you tried to do every single week, like the most lethal clockwork.” He shuts his eyes a moment too long, affected by his joke on a deeper level than his tone revealed. It’s the reason, Stiles knows, that Peter makes those jokes in the first place; he couldn’t function unless he found some light in the darkest parts of his life. (And himself.)
Stiles wants to say something reassuring, but he has no idea what could possibly be ‘reassuring’ when someone lives with as much loss as Peter. So he does the first thing that comes to mind, which is to reach over and brush his uninjured hand against Peter’s. They’re both still here. The other man doesn’t react except to curl his fingers around Stiles’ own before letting go, but it’s agreement, and that’s enough.
Before becoming their alpha, Peter had been circling them for a long time, moving ever closer. He’d joined their makeshift pack by default, but he had no control over them, nor any real say in what they did. He’d give his advice (there didn’t seem to be a single supernatural creature he hadn’t come into contact with at least once in his life), but he’d made it a point to stay out of decision-making. They did what they wanted and Peter stood off on the metaphorical sidelines, observing everything, and stepping in when they were about to die. (Which was around once a week.)
No one was in charge back then. A few had tried, but nothing lasted. They fought over every issue, with too many opinions demanding to be appeased for each minor decision. Stiles might have been the closest thing they had to a leader through all the chaos, because he was so determined to hold onto them: his slowly growing group of friends who found themselves in ever-increasing danger.
Stiles was going to keep everyone alive or he was going to die himself while trying.
The turning point had been a year ago, following an ambush that nearly killed three of their friends. They were going to be fine, but they too easily might not have been. Peter had warned that they might be walking into a trap, and Stiles had pleaded with everyone to listen, but the others had done what they wanted. Luckily for them, Peter had shown up where he wasn’t supposed to be (something he had a knack for) and saved their lives in the process. That had led to Stiles and Peter sitting in a waiting room of this very hospital while their friends were checked over.
Stiles had stared at the wall for what felt like hours, too empty and numb to feel much of anything, which was something that had become scarily normal to him. He was so tired. And he had to accept a truth that had been hanging over his head for a long time: he wasn’t enough to keep them safe. He’d given it everything he had, but it was never going to be enough. He didn’t know the right decisions half the time, and even when he did, there were no guarantees the others would follow him. He really was going to die if he kept it up, because his luck was inevitably going to run out. (It had already, it was just that Peter had been around those times, and that was why he was still here.)
“I hate that this is our life,” he’d told Peter in that waiting room, as close to defeat as he’d ever come. “I don’t want to live like this anymore. I don’t know that I can. I just wish that we had the kind of lives where we didn’t have to fight the world to keep them.”
Peter had looked at him for so long that the hollow feeling inside Stiles began to fade, replaced by something that felt a lot like hope.
“Wishing isn’t enough,” Peter finally told him. “We have to change the world. Our world.”
He’d been talking about forming a pack. A real one. Stiles just hadn’t known it yet.
But he knows it now. He knows it by the freedom of making choices for a future full of hope and possibility, as opposed to chaotic uncertainty and regular brushes with death. He knows it from the safety he feels not because he’s in a pack, but because their pack exists and protects their entire town. He knows it in the peace and stability of a life he would have once dismissed as ‘boring’ without irony, but now wouldn’t trade for anything.
To think that as recently as last year, he’d been convinced he’d never see 20.
(He’s reasonably certain he’s going to get there now—and a long, long ways beyond.)
“You all need me,” Peter says, drawing Stiles out of his thoughts and back into the present. “I can’t… I could never ignore that. So you’re right that I can’t fault you for helping Scott, but that doesn’t mean it should come at your own expense.” There’s a growing intensity underlying his words. “You are equally as important as everyone else. I need—” He breaks off to collect himself, continuing with more control, but no less vehemence, “I need to to be able to reach you, Stiles. That means all the time.”
And God, but Stiles has never felt such a perfectly matching need. His inability to talk to Peter this afternoon had been a major driving force behind his unhappiness.
“Yeah, I, uh…” Stiles looks everywhere in the room that isn’t at Peter. “I…get that. I think—when it comes to—I mean, I feel…the same.” He fidgets, self-conscious, and starts to defensively cross his arms, but a searing flash of pain radiates up from his wrist before he can move his right arm further than the edge of the exam table. He freezes on a sharp inhale, appalled at himself, tears pricking at his eyes while he waits for the sensation to fade.
He’d unthinkingly moved his injured arm without any care for his broken wrist.
How could he have forgotten where he is or why he’s here?
Stiles spends a few hazy seconds wrapped up in his misery before registering Peter’s hand on the back of his neck, taking some of his pain. “Breathe, sweetheart,” Peter murmurs, and Stiles has a random thought that his voice sounds the way his touch feels. Warm. Comforting. Reassuring.
The pain was distracting enough that Stiles hadn’t noticed his lungs were burning from lack of oxygen, so he does his best to follow Peter’s advice, taking one shallow breath and then another while the pain in his arm continues to fade. The second it’s bearable, he clears his throat, trying to keep his voice level when he says, “You don’t have to—”
“I absolutely do.” Peter increases the pressure of his hand, which helps some of the tension leave Stiles along with the pain. “Some friendly advice? Don’t try to cross your arms with a broken wrist.”
Stiles laughs shakily, marveling that he can laugh again so quickly, and it’s only thanks to Peter. A few seconds later, Peter stops taking the pain before Stiles can ask him to, though he doesn’t remove his hand. It’s perfect timing, right on the precipice where if he kept going, Stiles’ thoughts would become too hazy to follow along with the conversation anymore; Peter knows Stiles’ limits probably better than Stiles does, given that Peter’s the one who does this for him around 90% of the time. (They’re usually next to each other, so it’s the most convenient arrangement.)
“Thank you,” he sighs, leaning back into Peter’s hand. Peter makes some wordless noise to brush off the thanks, even as he traces his fingers up and down the top of Stiles’ spine in a silent, You’re welcome.
They stay like that for another minute while Stiles’ racing heart continues to slow down. He tries not to ask for this too often, as tempting as it is. He doesn’t want to become dependent upon his friends for pain relief, nor does he want them to feel like he’s taking advantage. Mostly, he doesn’t want them to be uncomfortable because of him. It doesn’t matter how many times they tell him they don’t mind, that they feel the pain less than he does, that they can brush it off quickly in a way he can’t if he has a slow-healing injury.
Stiles hates causing people pain, so he’ll suffer in silence if he can get away with it…which admittedly isn’t very often, given the people in his pack. (If they don’t notice, Peter usually does when Stiles manages to get by the rest.) Stiles appreciates what they’re willing to do for him, every single time. (Pain is… Stiles isn’t good with pain.)
Speaking of which, Stiles hadn’t initially moved his arm very far before the pain shocked him into stopping, but he still has to move it back. He doesn’t want a repeat of what just happened, though, so he might be stalling the slightest bit.
Peter moves his hand to the juncture of Stiles’ neck and right shoulder, a small move that says a whole lot. Most importantly, You have to do this and I'm going to be right here while you do.
Stiles counts to five and then shifts his arm an inch, breathing out when there’s no corresponding pain this time. He carefully resituates his arm, trying to position it the way Dr. Anderson had left him. (Five warnings not to move hadn’t been enough; he’ll have to tell the doctor to use more next time.)
“Okay?” Peter asks, once Stiles is reasonably satisfied the doctor will never know he moved (unless Peter gives him up, which he definitely will if he thinks Stiles injured himself further).
Stiles nods in response, allowing himself to enjoy the relief that comes with not hurting while Peter rubs his shoulder in support. Of course Peter would know how he’s feeling. The alpha has lived through excruciating physical agony on too many occasions, so he knows how welcome the lack of pain is to someone who has suffered—who from that point on learns to expect the worst every time.
The ‘worst’ rarely happens to Stiles anymore, but when it does, he’s certain of his ability to get through it. With his pack. With Peter.
“Thanks,” he tells Peter again. “For, um…” He doesn’t know how to explain it. “…everything.” Yeah, that works.
Peter brings his other arm up to join the one already around Stiles’ shoulders, wrapping him in a careful hug that doesn’t jostle him or pull at his injured arm. “No thanks necessary,” he says, a regular admonition they both know Stiles is going to keep ignoring.
Since Stiles can’t hug him back, he brings his left hand up to hold onto the arm Peter has pressing against his collarbone. Something about the whole thing makes his throat impossibly tight. It’s a strange reaction, considering Peter likes to hug him. The alpha likes to hug everyone. It’s not anything unusual.
Except right now it is, because Peter isn’t letting go of him. He doesn’t let go even after Stiles relaxes against him, his mind going quiet in a way that doesn’t happen very often (but when it does, he’s usually with Peter). In that subsequent quiet, Stiles sees past the drugs in his bloodstream enough to realize Peter’s not so much hugging him as he is…holding onto him.
He would ask why, but that might make Peter stop, so he says nothing. He’s getting so used to the quiet that Peter’s murmured, “I’m still alive,” causes Stiles to jump. Luckily, he can’t go far with Peter still holding onto him, preventing Stiles from unintentionally moving his arm again.
“You better be alive,” Stiles warns, gripping Peter’s arm tighter to prove they’re on the same plane of existence (really, anything is possible given his life). “It took me years to get used to the supernatural the way it is now.” He twists to glance up at Peter. “Do not tell me you’re a ghost and force me to start the process of acceptance from the beginning.”
“I’m not a ghost…though I do hope they exist.” Peter isn’t quite smiling, but his expression is lighter than before. “I was repeating the first line of the voicemail you left me. There wasn’t a greeting. You opened with ‘I’m still alive’.” He looks away, somewhere across the room. “If you only knew what I pictured…in that moment. Before you went on to explain.”
Stiles thought he’d broken the news the best way he could, deliberately opening with a half-hearted joke to prove he was fine before he relayed the bare minimum of toned down details. When he tries to imagine hearing the same thing from Peter in a message, cold sweeps through him and refuses to leave. The only thing that keeps him from shivering is Peter.
“I didn’t want you to worry.” Stiles doesn’t know how to apologize for that. “I didn’t know how else to—”
“Hey, no.” Peter brushes his words aside. “I’m not trying to make you feel guilty. It’s not your fault how I reacted.” He ducks his head, which makes his voice louder without having to raise it. “I just… I needed you to be okay. And you are.” It’s like Peter doesn’t know which one of them he’s trying to convince more. “You are.”
“I am,” Stiles promises. “You’re here.” It’s the most truthful reason he has. His day had been approaching unbearable, right up until Peter arrived. And now…
“I’m here,” Peter agrees, his voice slightly less steady than Stiles is used to, “and I’m always going to be.” He tightens his arms a little, and Stiles realizes that Peter’s initial hug might have been for him, but this part—the holding on—is for Peter.
Stiles would let him hold on forever if it helped. Or if it didn’t.
“What a coincidence,” Stiles tells him, in a belated answer that isn’t necessary (but when has that ever stopped him?). “I’m going to be here, too. So we can stay here with each other. Not ‘here’ as in the hospital—well, I hope we aren’t always at the hospital.” He can’t figure out how to stop talking. “I meant, in general, we can be in the same place that's not here. There are lots of other places in the world aside from the hospital. Dozens, even—”
“I get it,” Peter laughs, saving him from his own rambling. He pulls back from his hug, but leaves one hand on Stiles’ shoulder to keep his undivided attention. “The situation doesn’t matter,” Peter promises. “Together. That’s what matters.”
Peter is right. He’d been right from the moment he told Stiles they were going to change their world. (This sure isn’t the same place they used to live.)
In his more hopeful, optimistic moments, Stiles likes to imagine the universe is making things up to them after taking so much. Maybe it led them to each other—not just him and Peter, but all of them. Maybe it knew how much they needed each other.
Or maybe it didn’t, and the collision of their lives was random chance, like everything that came before. Either way, they have their pack now, and they’re going to fight until the end to keep the peaceful existence they’ve found (to keep each other) whether the universe wants them to have this or not.
Stiles sets his hand over Peter’s, still on his shoulder. “Together,” he agrees, and Peter slowly smiles when he realizes Stiles isn’t merely repeating the word, he’s giving the promise right back to him.
Peter links their hands so he can lift them, pressing a kiss to the back of Stiles’. It causes something to settle in him—something that runs deep, grounding Stiles in a way he never felt before their pack, but which he no longer wants to live without.
The situation, the time, the place… None of it matters.
Not as long as they have each other.