Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Stiles flinches when a door slams down the hall, and then shakes his head at himself, his dad must have finally come up to go to bed, that's all. He makes his way downstairs, no reason to put off tidying up until morning if he's already awake.

His dad won't remember making the mess himself by morning, or Stiles likes to believe he doesn't remember, it's the least upsetting excuse he can give himself for the things his dad says and does. Not that he can blame him, werewolves, druids, kanima, the supernatural world is a heavy weight, and Stiles is the one who dragged him into all of it.

The changes were small at first, little things that reminded Stiles of those awful first few years after his mother died. Longer hours at the station, taking doubles and night shifts so that he slept all day and Stiles rarely even saw him more than twice a week in passing. Disappointed looks and exasperated sighs when they do finally cross paths, as if he doesn't even know what to do with a son like Stiles.

And then the drinking started again.

At first it was just 'one to wind down after a long shift Stiles, I'm an adult, I can have a whiskey if I want one.' Then it quickly became two, and then a six pack of beer, and on and on until he'd start drinking practically the moment he came through the door and not stop until he passed out on the couch.

Stiles becomes a quiet shadow in his own home, avoiding being near his dad at all if he can help it, disappointment is bad enough but after a few drinks the sheriff becomes a spiteful drunk, angry and full of blame for all the misfortune Stiles has brought about.

He can handle the blame for the whole werewolf reveal, for being hyperactive and annoying and not enough, but his mother, it hurts when his dad blames him for her.

His mother is still a raw wound of grief in his heart even after almost a decade has passed.

Stiles starts by picking up cans and bottles from around the living room, sweeping up some glass he heads into the kitchen for a washcloth and almost steps in a puddle of vomit next to another shattered bottle. Lovely.

He steps around the mess with a grimace, grabbing everything to clean up from a cupboard under the sink. Thank god for gloves.

It's tempting sometimes, to just leave everything where it is for his father to find and take care of himself, but he's learnt from experience his father is well practiced in ignoring things he doesn't want to see.

No, if he doesn't clean it up nobody will, so it's better to just get it done.

Once he's finished scrubbing the tile he snaps off the gloves, throws everything away, and does a final sweep of the living room, wiping up spills and the remnants of greasy takeout that he's long stopped scolding his father for. It's all as clean as it's going to get for the night, and he can take out the trash and recycling when it's light out.

He's tired when he returns to his room, the sort of bone-deep weariness that comes from life consistently kicking you every time you're down, but he can't sleep yet. He'd spent all of his time since getting home on research for the pack, and schoolwork waits for no teen.

By the time he's finished with everything well enough that his grades won't drop the sun's rising. Stiles roughly wipes his hands down his face, and then back up into his hair where he tugs, frustrated, he has to be up in an hour if he wants to make something healthy for his dad to take to the station for his next shift and also manage to pick up Scott on the way to school.

He sighs, might as well get an early start.

On the bright side he can probably fit a shower in now, the wolves have been looking at him funny and sniffing near him more, and it's really starting to get annoying. He'd already stopped using heavily scented products to keep them from grumbling, so really it's their own fault if they keep sniffing him and he doesn't smell like wildflowers.

After tying off the top of the garbage bag he balances the box of recycles on his hip, heading around the side of the house to the bins, he puts everything down and pauses, hair on the back of his neck rising.

"You don't have to creep around in the bushes you know, you could just walk over and say good morning." Stiles says, keeping his voice even and low and knowing his visitor will still hear him, but his nosey neighbors won't think he's talking to himself. "Though maybe that's what you're going for, the whole lurker vibe which kudos to you, you'd get full marks in skulking class if you weren't caught out."

Tipping the recycling in as quietly as possible, the amount of clinking glass shattering the silence a condemnation, Stiles waits for a reply. If it's one of the puppies they're usually indignant, reveal themselves just to try and argue that he shouldn't have known they were there, if it's Derek he gets a flash of red eyes from the treeline, annoyed but still wanting Stiles to know it was only him so he doesn't worry something else is out there. Considerate, really, as much as he tries to hide it.

He's half hoping it'll be Peter, who usually seems amused with his antics, tolerating his teasing with smirks and banter, tolerating him in general. It's nice, he's like a slightly creepy uncle, if said slightly creepy uncle was also a semi reformed mass murderer with expensive taste and a sharp wit.

Since no smug comment or rowdy denials reach him Stiles does a quick scan of the treeline, looking for telltale red eyes.

He's met with none, slightly unsettled, and leaves one bottle out on top of the recycling bin just in case as he stuffs the bag of trash in the other.

Hearing a muffled snap behind him Stiles smashes the bottle, spinning around with the jagged end in his hand ready to-

"What the fuck Peter, I almost stabbed you." His heart is beating like a drum in his chest, but already starting to settle, knowing there's no danger here.

"Maybe I wanted to test your reflexes, I can't say I'm not pleased, nobody will be sneaking up on you any time soon." His smirk is smug, did Stiles say he hoped Peter was the one visiting? He's changed his mind Peter is an asshole, he tells him as much.

"Yeah yeah asshole, you got me." He can't help feel slightly pleased himself at the praise, but he stuffs the feeling down when Peter's gaze changes from amused to assessing, looking him over with an ever so slight sharpness to his eyes that Stiles needs to hide from. Quickly.

"Well I hope you got your fill of scaring the human for a while, or I'm going to develop a heart condition, and nobody wants that." He forces his usual nonchalance and sarcasm, dumping the broken bottle in the recycling, closing the lid with a flourish and backing away facing Peter. "This was nice, truly a fun time, I need to go get ready for school now though, so... I'll see you at the next pack meeting?"

When Peter doesn't move he makes a little shooing motion with his hands, as if it'll help send Peter on his way. There's nothing to see here, there is no war in Ba Sing Se, these aren't the droids you're looking for.

"Alright, Stiles, I'll see you soon then," he says it with a reluctant grin, still evaluating, and yeah, Stiles needs to get out if here.

"That almost didn't sound ominous, A for effort." He quips, retreating inside with a wave over his shoulder. He's been doing well so far he thinks, in covering for his father's current state, it's just a lot of work.

It's a small town, and people talk, so Stiles has been trying to keep up appearances best he can. It's not like his father usually does the grocery shopping so no suspicion there when it's Stiles who shows up, the take out might be a problem eventually though with everyone knowing how much Stiles bothers his father about his diet. Thankfully his father drives a town over to purchase alcohol. Can't have the town sheriff seen buying a bottle of whiskey and a six pack of beer almost every time he finishes a shift, after all.

Stiles keeps his grades up, hasn't lost his spot at first or second in each of his classes. He makes sure their bills are paid on time, getting harder and harder to budget with the new added expense of half a liquor store, but Stiles has always earned some extra cash from selling papers to students, and it comes in handy now. He makes sure the house is clean, laundy is done, food is cooked, and the yard looks well maintained even at a glance. And lastly, but most importantly, no matter how run down he is, how exhausted from keeping up with running a household, maintaining his grades, and supernatural problems to fix, Stiles always, always, keeps a smile on his face.

An observant werewolf like Peter though? Hiding things from him is hard, his whole schtick is being mysterious and knowing everything, and Stiles knows that this whole operation is a house of cards one Peter shaped gust of wind away from collapsing.

He thinks he deflected well enough, though, he's surrounded by werewolves daily and none of them suspect anything, so he must be doing pretty good. Peter is probably just checking in on him or something.

Yeah he's, he's doing fine.

Chapter Text

It's a week before things come to a head with the kanima, he tries to convince Jackson that it's him but he won't listen, so he locks him in a police van, leaves Scott and Allison on guard duty (a mistake) and long story short his dad gets fired.

It's not good, it's as far from good as it can be, for days at a time he doesn't see much of his dad and for once it's because Stiles is the one that isn't home, trying to stay ahead of Jackson ahead of the pack, prevent any more deaths. Then he gets taken off the lacrosse field, he scores the winning goal- plays the best lacrosse game of his life really- but when he looks up at the stand his dad isn't even there, too busy at home passed out drunk as the lights go out and Stiles is dragged off the pitch.

His time with Gerard Argent was painful, and sure his pride took as many hits as his now likely cracked ribs, but escaping with Erica and Boyd in tow was worth it. Convincing them that pack was family, to stay and give their alpha a chance, now that was enough to buoy him through sending them on their way to Derek and then limping his own way home.

Finding his father out cold face down in the kitchen, lights off and tv blaring away in the living room, is somehow more painful than grandpa Argent's little torture dungeon. There's more glass to clean up, spilled liquor setting it's way into the carpet and couch, probably vomit somewhere judging by the smell and Stiles is just, Stiles is already at the end of a fraying rope tonight as is.

He turns on the kitchen light and kneels down next to his father with a wince, arm coming up to cradle his sore ribs, as he shakes him, too impatient to be as gentle as he usually would. He doesn't wake, just furrows his brow, and Stiles face crumples in response.

He can't do this tonight.

He shakes his father again, harder, mostly succeeding in aggravating his ribs again, but his father does stir this time with a grunt.

"Stiles what are you-" he starts, before realising he's on the floor. "Oh, must'a fell."

Great, still drunk.

"You should go up to bed, dad." Stiles says, pulling himself up with the kitchen counter.

"You don't tell me what to do." His father slurs, quickly becoming irate, "you're just, you're jus'a kid, hyperactive little- I'm the parent, you don't tell me what to do."

"Okay, dad." Stiles tries not to sigh, it's one of those nights.

"Your mother was- she, she knew what you are." He says, standing unsteadily, bottle still in hand as he points in a rage. Stiles backs up quickly, putting distance and the kitchen island between them, "she should still be here, she would but instead I got- got you!"

He throws the bottle in his hand at Stiles and usually, usually Stiles just ducks out the way, his father isn't exactly coordinated when he's like this and he's never managed more than clipping Stiles. But Stiles forgot about his ribs, starts to move and pauses a second too long at the sharp flare of pain and gains a new one.

"I don't- don't want you here." He sneers while Stiles hand trails up to his collar bone, neck, cheek, finding blood and brushing off bits of glass with his fingers the more skin he maps. Stiles leans heavily into the wall, shock hitting him when he looks at his bloody fingertips, somehow he never thought his dad would actually hurt him on purpose.

"I don't WANT you here!" he yells again, and Stiles feels like he's underwater, "be gone by th' by the morning."

His dad sways on the spot a moment, face contorted in anger, then stumbles his way out of the kitchen, not sparing Stiles a second glance.

Stiles stands frozen, listening until he hears a door slam upstairs, and then slides down the wall. His breathing is harsh, escalating into gasps that rattle in his chest, lungs burning and ribs on fire, it hurts but he can't stop. He's having a panic attack, he knows he is, but recognising it doesn't stop it.

His vision starts to go spotty, black haze crawling in around the edges as his breaths turn to wheezes, his heartbeat is a loud rush in his ears and he's unable to stop himself slipping into the dark.

He startles up at a loud banging on his door, hisses at the jolt to his ribs.

"Just... just a second," he calls out, praying the noise hasn't woken up his dad he pulls himself up using the counter in front of the sink this time, heartbeat picking up again when he feels the trickle of pooled blood run down from his collarbone. Turning on the tap he quickly fills his cupped hand and wipes down the side of his face and neck hoping to get rid of as much of the dried up blood as he can.

The only thought running through his head is that no one can know.

Walking up to the door Stiles grabs his hoodie, zips it up to the top, and hides his most injured side behind the door. Opening it he's surprised to see Lydia standing on the other side.

"Hi." Lydia says, somewhat... bashfully? She looks like she's been crying, and Stiles supposes that makes sense, even though they've been broken up a while her and Jackson were dating for a long time.

"Uh, hi," he says, not quite sure why she's here, he can feel the cuts on his collarbone sluggishly throbbing where they're hidden under his hoodie and he's struggling to stay focused. She stares at him a beat, as if she's waiting for something.

"Aren't you going to invite me in?" He thinks about the state of the living room, the kitchen, himself.

"I mean, it's pretty late, was there something you needed?" Her shy look falters a moment and she looks put out, before schooling her features back to a soft, sad look.

"I wanted to talk, They won't let me see him. I don't really understand what happened." Her eyes are wide and watery, pleading, but Stiles can't stop thinking about how quickly it changed moments ago.

"I don't... this isn't a good time, Lydia." As soon as he says it her eyes go tight, a tension to her face, "maybe tomorrow I could-"

"But I need you now, I want to know what's happening, I know you know." She blinks rapidly, lower lip quivering like she's on the verge of tears, and Stiles wonders how easy to manipulate she thinks he is. Stiles can't fault her for trying, he would have done anything she asked the moment she called if it were a few weeks ago, but at some point he finally let go of his crush on her. "I don't remember much, half of it is like a dream."

"Well the other half is a nightmare," Stiles says bluntly, he's starting to feel a little lightheaded, adrenaline fading and leaving him woozy. "I really can't do this right now Lydia, I'm sorry about Jackson, I-"

"I know he's not in the morgue, I know you know where he is," she cuts him off again, "why don't you want to help me?"

"I really don't know where he is right now, Lydia, I didn't even know he wasn't at the hospital."

"Fine, whatever, I can't believe you." Lydia says dropping the act, still tear stained and clearly distressed, but not bothering to be nice to him anymore. "I'll find him myself."

She spins away with an aggrieved huff, and Stiles closes the door, leaning his forehead against it to stave off the dizziness he feels. He hears her car door slam, he's tired.

He's tired but there's so much to do.

Chapter Text

Cleaning himself up is first, the house can wait a few minutes.

Staring at his reflection in the mirror he can see how much of a mess he is, there's a smattering of shallow cuts along his jaw and cheek, one deeper than the rest flicking up toward his temple, another gouging out a tick on his jaw. Can see where he's bled through his hoodie from the deeper cuts along his collarbone and wrapping around his shoulder where the bottle impacted. Thankfully what he can see of his neck are light scratches.

The other side of his face is bruised, a black eye, a graze along the side of his mouth, a swollen cheek, all from Gerard and his goons.

His heart starts to ratchet up in speed again, a lot of this will probably scar, at least the deeper ones, and his dad won't even remember in the morning. What's he going to tell him about where they came from? What's he going to tell Scott or Derek or Peter or the puppies, who can all tell when he's lying?

He shrugs off his hoodie, tries to slip out of his shirt without lifting or twisting much and disturbing his ribs, giving up half way and just stretching down the collar instead. There's some glass that he picks out, causing a fresh trickle of blood to follow, and when he's done he wipes the lot with an alcohol wipe, wanting to just be done with it.

The deep gash at his collarbone and the two on his face both won't stop bleeding on their own so he shuffles through his first aide kit- it's grown extensively since he found out about the supernatural world- and pulls out some tape butterfly stitches, he's certainly not taking a needle to himself, and the hospital is out of the question.

There's nothing he can really do for his ribs, but he's pretty sure they're not broken, just cracked, so at least that's a positive. He takes a quick look at them, at the already deepening mottle of purples and blacks, a semi distinct boot shape that's further down onto his stomach. Again, not a lot he can do.

He does have bruise cream up in his room somewhere, but the thought of putting pressure on any of it to rub it in makes him cringe, so he discards that idea.

Packing up the first aide kit and making a mental note to pick up stuff for a restock, he stops and grabs his phone from his pocket, opening up his notes app. He's not going to remember otherwise, and he doesn't want to be caught out when he needs something.

He stares down at his phone, feels his heart warm a little and cut through the numbness that's surrounded him since he walked through the front door, he has 17 missed messages from Scott. At least someone noticed he was missing, at least someone cares. He has one from Peter as well but leaves that for later, going straight to his thread with Scott.

As his eyes scan through each message his stomach drops like a stone, none of the messages show any concern, Scott apparently didn't even realise that he'd had been taken. Instead his messages become increasingly frantic in berating Stiles for 'running off' for not being there to help him, saying that they need his help to save Jackson, that he's letting them down.

The last message reads 'where r u?? Jackson turning in2 super kanima, Peter says he needs true love magic, get Lydia 2 warehouse disctict we r counting on u'

Stiles wants to be disappointed, wants to feel hurt, but after everything that's happened tonight he can only manage feeling ill. Though that could be from being repeatedly kicked in the stomach so who knows.

He moves down to the text from Peter, hoping for some more detail on the 'true love magic' they supposedly need Lydia for, but instead he's met with something different.

'I managed to catch the first half of your lacrosse game tonight, you played exceptionally well, all of the running about with wolves is a great training regiment. I'll have to catch a full game next time, do let me know when you're playing next.'

Stiles feels a warm trickle down near his eye, and for a moment he thinks he's bleeding again, but when he reaches up to wipe it away his fingers are clean. Oh, he's crying. The realisation is followed by a sniffle, by more tears, and he just doesn't have time for this, he's certainly not prepared to analyse why some basic praise is making him cry, nope. So he ignores them, apparently he needs to go pick up Lydia anyway.

Or no, if it's true love magic they need why would they choose Lydia, who Jackson has been broken up with for a while, he realised their relationship was toxic and bad for them both, that they couldn't stop hurting each other. If he needs someone Jackson truly loves without conditions, who loves him the same in return, he should bring Danny.

He calls Danny on his way out the door, remembering to toss his hoodie back on at the last minute, he doesn't need to scare Danny before he has a chance to explain. He's driven most of the way to Danny's before he starts to doubt himself. Lydia, though being manipulative at the time did seem really upset about Jackson dying, but the last time Stiles saw Jackson he seemed much more at peace with himself with them broken up.

No, Danny's the right choice.

And he proves it, readily accepting the explanation for Jackson's weird behavior, relieved to the point of tears that Jackson is alive and can be saved, immediately asking how he can help and not caring about the danger.

He asks after Stiles once he's calmed down and they have a plan, Stiles is only guessing there but if true love can save Jackson he's assuming Danny being there can help snap him out of it somehow. Of course, nice guy that he is, Danny can't help but notice how beat up Stiles' face is, but Stiles waves him off, not really wanting to explain the whole beat up by an old man thing, and definitely not saying a word about his dad.

Danny skeptically accepts the brush off, scrutinising Stiles a moment before giving in, he has a lot to focus on right now. He's fidgeting nervously in his seat as they pull up to the warehouse, ready to jump out before Stiles has come to a complete stop.

Stiles watches him a moment as he runs into the warehouse, putting the Jeep in park and turning off the engine, he grabs his bat and follows after him.

Why are warehouses so much more ominous at night? They had to choose an abandoned one with shattered windows and graffiti haphazardly sprayed on every surface. Not even nice graffiti, just scribbles of barely legible names and words, if you're gonna tag a building at least make it look cool. Stiles snaps himself out of his internal rambling, focusing on the noise coming from inside as he approaches the door.

Two steps into the warehouse is as far as he gets, lizard Jackson dropping down from where he's crawling down the wall like an oversized scale covered spider, right beside him. Of course Stiles' reflexes kick in and he takes the only correct course of action, he lets out a shriek and swings his bat right into Jackson's scaley head.

Jackson spins away from him as he collapses to the floor- well that was anticlimactic- Danny rushing to his side immediately after, falling to his knees next to him and grabbing his face in both hands. He's talking in a low tone and Stiles can't quite make out the words, but he isn't giving Danny his full attention anyway, too focused on the searing agony in his side, trying not to let out a sound that one of the wolves might hear. Swinging a bat with cracked ribs? It turns out, not the best idea.

Thankfully he can use his bat as a handy crutch because holy shit.

He looks up again when he hears Danny scream, sees Peter and Derek with their claws sticking into Jackson and shouts himself. It's over in a moment, Jackson back on the ground in Danny's arms this time.

Stiles stands there shocked, if he brought Danny here to save Jackson, saying he could be saved, just for Danny to watch him be killed in front of him, he was gonna be pissed.

Danny's sobbing again, Jackson cradled in his arms, and Stiles doesn't know what to do, is about to go over there regardless, and then he hears Jackson speak. He never thought he'd feel relief at the sound of Jackson Whittemore's voice, but here they are. Danny leans down to kiss Jackson, and Stiles decides that's his queue to give them some privacy, turning his attention to everyone else in the warehouse.

Time to find out what the fuck's been going on tonight.

Chapter Text

Derek and Peter are standing together, talking with their heads bowed, Isaac still catching his breath beside them, and Scott is trailing after a distraught looking Allison which ugh. A shiver runs down Stiles' spine, torturing her classmates is apparently not a deal breaker in Scott's eyes, good to know.

Shaking his head he looks back to Derek and Peter, they're the most likely to give him answers right now, he begins to walk over and notices the closer he gets the more tense Derek becomes. Stiles sees Isaac sneaking off, catches Gerard's name a few times, hears Derek say he's going after him, so Gerard is alive, wonderful. He's unable to ask for more information though, because when he gets close enough to ask Derek spins and stalks past, shoulder checking him out the way as he goes. Stiles eyes water at the hit, he hears a whimper he'll deny was himself later, jesus christ that stings.

Even while Stiles is hurting though, he can aknowledge Derek definitely checked his strength, and he might not know what the hell he did to deserve that, but if he wasn't already injured it wouldn't even have left a bruise on him. He is already injured though.

He's still bent slightly, clutching at his collarbone and ribs when he feels a sudden tingling lightness, feels the pain leeching away. He hears a gasp, and with it comes the awareness of Peter's hand brushing his own, thick dark ropes of inky black drawing their way up under his sleeve out of view.

Stiles pulls back.

"I'm fine, I'm good, just took me by surprise." He rushes out, and he can see Peter isn't going to accept that as easily as other people do, so he goes for his tried and true method of distraction, "what's got him all in a huff? Did you guys say Gerard's still alive? He made that trail of goo though? Is it bite rejection? Why did Derek bite him anyway? Did you know stabbing through Jackson like that would help save him or were you just, you know, taking care of the problem? How did you know about the true love magic mumbo jumbo in the first place?"

Peter waits patiently for him to finish, a calculated look on his face throughout that's replaced by a smirk, and Stiles gets the distinct feeling he's not talking his way out of this.

"Scott brought Derek here to be paralyzed by the kanima and forced him to bite Gerard, he went into bite rejection because Scott spiked his cancer meds with mountain ash and then crawled his way out while we were dealing with Jackson, Derek didn't want to bite him, Scott forced his teeth into Gerards arm and he couldn't stop him, apparently it was the plan all along." He ticks each answer off on his fingers as he goes, carefully watching the journey Stiles face takes with each new bit of information. "Knowledge on kanimas is considered obscure, they aren't common, but I have some contacts in other packs who were willing to share what they know, the shared love between him and Danny was a counterpoint to the initial aberration in his turning, it anchored him. That anchor helped pull him through us 'stabbing him' as you put it and bringing him out the other side with control of himself that can never be taken by a new master."

He waits for Stiles to absorb everything he said, looking entirely too smug, and Stiles doesn't even know where to start.

"Wait Scott did WHAT!?" Okay maybe he does, because what the fuck Scott. "He knows that Derek sees the bite as a gift, why wouldn't he just talk to him and tell him what the plan was and give Derek a choice?"

The more he thinks it over the less sense it makes, the more violating and lacking it becomes, not telling Derek only adds so many more chances for things to go wrong with the plan.

"Why wouldn't he just ask? Everyone wanted the same thing here," of all the people he could have done this to, Derek was possibly the worst candidate. He may have fucked up a lot at being an alpha recently, but he's trying so hard, it's obvious he's improving, and he's never deserved anything close to what Scott's done.

"I suspect only he'd know the answer to that, so you'd have to ask him." His mouth twitches into an irritated line, "though he told Derek it's because, and I quote, 'you're not my alpha' so I'd assume his reason was partially to be hurtful or he wouldn't have thrown it in his face like that."

Stiles whirls around to find Scott, he needs to know what exactly was going through his head when he decided to do this, to explain to him exactly why what he's done crossed so many lines.

He turns back to Peter, aggravated, because Scott's already left. He sent all those damn messages to Stiles, didn't even notice he was kidnapped, and then when they're in the same place he just leaves without a word? Doesn't even check on him? He shouldn't be surprised anymore.

"As for my nephew's anger at you, he correctly assumed Scott was too dense to come up with the subterfuge on his own, but incorrectly assumed that you must have been the brain behind it." He dips his head a little, "I'm sure it will be cleared up quickly."

"Yes, well." Stiles sighs, feels like he's doing a lot of that lately, "it'll all work out."

"Alright, now it's my turn," Stiles opens his mouth to ask, too slowly apparently. "How did you get the cuts on your face? Your neck? What happened to your ribs? How did you know to bring Danny? Why him over Lydia? Would you like me to drain your pain? I can see that you've done some first aide but do you need medical attention? Will you let me check over your injuries?"

"I-" Stiles starts, mouth hanging open with no sound following, the emotional whiplash of the day catching up to him at yet another turn. "What?"

"I answered all of your questions, it's only fair you answer a few of my own, wouldn't you say?" And yeah okay, he's right, the smug bastard. That doesn't mean Stiles won't need to be careful in what he says.

"I chose Danny because we didn't want someone who only cared for Jackson conditionally, true love sort of implies more than what Jackson and Lydia had, and they were broken up. Jackson has seemed more sure of himself since it happened, and I've always seen the way he and Danny are with each other." He shrugs, "they're close enough to love each other, even if it hadn't been romantic love, good for them that it is though."

"I don't think I need medical attention, my ribs are cracked not broken so they just need time and rest, I have some bruises and scrapes, but everything is taken care of." Stiles takes a deep breath, bolstering himself, "I'll let you take a look at my ribs if you don't push on how it happened?"

"I'd rather not look and know how you aquired them, if that's the only deal your offering." It's been a long day and maybe Stiles, maybe he just wants to feel like someone cares, he remembers the text message from earlier about the lacrosse game, can see the concern Peter is barely concealing. Maybe Stiles can tell him some of it.

"Fine," Stiles says, feeling slightly outsmarted, he should have waited to say what was wrong, that would have gotten him to agree. "Grandpa bad touch sent goons to grab me off the Lacrosse field, he had Erica and Boyd strung up in his basement courtesy of Allison, I was thrown down the stars and spent some quality time being beat up. When he left I got Erica and Boyd down, we were waiting for them to be healed up enough to make a break for it when Chris found us down there and set us into the wild."

Peter's eyes have taken on a vicious glint, though he doesn't interrupt, Stiles can tell he wants more details though, probably wishes he was on Gerard tracking duty to take retribution for the pack.

"I sent Erica and Boyd off to heal up somewhere safe and then head to Derek, they aren't running any more, they'll give him another shot." Stiles "and then I went home.... Lydia showed up, wanting to know where Jackson was, she left, I cleaned up and then saw Scott's messages and went to get Danny. So. Yeah."

Peter tilts his head considering. Stiles wills his heartbeat not to quicken, dread pooling along his spine.

"Of course you'd be able to convince them to try. I'm sorry we didn't find you, and you were hurt because of us, if we had known..." His brow furrows into something contrite, "you do know that Derek and I, that the rest of the pack would help you, with anything. You need only say the word."

"Of course," Stiles says quickly, and Peters face falls a fraction. Stupid werewolf hearing.

It's not that Stiles thinks they wouldn't help him with most things, but he also thinks about everything waiting for him at home and knows that they simply can't. It's not their fault, Stiles has thought about it on his worst days, the guilt that follows usually eats him alive for a week after, but he has thought about it. Fantasized about his father suddenly becoming better, sure, but also about leaving.

His father is a well respected man in the community, well liked and deserving of sympathy. Especially now with his out of control handful of a son losing him his job.

His dad will always be the Sheriff, even without the badge for a while there. When he was younger Stiles remembers getting help from deputies at the station, from moms at the grocery store, from a teacher or two. They all saw him, a little kid, struggling to learn to cook, to clean, to pay bills, and to grocery shop, always alone. He was eight. They saw him like that for more than a year, yet nothing changed.

He learnt then that there would always be an excuse for his dad. Grief, work, stress, his mom's hospital bills, money, raising a difficult kid alone. Always an excuse for it.

Stiles learnt, and he bought into it himself. And on those days, those bad days, he lets himself feel bitter about it.

There's nothing to be done.

"Stiles, please just," Peter presses, desperation stealing across his face, "how did you get the cuts on your face and neck?"

"I-" suddenly, everything becomes clear. Peter knows. He knows. How could he- he's never said anything. Stiles can feel his whole body tense, nobody can know, it's his only rule. "I already told you about Gerard."

His traitor of a heart is beating wildly in his chest, giving away his panic even though he technically didn't lie, Peter takes a step closer, arm reaching out, so Stiles retreats a step further away.

"Stiles, I can help if you-"

"I'm gonna take Jackson and Danny home," Stiles interrupts, backing up to put more distance between them, "they've had a long day, you know, and I'm their ride so... I'll see you around."

Stiles turns on his heel when he's long out of arms reach, ignoring Peter's call of his name, and speed walks over to Danny and Jackson standing right near the door.

"All right kids," he claps his hands together to try and hide how they're shaking, it does nothing to wipe the concerned look of their faces. Stiles smiles wider, tries to make it feel real, "where are we headed?"

"Stiles are you okay?" Danny asks, and he looks sad, it feels like a crime to make Danny of all people look sad.

"I'm good, really, so-"

"Stiles," Danny starts, voice sympathy laden in a way that only makes Stiles' breathing pick up with the need to flee, he needs to go, to just be out of here, he doesn't want to talk about this. Why won't anyone just leave it alone he's fine.

"Danny, drop it for now." Jackson cuts in, giving Stiles a small nod. It's weird knowing he could probably sense Stiles' impending breakdown and actually helped him, like some sort of alternate universe. After sharing a look with Danny he adds, "we'll head to mine, if that's alright?"

"Yeah sure, no problem," he fidgets with his keys as he walks out toward the jeep, deep in thought. He doesn't know what he's supposed to do about Peter knowing, doesn't know what Peter is gonna do about Peter knowing.

Hopefully nothing but everything else in his life is a shitshow right now, what's one more thing, right?

Chapter Text

Thankfully the car ride to Jackson's place is filled with only light conversation. Mostly between Danny and Jackson because Jackson is being a really great buffer right now, taking a sharp turn onto a random topic every time Danny inches back to asking Stiles if he's really okay, and what happened to his face, and if he wants to talk about it.

Apparently his talk with Peter was out of range for human ears.

"Alright here we are," Stiles says as he's pulling up at Jackson's house, "want me to park? Or I can always drive by real slow so you can tuck and roll?"

"Just pull up out front Stiles," Jackson says, shaking his head with a tired smile, and wow it feels almost wrong that Jackson didn't last name him.

He parks and they both just sit there, he can feel them staring at the back of his head, he drums his fingers on the steering wheel. They're still sitting there.

He flicks his eyes up to the mirror, watches Danny and Jackson having a silent back and forth, lots of little eyebrow raises and head tilts.

"So....." Stiles starts, hoping to prompt them into motion.

"I wanted to say thank you," Danny says, "if you didn't come get me, I would have lost him, and instead I got more than I thought I could have. You're a good guy Stiles."

"You don't have to thank me for that, all in a day's work or whatever- oh," Danny's arm snakes around the back of the seat to wrap around his chest lightly, it's- it's nice.

"Just accept the gratitude, Stiles," Danny says with a slight chuckle.

"Ah, okay, you're welcome, then?" Danny smiles, looking the most relaxed Stiles has seen him today, and jumps out the car leaving Stiles and Jackson alone. Jackson with an intense look on his face, and determination in his eyes, and oh god Stiles can't handle another serious talk.

"Thank you for bringing Danny, I heard you talking to Peter, he was the right call." He pauses, looking like he's trying to pick his words carefully and again it feels like Stiles has fallen into the Twilight Zone or something. This is Jackson. Jackson. "It's really late, do you want to stay here with us? You can even borrow some clean clothes so you don't have to dress like the love child of a superhero and a lumberjack for once."

It's a tempting offer, so so tempting, and Stiles almost gives in. But there's plenty waiting for him at home that needs to be taken care of sooner rather than later.

"Sorry Jackson, I've gotta get home, maybe I'll let you guys play dress up some other time though." He tries for a smirk, isn't quite sure he makes it, and is surprised when Jackson hugs him just like Danny had.

"Thank you." Jackson says, more awkwardly this time, and Stiles feels his hand subtly rubbing his uninjured shoulder, covertly scent marking him before he too slips out of the jeep. Again this is Jackson. And again, impossibly, it's... nice.

The drive home passes quickly, planning what he needs to do before morning and what can wait so he can get some decent sleep before school tomorrow. At least all of his schoolwork is taken care of.

Opening the door makes everything fall into his familiar routine, cleaning up shattered glass and rubbish and vomit, getting slower every time he has to get down to the floor. He can't wait for the weekend to get here so he can rest his ribs.

When he's finished, instead of just dropping immediately into his bed as he'd planned, Stiles heads to the bathroom. Taking off all of his layers his eyes roam his torso, neck, face, he thinks about the desperation on Peters face, and Danny's hug, and Jackson's concern. Something in him snaps.

It feels as if he's watching himself from outside his own body when he takes out his phone, takes photos of where the bottle struck him, some seperate photos of the injuries from Gerard on his face and ribs.

Staring at the photo he took of the side of his face, Stiles comes back to himself, he really does look awful. He should delete these, what would he even do with them?

Scrolling to the photo showing his neck and collarbone, his thumb hovers over the delete button. After a moment of indecision he hits the home button instead, locks his phone.

Gathering up his clothes Stiles gets ready for bed, glad to finally put this day behind him.

He doesn't think about it.

Stiles wakes up to his alarm, groaning as rolling over aggravates every little ache in his body.

Ugh everything hurts.

He sits up, and rubs a hand through his hair followed by a jaw cracking yawn, checking the time on his phone shows it's 6am, he has four missed messages.

Scrolling through while he slowly wakes up he sees the first message is from Danny, another thanks, another offer to talk. Next comes Jackson, asking if he wants a ride to school, and then a second saying he should stay home so he doesn't send people running at the sight of his face. Asshole.

The last is from Peter, and Stiles is too scared about what it says to open it.

Instead he texts back a quick 'all good man' with a smiley face to Danny, and a 'Ha Ha asshole' with a middle finger to Jackson.

He doesn't really want to stay home, staying busy would be much better so he doesn't dwell. With a sigh he hauls himself out of bed, bracing himself on his side table until the wave of dizziness standing caused passes, and gets ready for school. He'll talk to Peter later.

Slinging his backpack over his shoulder he heads downstairs, halfway to the door he stops, surprised, his father is awake and sitting at the table.

His father is surprised to see him too, it seems, eyebrows raised but face otherwise blank.

"Stiles. Why are you still here?" He says, and Stiles can't quite parse his tone.

"I'm just heading to school now, I was running a bit late so I-" his father holds up a hand to quiet him so Stiles cuts himself off, his face has settled on stern and it makes Stiles uneasy.

"No, Stiles, why are you still here? I know I told you to be gone by morning," he says, and Stiles feels like he's been struck. "It would have been plenty of time to gather your things and go."

"What? But I didn't think-"

"You didn't think what? That I was serious?" His voice raises, incredulous, and Stiles feels a sickly cold feeling spreading in his chest. "How could I not be? These last few years nothing, not a god damn thing, has been easy with you."

"Dad," Stiles starts, standing there frozen to the spot, this feels like a bad dream, he doesn't know what to say to fix this. Or if he wants to, some traitorous part of his mind whispers.

"I'm done, Stiles, ever since your mother died I've tried with you, done everything I can to raise you right." He lets out an aggravated sigh, "yet every time I came home there was another detention, another complaint from a teacher, or I heard you were running around at all hours alone causing trouble. I had to wonder what I was doing, why I was bothering."

"But all of this? Werewolves? Magic? Lizard people?" He throws his hands out, exasperated, "and my job Stiles? Do you know how much work it is to get back the respect I lost with my deputies? The ones that weren't killed by all of this- this- It's too much, you've always been too much, even for me, and I'm not doing it anymore."

"Where am I supposed to go?" Stiles asks quietly, feeling detached. He should be arguing, should fight to stay, but he doesn't. He just feels numb.

"I don't know Stiles, I'm sure you'll figure something out." He stands, grabbing his keys and wallet and moves towards the door. "I'm heading in to the station, I've got paperwork to do, I'll be gone a few hours, and I want you out by the time I get back Stiles, I mean it."

Stiles nods and watches his father leave without another word. Standing there a few moments longer he stares at the closed front door, he doesn't know what he's waiting for, doesn't have time for this. He has packing to do.

Combing through the house dispassionately Stiles finds everything he can justify taking, the first aide kit he'd hidden in the bathroom, his toiletries, clothes, some blankets, his pillow, any essentials for a few nights away. He double checks for his meds, his laptop, anything he has that's not easy to replace. Pulling down boxes from the attic he packs up everything else he can conceivably fit in the back of his jeep.

On the front seat he places a box of everything he has left of his mother, keepsakes, photos, her favorite necklace, a particularly hideous blanket she'd made, some sheet music, her favorite book, and other odds and ends. He kept it all stashed in the top of his closet because his father had gone through the rest of her things without him, so there's nothing else left.

He does a final sweep of the house, his bedroom looks pretty barren now but he leaves his window unlocked, he can probably convince Derek to jump through it one last time if he needs anything, for old times sake. He can't believe his entire room is sitting in the back of his car right now, the thought worms its way around his tenuously held control and squeezes but the numbness prevails.

Instead he goes downstairs, shoves some food in his backpack just in case- he'd feel bad but he'd paid for it anyway- and heads for the front door. On the way there he sees one last thing hidden away on a bookshelf, one last thing he can't help but take.

A framed photo of Stiles, his mother, and his father, the only one that had been kept on display. Little Stiles beaming up at the camera, missing tooth and all, his father, looking at his mother like she's the most beautiful woman he's ever seen, and his mother, sitting cross legged with Stiles in her lap, head thrown back with laughter while she hugs him, exuding joy. Their picture perfect happy little family. He stuffs it into his backpack.

Stiles closes the door, jumps in his jeep, and doesn't look back. He's already late for school.

Chapter Text

Fingers drumming against the steering wheel Stiles stares at the school in front of him. He'd parked as far from Jackson's Porsche as possible not wanting anyone in the pack to see his car crammed full of all of his things.

It's half way through a class, it won't make a difference if he goes in now or in a few minutes, the halls will be empty though and he's glad for it. After sitting for the drive his body has reminded him of his injuries, a pervasive ache down his torso and the throbbing of his face. Maybe he should have stopped by the store for some concealer before coming to school, but concealer won't hide the swelling so why bother.

The bruising on his face developed into deep shades of purple and black overnight, ringing one eye and splotching it's way down his cheek and jaw, add that to the cuts and scrapes and he looks particularly awful. He considers sunglasses, but he hasn't missed chemistry today and he knows Harris will confiscate them, so again, why bother.

He peels himself from his car and heads to the office to sign in, absent mindedly wondering whether his dad got a call that he wasn't at school and what he'd said if he did. Is he supposed to change that now? Can he even change his emergency contacts himself as a minor? He doesn't think so.

Mrs. Shaw behind the desk does a double take when she sees him, eyes darting across his face rather obviously, Stiles pastes on a smile and greets her.

"Hey Mrs. S, you're looking lovely this morning," he says cheerfully, "I need a late pass for Coach."

"Thank you Stiles, though I can't say the same, here fill this out," she hands over a late slip, and Stiles hovers over the area where he's supposed to write his reason. Shit what does he even write? "Are you alright? You don't look very well."

"You should see the other guy," he says, aiming for a smirk, in the end he scribbles down 'car troubles' and hopes that's enough to cover it. Mrs. Shaw always did give him a little more leeway with this sort of thing, she's been running the front office for years and was here when his mother was the school's music teacher.

"I can always write you a note for the nurse instead?" She says, concern lacing her voice.

"Nah I'm good for now, I'll let you know if that changes when it's time for chem though." She laughs, shaking her head at him, trading his finished slip for a late pass.

"You come right back if you need anything, you hear me?" She scrutinises him until he nods before sending him on his way with a chocolate from the bowl she keeps on her desk. Yeah, Mrs. Shaw is awesome.

Standing outside the door to econ Stiles takes a moment to steel himself, he's not looking forward to having everyone stare at him, but at least he doesn't share this class with any of the weres.

He opens the door and as predicted everyone turns to stare at him, wonderful. Coach pauses his rant, turning to glance at the door.

"Late to the p- holy crap Stilinski what happened to your face?" Stiles hands over his late pass, opening his mouth to answer, but gets cut off, Coach gesturing at his empty seat, "jesus kid, sit down before you fall down."

"Wow Coach, I must look like shit if you actually got my name right." He says as he pulls out his books, carefully keeping a grin on his face to hide the way he wants to groan like an old man when his ribs complain. Coach snorts.

"Alright Bilinski, page 52." Class goes by quickly after that, he spends most of it completely zoned out staring at the board, letting Coach's familiar half yelling uneven cadence wash over him. Coach can clearly tell, but he doesn't call Stiles out on it which he appreciates. He's having enough trouble sitting still as it is without being forced to try and focus.

He packs up his books as quickly as possible, luckily Danny gets waylaid in his rush toward Stiles by some of the lacrosse team, because quick is not something that describes Stiles right now. He makes it into the hall, ignoring Coach calling after him, and into the flood of students heading to their lunch break.

Nobody is brave enough to ask him directly, but he can hear the whispers, practically feel the stares, he's not going to go to the cafeteria and be a spectacle.

The library is basically empty when he sneaks his way in, so he's able to steal the good hiding spot at the back corner out of sight. People have been known to nap there undiscovered during their free periods, it's prime real estate.

He considers a nap himself, but he's not going to be able to get comfortable wedged between the shelves like he usually could, so instead he sits and reads through the textbook pages he'd missed from econ. He's half a page in when the book is pulled from his hands.

"Seriously, sitting alone in the library like a loser during lunch? That's a new low for you Stiles." He looks up in time to see Erica toss his book over her shoulder, Boyd standing off to the side arms crossed, "you've got explaining to do. Now."

"Sure." He says dryly, "when you asked so nicely, how could I say no?"

"Don't get cute with us, you lied" she says on a growl, poking him hard in the chest with her finger, "you told us to give Derek a chance, you said he was still learning, that pack was family, and then you go and do that to him? Explain."

"I didn't do anything to Derek, Scott-"

"Is way too stupid to come up with that himself, don't play dumb." She snarls, and Boyd moves in closer to put a hand on her shoulder, it seems to calm her down.

"Are you gonna let me finish?" He raises an eyebrow, he's not going to be intimidated by rowdy puppies after everything that's happened over the last few days. She's all bark no bite anyway. Mostly. Okay she did hit him with a part of his jeep and leave him in a dumpster the other day, but she's grown since then, kind of. "Good, okay, I did not come up with that plan, I didn't even know Gerard had approached him, I think it was awful and violating and I would never have said it was okay to do that to anyone in your pack."

She's squinting down at his chest, like staring at his heart is going to help her hear any deception better, she turns and looks at Boyd and they have a short silent conversation that consists almost entirely of eyebrow movements.

"Oh thank god, I didn't want to have to hate you," Erica finally says, throwing herself at him with her arms out for a hug, Boyd grabs her at the last moment before she collides with him, because Boyd's the best. "Does Derek know? I don't think Derek knows, he's been much more mopey than usual."

Stiles winces, he might have forgotten about talking to Derek, not that he would have had the time between the warehouse and now. Maybe he should go after school, clear the air. Erica's eyes narrow, she grabs his chin before he can finish his thought.

"What happened here?" She turns his head toward the light, looking at the scratches on his cheek and neck. "This didn't happen in the basement, and believe me I paid attention to every hit, if that bastard turns up alive he's getting everything returned to him before he dies."

Something so violent shouldn't warm his heart, and yet. Though maybe he should talk to Derek about Erica's vicious tendencies while he's there.

"It's nothing, it happened after. You heard about all the stuff with Jackson right?" He's not even sure why he's still protecting his father at this point, maybe he hopes he'll change his mind, maybe he just doesn't want Erica and Boyd to pity him. "It was a long night."

"Not all of it," she says, so Stiles spends the rest of lunch filling them in on everything that happened in the warehouse, Erica sprawling comfortably where she's leaning back against a stepstool, and Boyd standing almost on guard against the shelves. It relaxes something in him, knowing Boyd's keeping an eye even here where the worst threat is probably a detention from Harris.

Eventually the bell rings and Stiles groans, speaking of Harris chemistry sounds like an awful idea right about now, he doesn't even really want to get up off the floor, nauseous as he is.

"You look like you have a headache," Boyd says, breaking his silence for the first time, he gives Stiles a meaningful look, "you should go see the nurse."

Did he mention Boyd is his favorite?

And he's not exactly wrong, Stiles' head does feel like, well like he was shoved down some stairs and someone punched him in the face a couple times, so. They help him up off the ground and he spends the rest of the day in the nurses office, staring at white walls and water-stained ceiling panels. There's 52 of them and one has a mark that looks vaguely like the hulk, he's having a wonderful time, the nurse had even dimmed the lights a bit for him.

Stiles waits in there long enough after the final bell rings that the halls are empty when he leaves, jumping in his jeep he pulls out of the parking lot and starts the drive home, until he realises he... can't.

He pulls off to the side of the road, suddenly aware that in his haste to ignore the glaring issues in his life and avoid a breakdown at school, he hadn't made a plan, hadn't decided what he was going to do now.

He can't go to Scott's, not only because he doesn't think he'd be able to stay for more than a day or two before Melissa got suspicious, but what happened with Derek... it's a bigger deal than he knows Scott will be willing to admit just yet, they'll have to work on it.

He could try Derek, he needs to talk to him anyway, and an abandoned train station is a better place to sleep than most places he could end up. On the other hand he doesn't want Derek to think he's coming to talk to him just so he can get a favor, and Derek probably isn't feeling very charitably trusting right now with the whole Scott thing.

Realising he's exhausted his list of people he might be able to live with for an indeterminate amount of time Stiles is at a loss. He sits and stares out the window a while, watching people mill about up and down the street, smiling in the sunshine.

It really is a nice day, not too hot out but full of sun, it probably won't get too cold overnight he can always sleep in Roscoe. Just for one night, just so he has some more time to figure things out. He'll have to find somewhere out of the way to park though, if he doesn't want any of the deputies checking on his car and finding him practically living in it, the downside of his baby being so recognisable.

He'll find somewhere scenic near the preserve away from the walking trails, maybe somewhere off the road to the Hale house.

Yeah it'll be beautiful, he can look at the stars and everything, just like camping.

Plan made Stiles heads to the library to charge his phone and his laptop, maybe with his face like this he can wrack up enough pity points with Mrs. Conner to use the staff microwave while he's there.

The library is old and dusty, walking the stacks reminds Stiles of walking into the back room of a specialty shop, thin aisles bordered by shelves absolutely crammed full of books without an inch to spare. It's cozy, Mrs. Connor has a section up front for sales as well, and a section out back with tables, desks, and couches for working on that are usually filled with students. Being a friday night the place is pretty empty and he's grateful for it.

He sets his phone to charge and goes to charm Mrs. Connor, easily wheedles his way into the cozy little staff room with a promise of eating far far away from any books.

By the time he heads back to the desk he's feeling a lot more steady, the wonders of a warm meal. He's also feeling much more optimistic.

He can shower at school, eat gross cafeteria food, and the stuff in his backpack should last him a week if he's careful, and then he'll go back and talk to his dad and see if he's calmed down. Who knows, maybe he's already thought about it and changed his mind? Stiles isn't going to risk that just yet, just in case, but it's a nice thought.

He stays in the library until it's almost dark out, cozied up in one of the overstuffed armchairs and reading fanfiction. It started out as research, it really did, but when you're searching things out about alphas apparently the internet has a lot of interpretations and he's not gonna turn his nose up at free entertainment. Plus most of them are incredibly well written, it's easy to lose time absorbed in the plots.

The final stand is happening, protagonist going into labor in the middle of the command room while still directing a fleet, and Stiles is on the edge of his seat when he's interrupted by Mrs. Connor clearing her throat.

"I'm closing up for the evening dear, best get going before it's pitch black out, clouds are rolling in fast." Stiles resists the urge to whine for five more minutes, it really is looking dark outside, and packs up his things. Phone, laptop, chargers, keys, yep good to go.

With a final wave and a smile for Mrs. Conner as she locks up, Stiles starts his drive toward the preserve.

He'll find somewhere to park, get a good nights sleep, tomorrow is a new day.

Chapter Text

Tomorrow is not a new day, tomorrow's not even here yet and it can kiss his ass.

Shifting again Stiles tries to find a comfortable position, wedges his pillow against the car door and pulls the blanket up around his shoulders. A few minutes later he needs to move again.

It turns out the driver's seat of a jeep crammed full of all your belongings is not the most conducive environment for a restful nights sleep, especially when your ribs are busted and half your face throbs if you even think of leaning it against a pillow. Considering that he has accidentally fallen asleep sitting in his drivers seat waiting for Scott to finish up at Deaton's on more than one occasion, he's finding this all rather frustrating.

He blames that frustration for the tears in his eyes, feeling pitiful when he can't stop them welling over, swiping at them angrily. Why did he think he could do this? This sucks, and he can't imagine a whole week of this.

So far Stiles had sucessfully avoided a breakdown, but he can feel it looming with his exhaustion, and he knows once it starts it'll be hard to stop. Continually telling himself he doesn't have time isn't going to work forever, especially having nothing to do for the next few days what with it being the weekend and living out of his car.

Maybe he can go to the library and work on some papers, it'll be good to have the extra money set aside.

"No. Nope. Stop it." He says, sniffling and patting at his cheeks, "couldn't even make it 24 hours, get it together."

Leaning his back against the window and his pillow against the seat at least lets him be more comfortable laying his head down, but two minutes into having his knees cramped up against the box on his passenger seat has him letting out a frustrated yell. His fucking ribs.

He presses his lips together forcefully to stop the lower one's wobbling, and turns to put his feet back in the footwell, startled half way through the movement by a knock on the window right by his head. He doesn't scream. He doesn't. So what if it's only because twisting toward the window caused such a sudden, sharp pain in his ribs that no noise could escape.

It's a win, he's very stoic about it all. Some serial killer could be knocking on his window right now ready to murder him, and he seems cool as a cucumber and- oh it's Peter. So half right with the serial killer bit.

After a few beats of staring at each other, Peter gestures at the window.

"Are you going to wind this down so we can have a proper chat, Stiles, or am I going to have to yell through the glass?" Stiles thinks for a moment, trying to come up with any explanation for being in the middle of the preserve with so much stuff, but comes up blank.

"Sorry what? I can't hear you there's a window in the way." He's slightly panicking, because while Peter hasn't explicitly said he knows what's going on with him, he did heavily imply it. "Guess you'll have to come back another time."

He knows Peter keeps staring at him, can feel him doing it even when he turns away, feeling uncomfortably exposed. When he glances back again Peter somehow looks both unimpressed and amused at the same time.

"Stiles," Peter says, and the way he's looking at Stiles isn't pitying at all, like he'd feared. He just looks like he understands.

Stiles winds down the window.

"How did you even find me out here?" Because he's parked in the preserve along the stretch toward the Hale house yes, but he's not in an obvious place at all nor near any of the walking trails, and Peter has no reason to be taking a stroll right here.

"I have my ways," His mouth twitches at the corner, mysterious bastard that he is. "Come on, let's get you home."

"I'm good here actually, it's really nice out here at night," not a creepy forest full of hidden monsters at all. "I'll head home later."

"I meant my home, Stiles, yours too if you need it."

"I don't want to talk about it." Stiles rushes out, because no matter how much Peter talks around it he'll have questions eventually, and he doesn't feel like answering any. "And, I prefer the jeep to skulking around abandoned buildings. I'm sure it's very hospitable to mostly reformed murderwolves but some of us have more refined tastes."

"We don't have to talk about it, you can tell me as much or as little as you wish to, but if you don't rest those ribs properly they won't heal right. And," he says, suddenly indignant, "I have an apartment, I don't share my nephew's proclivity for excessive self flagellation."

"Yeah, we've really gotta find him somewhere less depressing." Stiles looks down at his hands where he's fidgeting with them in his lap, staying in his jeep isn't working. He's exhausted, mentally and physically, and he's sick of being in pain. He checks one last time, "you won't make me talk about it?"

"No, I give you my word." Stiles scrutinises Peters face, looking for even a hint of a lie, and finds none as Peter placidly stares back at him.

"Alright, then. But you won't really fit in here so I hope your car is nearby." He tries to say it flippantly but his voice wavers a bit. Peter's giving him a place to stay, and as weird as it might be for someone like Peter, it seems there's no strings attached.

"I walked, I'm sure I'll make it back okay." He gives Stiles the address, it's closer to Jackson's end of town, with all the fancy houses and the apartment buildings with doormen. Stiles isn't surprised about the swanky building, but he does have questions.

"Why an apartment? Don't all the sounds you can hear from the rest of the building drive you mad?"

"At times, but the penthouse is rather well sound proofed, and the safety of a building full of nosy civilians is an asset when hunters are poking around." He gives a wry grin, "I'd prefer not to lose another home."

"Ah, right." Stiles starts up the jeep in lieu of any more awkward conversation, still running well enough since it's last tune up- see: duct tape and prayers on the side of the road- to start up on the first try. "I'll uh, see you in 10?"

Peter inclines his head and melts into the tree line like the creeper he is. It's impressive but Stiles isn't gonna tell him that, his ego is big enough as it is.

The drive is shorter than he thought, yet when he gets there Peter is already standing out front waiting for him, not a hair out of place even though he must have run to beat him back. Smugness is practically radiating off him, and it settles a part of Stiles that's been on edge all day, something as mundane as Peter being Peter about something petty. It makes this feel like a normal day, if he ignores the rest of it.

He can't supress a small smile, shaking his head, "where can I park?"

"I have a personal garage with space, you're welcome to it." Peter looks like he wants to ask something, eyeing the boxes in the jeep, so Stiles plows on.

"Okay thanks, I'll be right up then." Peter again simply inclines his head, giving Stiles the garage number and door code.

When he enters the building he has to fight the urge to let out a low whistle, this place is fancy with a capital f. He somehow feels underdressed just entering the lobby, with his plaid overshirt and iron man tee, duffle and backpack slung over his arm.
High vaulted ceilings, carved pillars, even a small chandelier over a sitting area with those decorative couches that look pretty but actually sitting on them sucks, it feels kind of like a posh hotel.

Peter is talking to the doorman, gestures Stiles over and introduces them, gets Stiles on The List. No really Peter calls it The List and everything. So fancy.

"Was there anything you wanted help bringing up from Roscoe?" Peter asks when they're in the elevator, pressing a code into a side panel and waving a card across it.

"Nah, your garage is pretty secure, I'm not worried about anything going missing." He knows that's not why Peter's asking, but he can't bring himself to take more than the bare minimum with him. He doesn't want to get comfortable, he knows this isn't permanent. Mercifully, Peter doesn't push.

No, the backpack and duffle are more than enough to last him the next few days, if he needs more clothes he can go fetch them later.

When Peter opens up the door to his apartment Stiles is pleasantly surprised, it does have some of the ostentatious flair that'd he'd expect from Peter, high ceilings, antiques scattered throughout, and expensive looking appliances, but it all seems really... homey, lived in. Somehow less pretentious and more warm.

Kicking his shoes off at the door, he follows Peter through the apartment to a guest room full of dark red mahogany furniture. The ceiling is lower in here than the living room, window looking out towards the preserve instead of town. The room is larger than he would have thought, floor to ceiling book cases, a sturdy desk, queen size bed with dark covers, and a chest of drawers, even with all that there's space to spare.

"You can get comfortable in here, bathroom's through that door, the other is a closet," Peter gestures to each as he speaks. "Make yourself at home, Stiles, I'll go get started on dinner."

The first thing he does when Peter leaves the room is dump his bags on the bed so he can look in the closet and bathroom, it's not technically snooping but the instinct is there. The bathroom is bigger than it has any right to be, who has a seperate bath and shower in a guest room? Peter apparently, and the closet is a small walk in, shelf to one side full of linens and blankets, the rest empty bar hangers, and a full length mirror on the back wall.

Stiles backs out of the closet, sits on the edge of the bed, this is all very overwhelming. Him and his dad, they've never had much, Stiles can remember back when his mother was alive things seemed easier, two full time incomes and a lack of medical bills will do that, but for the most part? They've been scraping by, paycheck to paycheck. It feels almost wrong to be rewarded like this, even if it's only temporarily, for giving up on his dad.

Sleeping in his car in the preserve for a few nights felt almost like pennance paid for everything he's dragged his father into, for causing him to spiral all over again when things were going well enough. But instead he's here, and now the guilt has nowhere else to go.

He's not sure how long he sits there lost in thought before Peter calls up to him that food's ready, dread rising momentarily because he lost track of time. He was probably supposed to go help cook, did Peter say? No, he just said he was getting dinner started, but it's still pretty rude of him not to help out, and he was probably expected to at least pitch in to be allowed to stay here.

Which means he's off to a poor start. He'll have to make sure he gets the dishes, and maybe there's something else that needs doing around the house, he can ask Peter after dinner, figure out the best way to earn his keep.

For now, the smell from the kitchen is enough to get Stiles moving, forcing himself to his feet he heads down the hallway, telling himself he's totally ready to face Peter again. This'll be a piece of cake.

Chapter Text

Dinner is... tense, it's not anything Peter is doing per say, more what he's not doing, what Stiles expects him to be doing.

They've mostly been making small talk, Peter telling him things about the apartment, that there's a small library of supernatural books he's welcome to borrow, gossip about the other tenants. It's all stuff Stiles is happy to hear about, and any other time he'd be asking questions and wheedling more details, but he's too busy waiting for the questions Peter is surely building up to.

Peter said he wouldn't ask, and Stiles would love to believe that he didn't just say it so Stiles wouldn't sleep in the preserve, however the more he thinks about it the more history would suggest otherwise. As soon as someone thinks he has a secret it's suddenly like he has no right to privacy. That or they assume he's lying, but Peter doesn't have to assume that, werewolf and all.

"Stiles?" Peter asks as they finish their food. And ah, here it is, "am I making you uncomfortable?"

Wait what?

"No, no, I'm fine, why?"

"Your shoulders have been trying to hug your ears all through dinner, if you want some time alone you're welcome to any space in the apartment." And that's... confusing. Stiles can always go to the guest room if he wants some time alone, he's not going to intrude on Peter's space, plus he's used to making himself scarce, Peter would hardly notice he was there. Or perhaps he would with the werewolf senses, how far exactly is his heartbeat, or say, a pen scratching paper going to be heard from? Maybe he can test that with one of the others so he knows if there's a point to sneaking around, or there could be a better way to soundproof the guest room so he can type at all hours without the keyboard clacking driving Peter up the wall. Or maybe he could make his keyboard quieter if he-

"Stiles?" Oh, right.

"I guess I've been waiting to get it over with," at Peter's perplexed look he adds, "you have to have questions, I'm staying in your guest room, I'm not going to pretend I don't owe you at least answers in exchange."

"There are no conditions to you staying here, except that you rest, I did say you can tell me as much or as little as you want, when you want." Peter picks up the empty plates, taking them into the kitchen and starting to wash them. "Of course I'd like to know, but only what you're willing to share, you're under no obligation to tell me anything."

"I can wash those," Stiles says quickly, shuffling his way over to the sink. After such a long day the pain is starting to catch up with him making him slow, and the promise of the soft expensive matress in the guest room is calling to him, he can keep going for a while longer though if it'll make him less of a bother. "You cooked, let me-"

"Stiles, you have cracked ribs, a concussion, and probably plenty of other aches and pains you've neglected to mention." Peter says with a hint of exasperation, placing a dish on the rack next to the sink to dry, "what you can do is irrelevant, what you will do is sit down and rest."

He waits for Stiles to sit back down in his chair before turning back to the dishes.

"Now, back to your belief that staying here is transactional, I presume it would be best to be blunt, to prevent any more misunderstandings." He leans a hip against the kitchen island, looking effortlessly casual, shirt sleeves still rolled up to his elbows to keep them dry exposing his forearms. God damn Hale genes. "You can stay here as long as you wish, I enjoy your company, have the space, and enough money that I could live here comfortably for multiple lifetimes without needing to work another day, so I don't need any compensation there."

Stiles bristles at that, money is a sore spot for him, and feeling like he's indebted is not something he does well with. Some of that apprehension must be showing on his face because Peter elaborates.

"Money is not an issue, and providing is an instinct that's satisfying to the wolf side of a were when fulfilled. I'd appreciate you indulging me in this, you'd be doing me a favor really, it's not as if Derek would allow himself any deviation from his self imposed struggle."

Stiles nods reluctantly, he's not happy with it, but framed like that he can suck it up for the few days he'll be staying here, even if he knows Peter is trying to play him like a fiddle by making it seem like Stiles is the one helping him.

"Thank you, I'd also appreciate the chance to monitor your healing and make things easier by at least dulling your pain, but if there's a reason you're against it we can discuss why. As long as you're looking after yourself I can live with that." He looks at Stiles, patient but expectant.

"I guess you already know, so I'll let you look if it'll make you feel better," Stiles grumbles, even if secretly he's kind of relieved. Sleeping would be easier with some werewolfy pain drain mojo, and getting another pair of eyes to make sure there's no glass anywhere is probably the responsible thing to do, but it's not something he'd ever feel comfortable asking for. He doesn't know where the pain goes besides into the werewolf, how long it stays, how intense it feels, and he'd be selfish to make someone else hurt just for some momentary relief of his own.

Peter tips his head, aknowledging the concession.

"And the last thing I need you to understand, Stiles, is that I don't need you to tell me anything you aren't ready to. I'm not expecting you to spill all of your secrets in exchange for a safe place to stay, and I'm a more patient man than my previous actions may have suggested." He rolls his eyes with a wry grin at himself, and yeah okay, Feral Peter was all about the instant results, not exactly a picture of self discipline. "It's important you understand that I trust you to know what you're ready to tell me, and I trust you to not keep something from me if it was imperative for me to know."

And that- that shouldn't cause tears to sting at Stiles' eyes, something so simple as being trusted, as being allowed to keep something to himself without having to work to distract and deflect and then still being treated with suspicion. Especially when it's something he knows Peter is curious about, something that he definitely wants Stiles to tell him and knows he could easily demand in return for giving Stiles a roof over his head, Stiles even told him he can.

He clenches his hands into fists under the table, maybe if Peter is willing to extend trust to him, Stiles can do the same in return.

"I could- it's..." he tenses and releases his hands a few times, just because he decided he wants to tell Peter, to finally lift some of the burden of secrecy off his chest and the inherent isolation it's made him feel, doesn't make it easy.

"It's alright, Stiles, you don't have to." He's tempted to take the out Peter is giving him, but if he doesn't say something now he'll lose the nerve.

"I want to, I just- it's been years, I don't know how, or where to start." Peter rounds the kitchen island, puts a comforting hand on Stiles' shoulder.

"Why don't we start by taking a look at your ribs and go from there, I can ask some questions to get you started if that will help." And that sounds good, maybe if he feels like Peter's attention is elsewhere it'll be easier to get the words out.

"Alright yeah, thanks." Peter gives him a warm smile, ushers him over to the couch, producing a small first aide kit from god knows where. "Why do you even have that? You don't exactly need bandaids."

"No I don't, but you do," his eyes only meet Stiles' for a moment before focusing back on setting items out of the kit, but even that moment is enough for Stiles to feel struck by the intensity of them. He feels... cared for. Peter tugs on the sleeve of his flannel, "now let's get this out of the way."

He helps Stiles out of his flannel and his t-shirt, politely ignoring how Stiles cheeks redden in embarrassment and the way he shrinks under Peter's assessing stare, unable to hide.

"Alright," Peter says, smile gone tight, "I'm going to take some of your pain but not all of it, I don't think it would be productive for you to be unable to feel if you're hurting yourself further."

The first pull makes Stiles want to melt down into the couch cushions, swaying more heavily into Peter's hand, the absence of the pain really driving home just how much of it he was feeling. The human body, he thinks as Peter begins feeling along his ribs, is able to get used to quite a lot.

"Alright, it seems like you were right that they aren't broken," he says, sitting back on his heels where he's crouched in front on Stiles. "But they're definitely more than bruised, it usually takes a few months for cracked ribs to heal, you'll need to take it easy for at least that long."

"Let's start with this," he moves on, hand hovering over Stiles' collarbone where the longest gash from the bottle sits. "How often does something like this happen?"

"It doesn't- this hasn't happened before. Nothing this..." he gestures at it, because somehow saying it's bad makes it more true than he wants it to be right now, not if he wants to keep talking about it. Finding it hard to not defend his father, even though he knows he shouldn't, he adds, "I've never been hurt."

"Not physically." Peter says with his jaw set, before schooling himself into something more contrite, less confrontational, "sorry, I shouldn't. How long has it been like this, you said years?"

"It started after mom. For a few years, and then it got... better, mostly." Stiles appreciates him talking around the elephant in the room, it makes it easier to just stare ahead and let the words flow. "When werewolves and magic came into it things got complicated again."

"Complicated being?" He's not looking at Stiles, running fingers along any of the cuts that are still slightly raised, "there might be some glass in some of these, I just need you to tilt your chin out of the- yes that'll do nicely."

Stiles lets himself stare at the arm of the couch while he works out what to say, it's interesting that Peter chose something so plush and bright, it's probably a lot harder to clean something so textured too. Peter starts in on the glass, it doesn't necessarily hurt, not with how recently Peter pain mojo'd him, but it's not comfortable either.

"Alcohol," he says, after a long silence. "In between it was never perfect, but it was better than this."

It's clear in the very controlled way Peter is moving that he has some strong opinions he's trying hard to keep to himself, and again Stiles is glad for it. He knows he's in denial about a lot of things, it's the whole reason he shoved them all into a box so he doesn't have to examine anything too closely. It's a great system, very effective.

"Did you choose to leave, or were you asked to?" Peter asks, tone back to that measured middle ground.

"Told to. Usually anything said or done was forgotten by morning, I always told myself that, but this time... or maybe it always," he purses his lips together hard. This is too close to opening the box, and he's struggling to stay detached.

Because if his father always remembered, if he always knew the things he said to Stiles, knew he left the house a mess and Stiles cleaned it all by morning, knew he threw things, broke things, and yelled, and blamed, and threatened. If he knew everything he put Stiles through every time he drank, then why did he still- why didn't he try and stop.

Why wasn't Stiles enough of a reason for him to try.

He hears a thin, bitten off sound, turns abruptly back towards Peter and realises it came from himself. This isn't- he's-

"Stiles, can I-" Peter's hands are hovering, and Stiles can't- he just-

"I'm-" fine he attempts to say, choking on the lie as he tries to force himself to voice it. He's always fine, he is.

If he says it enough times, tells himself he believes it, maybe the next time he can convince himself that it's true. Because he can't do this forever, and if he thinks about how not fine he is, how not fine he's been since the day he found out his mother was sick almost nine years ago, he's gonna break.

And when he has to go back to living the way he has been... he can't afford to.

"I-" Stiles tries again, but this time all that follows is one of the sobs that he's been trying desperately to supress. He brings up a hand to cover his mouth, as if the physical barrier will keep the rapidly approaching breakdown at bay.

Between one blink and the next Peter is no longer crouched in front of him looking unsure, instead he's next to Stiles on the couch, not touching him, not yet, still hovering with a lack of confidence in his welcome, a sliver of space between them. The concerned look is back, that desperation from the warehouse, and just like in the warehouse Stiles knows all he needs to do is reach out and Peter will be there. He just has to let himself, this time, instead of running.

Because for some unfathomable reason Peter cares, and out of everyone in Stiles' life that could have noticed, should have noticed, instead Peter is the one who did, the one to try.

"Stiles," Peter says again, arms extended but not yet dragging him in. Stiles drops his hand from his mouth, gives up on holding back the tide of sobs tripping their way out of him, and grabs for Peter. Takes the leap.

He's immediately pulled into Peter's side, not left adrift even a moment after reaching out, instead safely moored. It does everything to quell the feeling of drowning as he's overwhelmed by the flood of emotion, letting it all wash through him instead, scour him clean.

"What can- how do- I can't-" he stutters out, shaking so hard through his tears that he has to twist his fingers into Peter's shirt to stop himself shattering apart. Peter doesn't protest, only hugs him more securely, swaying side to side minutely like a gentle wave.

"It'll be okay," Peter says, hushing him, arms a protective barrier around Stiles keeping him afloat. "I'll make sure of it."

And that- it's more comfort than Stiles has been offered in so long, he's been doing everything he can to keep his head above water without an end in sight, to keep Scott alive, to help Derek and the puppies, the mess with the kanima, the Argents, moving from one crisis to the next without a moment to catch his breath. Everyone always expects him to have all the answers, or to find them, and he's so so tired of feeling like even at the end of his rope he's not doing enough.

And here's Peter saying that he'll make sure it all works out, like Stiles doesn't even need to do a thing for once.

Stiles responds the only way he can to that, let's the last of everything he's holding back come crashing forth and trusts Peter will keep his word.

Peter doesn't rush him, ignores the damp patch left on his shoulder from all the weeping, and lets Stiles take his time to cry himself out.

They stay like that on the couch until the turbulent storm of Stiles' emotions begins to pass. At some point Peter's hand began moving in a slow soothing arc across his shoulders, an ebb and flow that Stiles anchors his focus to, allows to lull him into a sense of calm once he's finally out of tears, distant ripples of emotion all that's left in the aftermath.

When he's feeling steady enough Stiles leans back, scrubbing at dried tear tracks as he does, and appreciating that Peter let him pull himself together. Impossibly he's feeling somewhat better, like finally letting all of the emotions that he'd ruthelessly stamped down out left him lighter, feeling less like he's one drop away from overflowing at a moments notice.

Peter grabs his wrist gently but firmly when he moves to the other side of his face, stopping him from rubbing over the butterfly stitches on his cheek. He was right, without the throbbing pain along his face he'd forgotten the injuries were even there.

The reminder that they are in fact there somewhat pops the cathartic bubble he'd found himself in, reality filtering in around him. He still doesn't really have a plan beyond staying in his newfound temporary accommodations until his father has cooled down, and he's not sure whether he should be panicking at how easy it is to believe Peter when he says everything will be okay, but he's not.

'I'll make sure of it' he'd said, because Peter is trying, and Stiles is going to hold on to that as tightly as he can. Because for however long he can stay here, however temporarily this reprieve lasts, maybe Stiles can try for himself too.

Chapter Text

Living at Peter's is... different. Good mostly, but different.

Good in that Peter is fun to be around, snarky and sarcastic just like Stiles, and even though he knows what happened he doesn't treat Stiles like he pities him. The part that's less good, though, that leaves Stiles confused and irritated, is the lack of consistency to how things are back home.

Stiles wants to feel useful, like he's earning his keep and paying Peter back for his kindness, but whenever he tries to clean or cook or fix something Peter doesn't let him. Peter tsks at him and guides him back to the couch, fusses at shoving around the mountain of pillows behind him and tells him to relax, turns on Netflix or brings Stiles a book instead. Every. Time.

It's so frustrating and he doesn't know where he's supposed to even begin to even out the debt he's racking up here if all he's allowed to do is sit on the couch and convalesce.

Some of the frustration must be showing on his face after the hundredth time Peter relegates him to couch jail, he had been trying to sort the books in Peter's library- which is not the tiny collection Peter had implied earlier mind you- this time. Peter stands next to him after he's settled again, hands on his hips and an assessing look in his eyes.

"I know you're allergic to sitting still on the best of days, but there are plenty of nice things to keep you occupied that don't involve you actively straining your ribs." Peter arches an eyebrow, "or is there a reason you're so determined to stop them mending?"

"I just want-" Stiles grits out before stopping himself, consciously taking a breath and forcing himself to unclench his jaw. He shouldn't be an ass to Peter right now, in lieu of anything useful to do he can at least give him that. Peter's eyes narrow, too perceptive for Stiles to avoid.

"We did have this conversation, but I'm happy to remind you as often as you need, that I offered you a place here of my own free will. There are no strings attached, and no shoe to drop." He sits on the coffee table directly in front of Stiles, "I have asked you to heal and indulge me in some of my instincts, and you agreed, I expect nothing more, and certainly not that you become an agreeable pushover."

"Then let me do something," Stiles says peevishly, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back against the cushions with a challenging stare.

"That's more like it, and," Peter smirks, "no."

"You think you're funny." Stiles gives him a flat look, reluctantly amused but he'll be damned if he's going to show it, he's annoyed right now, Peter is annoying.

"You're lucky you even get Netflix and books with that concussion, but I'm not heartless enough to leave you without any entertainment, I know you'd perish within the hour." He claps his hands together, "now that all that's settled, I'm thinking crepes for lunch."

Peter turns and heads to the kitchen, as if it's all that simple, and maybe to him it is. Stiles is injured and Peter wants him to heal, and really if Stiles thinks about it he wouldn't want Peter or Derek or any of the puppies doing more than resting if they were injured either. Last night with how emotional Stiles got, everything felt placating afterwards, as if he'd somehow manipulated Peter into letting him stay expectation free with his giant meltdown. It's a ridiculous train of thought, and Stiles knows it is- as if anyonr could manipulate Peter with something mundane as some tears- but that didn't stop it from crossing his mind and souring his mood.

Now though, in the light of day, hearing Peter say it again makes it all feel more real. Stiles did tell himself he would try, perhaps this is where he can start.

The rest of the afternoon is flying by, he's watching a documentary about glass blowing on Netflix while reading one of Peter's books about fae when he gets a text from Derek.

'Why is your room empty' it says, and it gives Stiles pause, why is Derek looking for him? Erica did say she'd clear up the whole Scott thing with Derek, but that doesn't mean Derek has reason to seek him out.

'Still creeping around outside people's bedroom windows, Sourwolf? Very on brand.' He sends back, locking his phone and throwing it down next to him on the couch. It only takes moments before it dings again.

'Just answer the damn question Stiles' he rolls his eyes, of course Derek texts just like he talks.

'Redecorating. You should try it some time, might brighten up the Revenge era Gerard Way vibes your abandoned train car has going on.' Stiles pauses the documentary, they're explaining the difference between offhand and lampworking and he doesn't want to miss it.

'I don't know what that means' Stiles snorts to himself, going to the kitchen and grabbing an apple and another bottle of water. He drops the same on to Peter's desk on his way past his office, he's on the phone, but he smiles at Stiles in thanks when he sees him.

'Of course you don't, Sourwolf, you live under a rock.' He replies, getting comfortable again and starting the documentary back up. He waits a while but Derek appears to have used up his words for the day, not unexpected really. Picking the book back up, he finds his page and goes back to learning about the different uses of fairy circles, putting Derek far from his mind.

An endevor proven fruitless ten minutes later when his phone dings yet again and he grabs it immediately, shaking his head at his own eagerness.

'How does an abandoned train car get the vibe of the lead singer of My Chemical Romance' Derek must have googled it, the dork.

'Not JUST the lead singer of My Chemical Romance, but specifically the Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge album tour aesthetic, keep up.' He sends, following up with, 'As for how, I reckon it's all your brooding and man pain seeping into the walls.'

'Stiles' the next text says, ever predictable, making Stiles smile.

'Derek.' He replies, because two can play at that game, and he can practically hear Dereks exasperated sigh from here.

'Where are you we need to talk' the smile drops, there's only a few ways a talk will go right now and Stiles doesn't really feel up for any of them. With everything that's been going on lately he doesn't need to be told to butt out of their lives for the umpteenth time. He's supposed to be relaxing after all, Peter mandated and everything.

"Alright in there? Not that I don't think glass blowing is positively titilating but I'd be concerned if it gets your heart racing quite so high on it's own." Peter calls out from his office, speak of the devil.

"It's all the blowing I suspect, very stimulating," Stiles snipes back, hearing a chuckle. "I'm fine, just talking with Derek, did you know he doesn't use punctuation in texts either?"

"He's rarely had reason to text me, so I'd yet to notice." Stiles realises he feels much calmer already, and as much as he's usually irritated by the werewolfy snooping into his scent and heartbeat that the others so often partake in, it does come in handy. "I find I'm not surprised though."

"Yeah, I don't know why I was." Stiles pauses a moment, before tentatively saying, "hey Peter?"

"Yes, Stiles?" Peter replies, with that touch of a smirk in his voice.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome." He says, tone fond, and Stiles feels himself smiling again. He lets Peter go back to his work, turns back to his own Derek shaped problem. Right okay, it's just Derek, this isn't rocket science.

'Oh Sourwolf, are you breaking up with me?' He adds a few shocked faces for good measure, Derek is not hard to chase away for a while, all Stiles needs to do is be his usual self and Derek will grumpily backflip out of the room in no time. Surely that should translate to texts as well, Derek has the patience of a... huh, what animals are impatient? He should look that up, he can't really think of any.

Before he can pull up his browser another text comes through, Derek is feeling persistent today.

'What' Stiles tsks, brevity is the soul of wit and all, but come on.

'Have you never seen a rom com? Read a fanfic? That's the breakup phrase.' He sends, thumbs hovering over the keyboard consideringly before he adds, 'Or I suppose it's also occasionally the let's kick off a misunderstanding phrase, which is a valuable plot device in it's own right, but I went with the classic instead.'

'Stop changing the subject' ah, it's apparently a lot harder to annoy Derek into giving up via text message, the key must be lack of time to process Stiles' nonsense.

'It's called making conversation, but okay Mr Grumpy Pants.' Nobody has ever called Stiles a quitter though.

There's a long bout of radio silence, and Stiles wants to go back to his book but knows he'll probably just be interrupted again, so he waits. And waits, and waits, and waits. After half an hour he assumes Derek really has given up, and it should feel like a victory. So why doesn't it? Why is it making him upset?

He sulks through another section about fae, knowing he's going to need to reread it all later. Ugh. Feeling his feelings is complicated, where's a Derek sized box to shove them in when you need it?

Chapter Text

The knock at the door comes after they've just started watching Star Wars, Peter having lamented not seeing the most recent additions to the franchise what with the coma and all, and Stiles is very determined to catch him up.

They both look at each other, sharing a quirked brow as Peter gets up to go answer the door that seems to convey that neither is expecting any guests. As he gets his hand on the handle Peter turns back to Stiles and mouths 'Derek' causing Stiles to grimace. They never did have that conversation Derek wanted.

Peter opens the door, keeping it half ajar in a way that keeps Stiles from view at least for now.

"I need your help," Derek grits out immediately, and Stiles knows how reluctant he is to admit that to anyone.

"Hello uncle Peter, how have you been? Oh dear nephew, I'm quite well thank you for asking, was there a reason you dropped by? Yes, I had a favor to ask, and-"

"We don't have time for this," Derek cuts him off with a growl, "Stiles is gone, and so are all of his things, he never went home last night."

"Oh dear, that is quite the mystery. And how, may I ask, do you know he never went home?" At the slight sly tone to Peter's voice it's clear he's asking for Stiles' benefit, or perhaps also because he enjoys needling Derek at any opportunity that presents itself, but either way he's clearly enjoying himself.

"Because I waited." The reply is clipped, and Stiles can imagine the sour look on Derek's face.

"Ah, lurking in the dark, how very expected." Yes, Peter is definitely having fun.

"Why are you being so casual about this? You always say he's your favorite, shouldn't you be more concerned? Stiles is missing and-" Peter swings the door all the way open mid word, Derek's face shifting rapidly from scowling to relieved to blank as soon as it comes into view.

"Well would you look at that, I found him." Peter deadpans, with a flourish of his hand towards Stiles where he sits on the couch, frozen like a deer in the headlights.

"Why didn't you just say-" Derek snaps his mouth shut, inhaling deeply before exhaling slowly, as if to calm himself. "Never mind."

He shoulders his way into the apartment, stopping next to Stiles and looking him over, he can feel the weight of Derek's gaze almost like a physical touch.

"By all means, come in." Peter drawls, closing the door and sitting himself primly on the other end of the couch. "And stop looming over the poor boy, he doesn't need to add a strained neck to his list of injuries."

It's a very pointed reminder, and Derek's lips press into a thin line in response, grumbling at Peter as he sits in an arm chair. He doesn't say anything else, just sits there with his eyes boring holes into every visible injury, looking more and more agitated by the second.

"Uh... hi?" Stiles tries, in an attempt at breaking the awkward silence, raising his hand with a little wave for good measure. He lowers his hand when Derek doesn't do more than continue staring, and Peter snorts, Derek's eyes flicking over to him with a glare before returning to Stiles.

"I wanted to talk to you." Derek says, straight to the point and looking rather pained by it, "I need to apologise."

"Okay?" Stiles prompts, after more silence follows. He can't say he expected this, he'd rather thought Derek was gearing up for another 'keep your nose out of werewolfy business Stiles, or I'll rip your throat out with my teeth' talk, not whatever this is.

"I shouldn't have assumed you knew. About Gerard. What Scott was going to do." It comes out stiltedly, and Stiles almost feels sorry for him, he's clearly trying even though he's finding it painfully difficult.

"You don't need to apologise for that," Stiles shakes his head at him with an amused smile, and somehow it just makes Derek look... sad.

"Yes he does." Peter says, and again his tone is pointed.

"Don't you have somewhere else you can be?" Derek snaps.

"You came to my home, if you'd forgotten, so no, not particularly." Derek huffs, irritated, and turns purposefully back to Stiles.

"I do," he continues, as if Peter had never spoken, "and it's not the only thing I need to apologise for. I shouldn't have hurt you, I was angry but it was no excuse, I should have better control than that."

"You did though, you just bumped me, if you wanted to hurt me you could have, I was just already..." Stiles makes a vague hand gesture to encompass his rib situation. "You didn't know, and you haven't intentionally hurt me in ages."

"That's not- Stiles I should never have intentionally hurt you at all."

"It's fine dude, we're past all that, we both had things we needed to apologise for, and besides I barely even bruised and I bruise like a peach."

"Stop trying to excuse what I did. You did apologise and I. I didn't." Derek grits out through clenched teeth, "so let me tell you I'm sorry, and I'll do better."

"Oh, sorry, go ahead." Stiles shifts, making a show of getting comfortable, turning back to Derek with a gesture of his hand that says 'continue,' hoping to ease the tension.

It works, of course it does because Derek is easy, all grumpy asshole shell and marshmallow soft inside. He huffs again and shakes his head with fondness tinged exasperation, Stiles' sweet spot, and then visibly calms and composes himself before speaking again.

"I'm sorry Stiles, that I hurt you, and that I didn't trust you. I know better, and I'll do better." Stiles had half expected him to make a joke, to deadpan back 'I'm sorry and I'll do better' and they'd laugh and be done with it. He doesn't quite know what to do when faced with so much unexpected sincerity, and so many words from Derek too, Stiles is tempted to ask if he's possessed but he doesn't want to scare him off.

Derek, however, takes Stiles stunned silence as reason to continue.

"You're the only person in this mess who's always been there, reluctantly in the beginning, but always there." And Stiles has no idea how to respond to that, tension in the room rising the longer he doesn't find any words. Peter, as is apparently his perogative lately, comes to his rescue with a snort.

"And what was I? Chopped liver?" Derek gives him such a withering look that Stiles has to fight not to snort himself.

"Would have been easier if you were." He mutters, looking back to Stiles even as Peter replies.

"You wound me, no appreciation, from my own nephew. Kids these days have no respect for their elders."

"You're only in your 30s, calm down." Stiles says with an eye roll, Peter making a faux noise of dismay, he turns back to Derek.

"Look I just- it's really okay," Derek looks like he's about to protest again so Stiles hurries to add, "it's not like things haven't been insanely complicated lately. If it helps I accept your apology. Water under the bridge or whatever."

Derek looks incredibly constipated at that, like he still wants Stiles to agree with him but doesn't know what to say to get there, a look he imagines is not dissimilar to a child presented with a complicated math problem. Stiles shouldn't be so endeared, but here he is.

"You're making this very difficult." Derek says, lips pursed and a small crease between his eyebrows. Stiles kind of wants to smooth it away with his fingers. Or maybe his lips.

Nope, bad Stiles, you stop that. Is it too late to blame these thoughts on the pain drain?

"I'm quite good at that, I'm told." It comes out slightly strangled, worried his thoughts are showing on his face, or in his smell, or whatever werewolfy bullshit Derek may or may not be paying attention to. Stiles definitely needs to prioritise finding out the limits of werewolf senses with werewolves who actually deign to use them, Scott too busy pretending to be human to go into much detail testing his, and the other puppies less forthcoming.

"You're very talented." Derek deadpans, heaving a weary sigh, but Stiles can tell it's mostly put on for show. His face sobers, "I want to fix this."

"There's nothing to fix big guy, we're good, I promise." Derek's mouth returns to that thin frustrated line, eyes cutting behind Stiles to look at Peter. His head moves minutely, questioning in a way Stiles supposes he's not expected to notice.

Derek, and less often even Peter, seem to underestimate the perceptiveness of humans and their senses. It's probably a born wolf thing he muses, as the unsubtle subtle conversation occurs, having never had human level senses to compare to. And, Stiles concedes, with how easy it's been for supernatural creatures to hide among human populations for so long undiscovered, especially in Beacon Hills where it's been a veritable hotbed of activity for what is apparently decades, humans must seem wilfully blind at this point.

He contemplates telling them, but really if they don't know he pays attention by now that's on them. That and it's incredibly amusing.

"I'm gonna grab a drink, want anything?" Derek's eyes snap back to his, momentarily back to Peter, then back again.

"No, I should be going." He makes to stand and Stiles rolls his eyes internally. Going where? To brood in a train car alone? Not today. Plus Stiles hasn't forgotten how Peter has spoken about Derek the last few days, like there's this distance hanging over them that he doesn't know how to bridge but clearly wants to. Derek too if the way he looks to Peter for guidance is any indication.

"Or, instead you could stay and help me catch Peter up on Star Wars, he's missed all the new ones, which is a crime."

"I've only seen..." Derek starts reluctantly, wincing, "which one is the one with the gold robot?"

"Oh, oh this is great, we can start from the beginning! We'll need at least four movie nights to get through them all depending on how many we watch at a time, oh but there's also Solo and Rogue One and you have to watch The Mandalorian, we could just make Sundays movie nights, you could come over and..." Stiles trails off with sudden clarity. It's like having a bucket of ice water dumped over his head at the abruptness of it all, this is not his reality. He doesn't get to keep movie nights and cooking dinner with Peter and being- being looked after, being cared for. "And you guys can, uh you can finish watching the rest of them together and tell me- you can tell me what you think?"

He doesn't look at the others, refuses to as he levers himself up to go to the kitchen with the excuse of grabbing the drinks he mentioned earlier. He's not going to be sad about this, he just forgot, that's all, he won't make that mistake again.

He hears Derek and Peter start talking as soon as he's through the doorway, he could listen if he wanted to, again their sense of human range of hearing is incredibly lacking, but instead he takes the time to try and compose himself. It's only been a few days and he really did forget so easily, none of this is permanent. This is turning out to be more difficult than he'd thought.

He gathers up the drinks, pastes a smile on his face, and heads back into the living room. Derek and Peter are both already looking at him when he walks in, so he hands them their drinks and sits, smile turning genuine as he sees the movie queued up and waiting. The wrong movie, but the gesture is nice all the same.

"Switch it up to episode four and we're good to go." Dereks eyebrows pinch in confusion, Peter nods in understanding, and Stiles decides if all he gets is this weekend, he's going to make the most of it, enjoy himself.

"You don't start with the first movie?" Derek questions.

"Release order, the first three movies to be released were four, five, and six, and then back to one, two, and three, forward to seven, eight, nine." Peter says, and Derek looks even more baffled at that.

"Yes, but also no, we're going modified machete order. Modified because I'm adding Phantom Menace back into it somewhere even if it's less exciting- Darth Maul is cool, we shall endure- and adding the branch movies where they have the most impact."

"Machete?" Now both of them are looking at Stiles a little lost.

So Stiles explains, hands gesturing emphatically as he defends narrative satisfaction and preserving story beats and reveals and character arcs and plot tension, all without spoiling a thing, and not once do their eyes glaze over or they tell him to shut up and it's wonderful.

"Well, I'm sold." Derek says, when Stiles quiets, looking between them for their decision.

"Indeed, machete it is." Peter says, bringing up episode four.

As the yellow text begins to scroll it's way down the screen Stiles relaxes back into the couch and smiles to himself, content.

Chapter Text

Stiles had a good week, the best week. They'd made it through A New Hope and The Empire Strikes Back before he was nodding off, drowsy from lack of pain and the coziness of his blanket nest on the couch. The next few days had been spent, at Peter's insistence, staying home from school. With the nurse vouching for his concussion thankfully making it a lot easier to work around the lack of his father's presence or approval.

Derek had turned up again three days later, sheepishly emptying out a bag of snacks and popcorn onto the coffee table while Stiles dragged Peter out of his office for another movie night.

He'd texted liberally all week with Danny and Erica, the occasional surprising back and forth with Jackson and on one memorable occasion, Boyd. They'd even sent him his work at the end of each day so he'd had plenty to keep him occupied.

His head felt so much better, even if he was getting the occasional eye wateringly bad headache, and while his ribs did still hurt something awful, he wasn't tired all the time, and with Peter cooking he was never hungry either.

It was... a lot.

Guilt hit hard at times, when he was sitting there comfortable, not stressed, not overworked, well rested. It made him wonder what his dad was doing, the state of the house, if his dad was eating well or working too hard.

By the end of the week he'd decided he had to know, and it's not like he hadn't planned to go talk to his father after a week anyway, to see if things had settled between them. Part of him hoped they hadn't, that he could keep living in the fantasy of a happy home with Peter and a while longer, and the shame that hit him after that thought had been enough to leave his stomach in knots for days.

It's funny, Peter has a very specific 'I'm not hovering, I just happen to be in the vicinity in case you want to talk,' parental thing going on, he'd even agreed to drop Stiles at the library without much fuss over his headaches. Maybe he'd assumed Stiles was going a little stir crazy or something.

So here he is, standing outside the Sheriff's station, the cruiser his father drives is in the lot so he's definitely inside, but Stiles hasn't been able to make himself walk in just yet.

The decision is made for him when a deputy opens the door and does a double take at seeing his face.

"Geez kid, what happened to you? I was wondering why we hadn't seen you around in so long, you alright?"

"Yeah yeah, I'm alright Deputy Barnes, you know me clumsy enough for the whole town." He smiles self depreciatingly, and the deputy shakes his head, still looking concerned, so Stiles presses on before he can ask any more questions. "My dad free?"

"Yeah he just got back in, he's on break now." His radio buzzes and clicks, a muffled voice on the other end calling him out, "I have to head off, but don't be a stranger, we miss you round here."

Stiles nods at the deputy with another smile, delays his own entry into the station as long as possible by watching him until he's in his car and driving out of sight down the street.

Stalling completed he braves the door and makes his way inside, nodding his head to Tara on the way past where she sits behind the desk, he's all the way to the gate when she stops him, hurrying over.

"Stiles I'm sorry but I can't- what happened to your face!?" It seems to be a theme of the day.

"Aw Tara are you worried about little old me?" He bats his eyes and then drops the exaggeration with a smirk, "don't worry, the jeep is fine."

Not technically a lie and she draws exactly the conclusion that Stiles hoped she would.

"I don't know how that old bucket of bolts is still running with all you put it through," she shakes her head at him, exasperated, and Stiles smiles, moves to push his way through the gate again when her hand stops him. "I'm sorry Stiles, your dad, you aren't allowed to go back into the pen anymore, probably because of the van."

His face falls, his dad had never, no matter what had happened between them, barred him from the station. He practically grew up here with the deputies, can still remember Tara helping him with his homework and Deputy Barnes watching him sometimes while his mother was in the hospital and his dad had a night shift, letting Stiles sleep in the chair at his desk. It feels like no matter what he does he keeps losing more people.

"Don't worry, it's probably temporary, when the whole van thing blows over I'm sure things will go back to normal." She smiles at him, all reassuring, but Stiles knows there's no going back.

"Yeah, yeah sure. Hey look can you tell him I really need to talk to him, it'll just be a minute and Barnes said he's on his break, it's important." She ruffles a hand over his hair, he'd stopped buzzing it a few weeks ago and it's hitting that awkward stage of growing out, her smile reaches her eyes now.

"Sure thing kiddo, give me a minute." He watches her as she picks up the phone face changing from a smile, to confused, to a frustrated frown. Turning away from him she hisses something into the receiver and Stiles catches the word important, there's a moment of silence, and when she hangs up her smile is sad as she says, "alright, I'll take you on back."

His father sits behind his desk looking the same as he had a week ago, and Stiles doesn't know why it's so surprising. Maybe he'd had some selfish hope that his father would struggle without him, would realise how much Stiles did for him, that he needed him, and would want him home because he couldn't live without him.

He glances up at Stiles when Tara ushers him in, looks back down to his food and keeps eating without a word. Stiles doesn't know how to start, 'have you changed your mind about kicking me out onto the streets,' seems too antagonistic in the face of a man calmly eating his food as if he hasn't a care in the world. It's from the diner, Stiles distantly notes, steak and chips and nothing green in sight. He shouldn't be surprised.

"Dad?" Stiles starts, just to say something to break the silence, to get his dad's attention, to get his dad to look at him.

He doesnt.

"Tara said you had something important to say, I want to enjoy my lunch, so let's get this over with." The Sheriff says after a few more beats of silence, and Stiles has to swallow hard around the lump in his throat before he's able to speak.

"I wanted to see if..." Stiles hesitates, unsure how to even word this in a way that won't end in argument, in being scolded for being disrespectful, "if I can come home?"

"We've talked about this, Stiles. How many times do I have to tell you something before you learn to listen?" He finally looks up as he talks, fixing Stiles with a hard stare, "we're not going through this again."

"I'm sixteen," a burst of anger bubbles up in Stiles, faint but still sending his words sharp. "You can't just throw me out, you should know that, you're a cop."

"It's interesting, that suddenly regular laws are of concern to you again, with all of the supernatural crap you're involved in lately." The Sheriff raises his eyebrows in mock sincerity, "unless the Hales should be brought in on multiple counts of murder, breaking and entering, assault, kidnapping, Whittmore's kid alone killed how many people?"

Stiles' anger dissipates all at once, replaced with a crawling sense of unease. He knows his dad wouldn't reveal the supernatural, nobody would even believe him if he did, but well, Peter did kill people. Derek did tie up Deaton in the back of his car, they all broke into the school, and Derek into the police station, and plenty of other places they really should be more careful about even if most of it was necessary. Things could be made very difficult for the pack.

"So no, I don't think you want to get into all of what the law entails with me right now, you don't have a leg to stand on." He goes back to his plate, as if dismissing Stiles completely, "was that all?"

"I don't- if I'm not allowed back home, what am I supposed to do about school? If they call or- if I need something signed? What if I get sick or end up in a hospital, or any of the other number of situations where they'll want to call a parent?" The numbness slips back over Stiles like a well worn coat, and he welcomes it wholeheartedly, lets himself disconnect in an act of self preservation. He doesn't want to be here anymore, this was a bad idea, his dad, he's never going to change his mind. Not this time. "People will ask questions eventually, what then?"

"There's two years until you're eighteen, you can't manage to not get into trouble at school until then?" Stiles doesn't bother to mention that he's seventeen in less than a month, it'd sting that his father had forgotten if he'd been home for a birthday in the last few years. "It's not that hard for other kids to behave. And, we both know you've been forging my signature for years for your permission slips and school notes," his hand sweeps as if dismissing the idea, "I'm sure you can manage to keep it up a while longer."

"I shouldn't have had to in the first place." Stiles says, absentmindedly and without meaning to, but he can't find it in himself to care, even when his father's expression turns back to him, thunderous.

"I don't want to get another call from the school because you didn't show up, I don't want to get a hospital call, or a deputy telling me you're in trouble. Don't come by my house, don't come here to the station. We are done Stiles, do you not understand what that means?" He lifts his fork, jabbing it towards Stiles while he speaks, "I already told you, and I already told you to figure it out. That's the problem with you, you can never just listen and do what you're told."

"That's not fair," Stiles hears himself say, feels like it's all he can say, but really he can't decide if it is or it's not. It's true that his father never told him to do the groceries, or look after the house, or make sure the bills were paid. He never told Stiles to look after his health, or keep an eye on his schedule, or make sure he had home cooked meals. But Stiles had done it all.

What he did tell Stiles was not to get in trouble at school, yet he detentions from Harris weren't exactly rare, he told him to stay out of police business, yet even before the supernatural Stiles always kept an eye and played detective. He told him to stay away from Derek Hale, and leave Jackson alone, and not drag Scott into mischief, and on and on and on. Yet Stiles had done it all.

"-with the lies!" Stiles only hears the tail end trapped as he is in his thoughts, though the raising of his father's voice catches his attention, as does the heave of a weary sigh he gives after, "and of course you aren't even listening now."

"I am I just- I don't know what you want me to say..." he trails off, he stares at his fathers disbelieving face, digs his thumbnail into the side of his finger hard to stop his focus drifting again.

"Honestly kid you've never acted like you cared before, why start now?" The Sheriff shakes his head, "I think we're finished here, I have a job to get back to, and I'm sure you have somewhere to be. Goodbye Stiles."

It sounds so final, the Sheriff looking back down at his food, as if it's that easy to pretend Stiles isn't even there. Perhaps it is.

Stiles walks out in a daze without looking back, distantly hears Tara call his name but he doesn't stop, can't, even. When he comes back to himself it's because of a sharp pain in his finger, pulling it from his mouth he can see where he's bitten more than one raw around the edges, an old nervous habit he thought he'd left behind years ago with the help of some nice nail polish.

It feels like moving backwards.

Looking up Stiles sees he's made his way back to the library, and it's a small relief that at least something is going right today. He contemplates waiting, even walking back to Peter's, since it's so much earlier than Peter was going to return to pick him up. It hasn't even been long, an hour maybe, since Peter dropped him off, and Stiles doesn't really want to bother him.

As soon as the thought crosses his mind though, he hears Peter's voice in the back of his head replaying their earlier conversation.

'As soon as you're done here call me, I'll come get you, and don't overthink it, I want you to call and I'll be happy if you do.'

Peter probably meant overexerting himself with his concussion, probably wanted Stiles not to wait until his head was pounding and it felt like someone was taking an icepick to his eye.

But this time Stiles thinks, partially in spite, maybe he would do as he was told.

Chapter Text

"So I uh, I talked to my dad today," Stiles says apropos of nothing while he picks at the skin on the side of his finger, rough from where he'd already chewed it ragged earlier. "I don't think- I think he's really done with me this time, I don't think I'll ever go home."

Peter had come to pick him up right away, just as he said he would, with nothing but a smile and slight tightness around his eyes that Stiles has learnt is a subtle tell of his concern. Now he's driving, occasionally glancing at Stiles but not interrupting, giving him room to talk.

"I think, that part of me already knew that, or I wouldn't have taken everything I could pack into my jeep when I left." Stiles clears his throat, trying to rid his voice of the roughness slipping through, "it's just that another naive, childish part hoped one day I'd wake up and, I don't know, I'd wake up and my dad would love me again. Like when mom was alive."

Peter starts to interject and Stiles shakes his head, Peter closing his mouth reluctantly, but complying with a soft 'alright.' Stiles looks away, gaze focused out the window as scenery slides by, tries not to focus on Peter sitting beside him and simply get the words out. If his little breakdown last week was any indication he'll feel better afterward instead of bottling it all up. And anyway Peter deserves to know, Stiles will need to stay with him a while longer until he works out where to go, so he should know why he can't go back.

"It's not that I don't- that I don't know a lot of what he said to me wasn't okay to say, or wasn't fair to say to a kid, his kid. But that doesn't mean all of it was wrong, or wasn't mostly the truth, either."

Stiles can hear Peter take a sharp inhale, his patience for not interjecting usually does wane around anything he deems too self depreciating, so Stiles plows ahead.

"I think that's why it's so difficult, it would be much easier if he wasn't right, if I didn't make everything so hard for him all the time." The steering wheel creaks under Peter's grip and Stiles glances over, Peter's eyes are fixed on the road but Stiles can tell he has all of his attention. "Alright Zombie Wolf you can say your piece."

"I think, that your father doesn't deserve to have you at home with the way he behaves, and that his behavior is not a reflection of you. I think that he should have learned to be a father long ago instead of solving his lack in the bottom of a bottle, and I think he should have asked for help if he needed it instead of shoving all of his problems, alongside all of the elements of his home life he never participated in that he should have taken up upon the loss of his wife, onto an eight year old boy."

And wow Peter, tell us how you really feel, Stiles sits there stunned mind racing. Peter is the first adult, the first person at all really, to react as if the Sheriff has done anything wrong.

The few times Stiles carefully shared very selectively chosen complaints about the Sheriff never being home with Scott, he'd been enthusiastically told his dad must be really busy protecting the town, and how cool it was that he had the house to himself. Granted they were eight years old at the time so he doesn't hold Scott not understanding against him, but Stiles was lonely. And he'd kept being lonely.

He'd had to ask Melissa questions about laundry, and cooking, and how to clean certain things, she'd seen how overwhelmed he was and explained to him that the Sherrif was just grieving, that he was working extra hard to pay off the bills. He doesn't hold it against her either, she's also a single parent struggling to work enough hours to make ends meet. It just happens that she managed the parent part just as well as the rest of it.

Deputies who he looked up to, teachers, any adults in his life who had seen him struggling had seen fit to offer sympathy and well wishes for his father, excuses and explanations. That attitude toward the Sheriff had only reinforced every harsh word he'd said, every thought Stiles had ever had about being nothing but a problem, a burden, being too loud, too difficult to take care of, too much trouble. Too much everything.

The Sheriff was grieving, he was stressed about work, they needed the money, he reminded his father of his mother, he wasn't an easy kid. He'd told himself these things over and over whenever he doubted, whenever he was envious of his classmates, whenever he was alone. He'd always taken it all as simple facts of his life.

And then Peter just turns it all on it's head as if it's obvious, as if there were other options, as if none of it was okay.

Stiles doesn't know how he feels right now.

"And, I think perhaps the car was not the best place to have this conversation." Stiles turns wide eyes toward him, Peter's face somehow managing concern and slight sheepishness at the same time. "Let's continue this another time."

"I... yeah," Stiles says, staring at Peter a moment longer before turning his eyes to the road, let's himself sink deeper in thought.

The latter part of the car ride passes exactly as the beginning had, Stiles silently picking at his fingers while Peter shoots him concerned glances.

When they get back to the apartment Peter herds Stiles back to the couch, drawing the blinds to block the sunlight streaming in when he sees Stiles squinting. There's a headache hitting him full force, as they do at the drop of a hat at the moment, apparently an afternoon of hard conversations, permanent disowning, and world shattering epiphanies, causes too much hard thinking during concussion recovery, and isn't that just irritating.

Stiles is tense when he sits, not knowing what to expect, there are so many complicated feelings surrounding the Sheriff twisted up inside him, and as much as he'd love to agree with Peter and entirely dismiss the man he can't.

Does it even matter anymore? He thinks, fidgeting with his fingers, the Sheriff has made his stance firmly known, he doesn't want to be a part of Stiles' life anymore, so Stiles' complicated feelings aren't useful for much. Peter stands by the couch and stares at him, assessing, and Stiles feels like everything he's thinking must be so easy for him to read. Peter hums, considering.

"Alright, I think we have three options here, one," he says lifting a finger, "we continue our conversation now while it's all fresh. Two, we sleep on it, and I'll bring it up again tomorrow at dinner, or three we drop it and you bring it up again if or when you're ready to."

Stiles deflates into the couch, okay having options is good, he's supposed to go to school tomorrow so he'd rather not think about it all day anxiously awaiting dinner, so that's out. As much as he'd like to believe he'd bring it all up again on his own he knows he won't, and that's just asking himself to feel guilty over it. No, the best option is to get it over with, rip off the bandaid and be done with it, get all the emotions done with in one day.

"We can talk about it now, I guess, if that's alright." He tips his head back against the couch, feels Peter sit leaving some room between them, always so careful with him. It'd sting, that he felt like he needed to be, if it didn't make something inside Stiles feel warm and cared for. "Where do I even start?"

"Why don't you tell me what you spoke about today?" And yeah that's probably as good a place as any.

"I asked if I could come home, and he made it clear that he meant it when he said he was done. There's not that much more to tell," he tilts his head toward Peter, opening his eyes a fraction to gauge his reaction, he seems slightly sceptical.

"No, really, I got a bit angry, said that he can't throw me out while I'm underage because it's against the law, and then he pointed out that I don't care when the pack is breaking the law, which does make me kind of a hypocrite but there's extrenuating circumstances with the whole supernatural thing, but I guess that's kind of the point in the first place so..." Stiles trails off. Peter looks like he's playing chess in his head right now, deciding what to do, and Stiles realises maybe Peter took what the Sheriff said as a threat. If it was a serious threat Stiles would handle it but, "it wasn't, he wouldn't say anything, he knows that he needs to work with the pack to protect Beacon Hills so he wouldn't jeopardise people's safety by trying to do anything to you guys, you don't have to worry."

"Yes, everyone's safety but his own son's it seems," Peter takes a deep breath, "sorry, continue?"

" I sort of just... disconnected, it makes it easier to deal with things, and not react, everything after that is a bit fuzzier."

"Do you choose to do that? Or does it just happen?" Peter asks, scrutinising, and Stiles isn't too self unaware that he can't pick up on what he thought was a bad habit of a coping mechanism, that might be a symptom of something worse. He has looked up dissociation and related diagnoses, he'd just rather ignore the implications of the ones that may apply to him for another day, sometime in the future he'll deal with it. The distant future.

"I can feel it happening and sort of just let it, I can probably stop it in the moment if I need to, it won't be a problem." Peter doesn't look mollified at all by that, "can we leave that one alone?"

"If you wish," Peter begrudgingly concedes, "was there anything else you talked about with the Sheriff?"

"Not really, I asked what to do about school and stuff, any other times parental permission or presence was required, and he basically said he doesn't want anyone contacting him and to figure it out." He huffs an aggrieved sigh, throwing his hands up and letting them fall back into his lap, "the thing is I can't figure it out, if I'm late to school or out sick or have parent teacher or anything, he's the one that'll get a call. There's nothing I can do about it, it's not like I can put myself down as my own emergency contact, and nobody can just walk in and do it without his approval either."

"If they could, if it could be taken care of without you needing to do anything, would you want that?" Peter says, and Stiles eyes him suspiciously.

"I don't think this is something that can be snuck in without being noticed, and Mrs. Shaw might love me but I don't think you could convince her. He's the Sheriff, remember? Everyone looks up to him."

"I did say I would make sure it was all okay, it was a promise Stiles, will you let me?" Peter asks, and Stiles so badly just wants to say yes and be done with it.

"Will someone be dead or maimed by the end of it if I say yes?" He enquires, watching as Peter pretends to think about it, tilting his head and humming.

"I can probably manage without this time, if I must." He says with a sharp grin, Stiles shakes his head at him, unable to hold back a small smile of his own.

"Then yeah. Yeah, I'd appreciate the help." Stiles says, and Peters smile turns softer.

"Then consider it done." He says brightly, pleased. And again Peter makes everything seem so simple, so easy, that Stiles has to wonder if this is what family is supposed to be like.

It's a dangerous thought, this is temporary he stresses to himself, he can enjoy it but he can't forget. Though maybe, a little voice beckons, maybe even when he's figured out a place to live and all of this is sorted out, Peter will still be there.

From the smile on Peter's face, Stiles thinks he will be.

Chapter Text

The idea of going into school is conflicting, Stiles wants to, don't get him wrong. It'll be good to be out of Peter's hair and to have something to do to keep himself occupied. It's just that he's still sore, cracked ribs and a concussion take longer than a week to clear up, and his bruises have started to fade but some of the more serious ones will be hanging around a while. He isn't looking forward to being stared at, and while he could usually ignore it he wouldn't have Scott around to help him focus on something else.

Scott is another sore spot, while Stiles had received a lot of messages from the pack during the week he'd been stuck sitting on the couch, Scott had been notably absent, hadn't even asked why he wasn't at school. Maybe he'd asked one of the others, there was no love lost between them at the moment though so it was doubtful, and if he had why hadn't he messaged Stiles to see how he was?

There was also the whole forcing Derek to bite Gerard shaped elephant in the room. And the Allison problem. And Lydia probably wasn't too happy with him still.

Just, too many possibilities for conflict, and Stiles isn't looking forward to any confrontations that arise from them.

Maybe he's been a little spoilt this last week, hiding away in Peter's apartment where he feels safe. He grabs his keys intending to head down to the jeep and Peter stops him.

"It's probably for the best to leave the jeep here while all of your stuff is inside, and anyway, you have a ride to school as long as you need it." The way he says it is... there's something off in the way his eyes sparkle but Stiles can't quite place it.

"You're going in to the shop today though, right? I don't want to make you go out of your way when I have the jeep right here." Stiles had been pleasantly surprised to find out Peter owns the cute little antique store in the middle of town, right across from the diner, or well, 90% antique store 10% supernatural goods front. It's a great system, Peter enjoys sourcing antiques, and has a place for supernatural trading away from his actual home. Though he'd been coy about what supernatural goods besides books he actually stocks, with promises of taking Stiles to see it when he's feeling better. Stiles is already itching for more stories about both sides of the business.

"I will of course be available to pick you up if you need me, don't hesitate to call, however I have someone else lined up to chauffeur you to school and I think you'll enjoy it." Mischief. That little twinkle is mischief, Stiles narrows his eyes, Derek takes Boyd, Isaac, and Erica to school so it isn't any of them, and they're on the other... side of town.

"If I go downstairs and see Jackson I'm gonna need you to reevaluate and reflect on the meaning of the word enjoyable." Stiles grumbles, because Jackson makes the most sense, he's only a few blocks away thankfully outside of the radius of the pesky restraining order. "Hey wait, I can't go with Jackson, restraining order remember? Unless his newest car is a 50 foot stretch limo I can sit in the back of, I can't be caught close to him off school grounds."

"Oh that, Jackson took care of that last week. The restraining order is no longer in effect, he told his father some of the more unruly... pranks he pulled on you himself over the years and it was written off as boys will be boys. It's off your record too, having a DA as a father pays off it seems. Though I doubt he'd deny Jackson much at the moment, after that scare on the lacrosse field."

"Oh... well thanks for that, I hadn't really thought to ask, it could have made stuff with the pack difficult in a pinch." Getting grabbed by the sheriff's department on the way home from fighting off hunters, or wendigos, or something in the preserve- for sharing a car with Jackson- would be the cherry on top of a pain in the ass day.

"I didn't do anything, Jackson told me about it when I inquired a few days ago," and that's interesting, he's probably just paying back Stiles' help with the whole mind controlled lizard stuff, Jackson does hate feeling like he's in debt. Stiles supposes it is nice of him though.

"Ah, then I'll thank him later I guess, anything you want me to grab on the way ho- back. To the apartment. From school. I can pick up groceries and make something?" And nope, not touching that slip with a ten foot pole.

"No, not tonight, I'll pick up something for us on the way home, I should be in just after six," Peter says, smiling at him indulgently. Alright time to go, he's... gonna be late, for school. Yeah, that works.

"Okay see you later, gotta go, bye!" He calls out behind him as he heads out the door, can't keep Jackson waiting after all.

As Stiles approaches the porsche Jackson rolls down the window.

"Dork chauffeur services at your service," he yells with a shit eating grin, "hop in."

"You know if you're trying to call me a dork you probably should have said chauffeurs for dorks," Stiles says, settling himself in the front seat. "Dork chauffeurs just means you're the chauffeur and you're a dork."

"Yeah whatever, dork, put your seatbelt on we don't have all morning." As soon as his seatbelt clicks Jackson pulls away from the curb smoothly, and Stiles would never cheat on his baby but he can admit the porsche is a very lovely ride.

Silence persists a while, slightly awkward small talk peppered in occasionally, there's a lot unsaid between them and it feels like they're just tiptoeing around it to share space. Stiles has never met an awkward situation he can't talk his way through though.

"So..." Stiles starts, drawing out the word, "Peter told me you got the restraining order disappeared, I wanted to say thanks."

"Yeah sure, go ahead." Okay that's much more fun when he's the one doing it to Derek. Jackson waits a beat, "it's okay, I probably shouldn't have let it happen in the first place, I was just, yeah."

"In denial about being a giant murder lizard? It's okay we've all been there," Stiles says, with faux lighthearted sympathy. "But really, thanks."

"Don't mention it," Jackson says, and then after a pause "no really, don't mention it, ever again. We're good."

"Oh no, I'm telling everyone about this, you did a favor for me, unprompted and everything, this has gotta be a first of some kind." He smirks, and Jackson takes his eyes off the road long enough to shoot him a deeply unimpressed look. "Alright, alright, you're secret's safe with me lizard breath."

"No, it's fine." Jackson says with a sigh, "I probably deserve a little of my own medicine."

And that's just sad, I mean sure Jackson had bullied him mercilessly for years, but he has been different lately, less sharp edged, less honed to hurt. Stiles hasn't been shoved into a locker in weeks, weeks.

"Aw come on, the pity party doesn't suit you dude, you aren't half bad when you're treating someone like a friend." Without the whole Lydia thing between them that might even be what they are again.

"You'd really just ignore years of bullying, just like that?" And he looks rightfully skeptical, Stiles is known for holding a grudge, and maybe a little for settling the score. It's why most people stopped picking on Scott before they even hit fifth grade, Stiles doesn't get mad, he gets even.

"What can I say, I'm a very forgiving person," Stiles says, and Jackson snorts, "hey, I'm experiencing some personal growth here, it's very big of me. Seriously though, I'm no shrinking violet, we both probably said plenty we regret."

"Who even says shrinking violet? What are you, an 80 year old woman? Do I get offered a butterscotch next?" And now it's Stiles' turn to snort, "so what do you want to do? There's the whole pack thing now I don't think either of us is going anywhere. Clean slate?"

"We could, but I don't think that would work, we used to be friends you know, what happened to us? I know there was the whole Lydia thing but even before that..." he swallows, the atmosphere in the car is definitely heavier now, "we used to be so close."

"Okay that might be on me, a little. I know you were there, the summer when I found out I was adopted and I got. Angry," Jacksons mouth is a thin line, reluctant. "And then we got back to school, and Scott was there, and then he kept being there, and I didn't want to share. You started giving him part of your attention and I didn't know how to deal with it so I picked on him, and then you'd get upset, and then it was like you were taking his side. So I just..."

"And then my mother was in the hospital, and I was angry all the time too so all we did was fight, and Melissa was baby sitting me so I was always with Scott and you didn't want to be near Scott." Stiles continues for him when he trails off, "and then we both had a crush on Lydia, and it was too late to fix everything."

"Yeah, and then I spent as much time as possible trying to make you feel as bad as I did. That about sums it up doesn't it? Makes that fresh start seem more appealing."

"Well, that's a mess, but I don't think it does. Jackson you were my best friend when we were kids, I don't want to forget that part." Stiles says, waiting for Jackson to smile before adding, "plus, why would I want to forget when you had that cute little bowl cut and missing front teeth. You looked like a reverse chipmunk, great stuff right there."

"Because that's convincing," Jackson says, and Stiles has to hold in a laugh at the petulant look on his face.

"I still have photos somewhere, maybe I should send some to the yearbook comittee, I'm sure they'd love it." Jackson's eyes immediately narrow.

"I thought you wanted to be friends now, not exactly what I'd consider a great start." He deadpans, and Stiles concedes.

"Alright, alright, you know I'm just teasing. Or, should I not?" Stiles queries, and that'd be a shame, Jackson had always provided quality banter, people watching with baby Jackson was awesome, always some snarky commentary at the ready.

"I'm no 'shrinking violet' Stiles," Jackson quips, and Stiles can hear the air quotes.

"Okay grandma," Stiles says, ignoring Jacksons 'Hey,' in protest, "that's enough feelings for one day, how are things going with Danny?"

And just like that they're off, all the heavy talk forgotten as if they'd never missed a day, by the time they get to school Stiles is almost disappointed the car ride is over. Almost disappointed and his apprehension has returned.

"Hey, relax would you?" Jackson says bumping their shoulders together softly, "you're not alone, Stiles."

"Yeah, yeah you're right," Stiles replies, "I'm sure Boyd will hang out with me in PE."

Jacksons unimpressed face is reward enough, Stiles bumps their shoulders together this time, and Jackson rolls his eyes with a smile.

"Come find me later if you aren't too busy with your jock buddies," they split off to head to their lockers, and he turns to yell, "thanks for the ride jackass."

Jackson's only reply is a choice finger waved in his direction as he rounds the corner, and Stiles chuckles to himself as he opens his locker to offload his books, hearing his name called from down the hallway he considers climbing inside it. He wouldn't fit, but it would be better than having this conversation.

"Stiles? Didn't you hear me?"

"Oh hey, Scott, yeah..." Stiles finishes cramming everything he needs into his backpack and takes a few steps, "well, gotta head to class."

"Stiles wait," damn, no dice, "I still need to get my books, where are you going?"

He turns back toward Scott, attempting to look anywhere but into the puppy eyes he knows are waiting. And shit yep, there are the puppy eyes, Stiles heaves a sigh.

"The hallway's probably not the best place for this conversation, I'll meet you outside before practice later?"

"No, just tell me now," Scott's eyebrows are furrowed now, edging a line between confusion and annoyance, "why are you being so weird?"

His voice has raised enough to draw attention, Stiles glances around and sees a few people side eyeing them and listening in.

"Scott, we can't talk about this here. Just- we need to talk about what happened at the warehouse, okay?" He gives Scott what he hopes is a weighted look that says 'no werewolf talk in the hallway' but Scott's face doesn't change. "So let's leave it for before practice yeah?"

"Talk about what? The plan worked." Scott smiles then, "I thought for a second things were gonna go bad, but it all went smoothly. Pretty great right?"

"No, not pretty great, that's the problem!" Stiles hisses, trying to mind his volume, "look, I really think we should talk about this la-"

"Are you seriously jealous right now? Just because I didn't tell you about my plan?" He looks incredulous, and Stiles thinks his face must match, because what? "I had to protect my mom and Allison, they were in danger, it was important."

"That's- none of that has anything to do with what we need to talk about, jesus Scott," how could he be so oblivious to what he did? Stiles takes a deep breath, calms himself down. "I'm going to go now, because we really shouldn't talk about this here. I'll text you."

Stiles turns his back on Scott, needs to walk away before he starts yelling about werewolf bullshit in the middle of school, but he doesn't make it five steps before Scott grabs him by the shoulder to spin him back around. And shit that hurts, Stiles grunts as he's moved, Scott's fingers digging into the exact wrong spot over his collarbone right where he's still tender. As soon as Scott let's go Stiles steps back, hand coming up in front of himself.

"Don't just turn your back on me!" Scott says just shy of a yell, reaching out and grabbing harshly at Stiles arm his eyes flash golden, only for a second, but this is getting out of control fast.

And then, just as quickly as things escalated Scott's hand recoils, looking sharply at something over Stiles shoulder, lip curling and rumbling lowly. The moment breaks suddenly, Scott shaking his head, blinking rapidly as if he's coming back to himself, a stricken look on his face.

"I... you're right, we'll talk about this another time." He mutters, then turns and speed walks down the hallway until he's lost in a throng of students.

"Well that's gonna be a problem." Stiles says to himself, rubbing at his arm, it reminds him of how Scott acted when he first turned.

"Yeah," Boyd's voice appears right at his side, making Stiles jump out of his skin, really, bells for the lot of them, "he doesn't have a pack anymore."

"Right," and wolves without a pack go omega and rampage amongst the masses until hunters find them, "something to look forward to. Joy."

"Deaton should have him," Boyd says, seeming to pick up what Stiles is talking around. And that's true, surely Deaton couldn't have expected Scott to be a part of Derek's pack after everything that they did. So, Stiles just has to work out what his contingency is and help Scott with his control, no problem, piece of cake.

Maybe it's time to call one of those pack meetings he's been bothering Derek about. He'd hoped they'd start under better circumstances, meetings purely for bonding and spending time together, training that was more fun than urgency, but it looks like Beacon Hills can't wait to throw another crisis their way. At least this isn't too pressing, Scott's control was far shakier when he first turned and he was still running around school and lacrosse without getting caught out. They probably have time. Maybe.

Or with their luck more likely not.

He pulls out his phone and shoots off a quick text to Derek, telling him that pack meeting should be sooner rather than later, with a quick rundown of his and Boyd's suspicions. Things between Derek and Scott are obviously not in a good place right now, so Stiles isn't expecting much, but Derek will still want to know, and the puppies will need to keep an eye out.

Looking up he realises Boyd has led him safely all the way to class, kept him from bumping into anyone or thing as he types, and pats at the guiding hand on his shoulder in thanks. The hand retreats, but not before brushing at the side of his neck, tension he didn't realise he was carrying draining away with the whisps of a headache that had been slowly creeping up on him.

Swaying slightly towards Boyd before catching himself Stiles hums in satisfaction, being friends with werewolves certainly has it's perks.

"Thanks man, I didn't even notice."

"Yeah, I could tell," Boyd says, reaching out and tapping his temple, "you get stuck up here sometimes."

"That I do Boyd, that I do." Stiles smiles at him as they head into class, one confrontation down and hopefully more don't follow, it is way too early for this.

Chapter Text

Talking with Scott doesn't end up happening, the rest of the week consisting of Scott avoiding him every time they make eye contact, and staring grumpily at Stiles while he sits with the Hale pack.

Scott still has people around him, so Stiles doesn't let himself feel too guilty. He reconciled with Allison much faster than Stiles expected, and again Stiles thinks with aggravation that maybe her second foray into shooting at teenagers with arrows and stabbing at their friends should have been some sort of red flag, but alas.

Lydia stays with them too, looking down her nose at Stiles and watching Jackson and Danny with well concealed envy, Stiles isn't sure if she knows what actually happened yet, if Allison told her or kept it to herself, but the careful eye Lydia keeps on the rest of the betas suggests maybe she does. Stiles isn't quite sure what to do with that just yet, what version of the world Allison had shared, whether the perspective was of an aggrieved hunter or true to reality. Another problem to push off until another day.

They'd had their pack meeting in the end, and it had been more of a social call than anything, Derek telling them to keep an eye on Scott but otherwise he'd speak to Deaton and it wasn't their problem for now. They'd watched movies and whined about homework and ordered takeout, Derek looking more content the longer the night went on.

There are still some issues Stiles wants to work on, noticing more often than not Peter and Derek hover around the outskirts, unsure where they fit in. Derek, though he's only 20, is acting more like a reluctant grandpa than the older brother figure the puppies see him as, and Peter... well he seems unclear on his welcome all together. And that just won't do.

Peter has made him feel so incredibly at home, and Stiles isn't going to sit by and watch him exclude himself from his pack.

At least Derek and Peter seem more at ease, their movie nights going a long way toward smoothing down their rough edges around each other, Derek even looking to Peter for advice about Scott. The initial advice a tongue in cheek comment about left hands that left Stiles incredibly curious about pack structure and led to a wild rabbit hole through Peter's library. He's convinced Boyd would make a perfect second, and Peter is clearly the left hand, now he just needs to poke Derek into making things more official, it can only make them all closer as a pack.

He's brought out of his musings by Jackson's hand smacking into his chest, and a sudden stomp of the breaks, laying on the horn immediately after.

"Look where you're going asswipe!" Jackson yells, and looking at the car in front finishing it's slow turn into their lane Stiles can guess what happened, he looks down at the arm still slung across his chest with a growing smirk while Jackson continues muttering under his breath about people undeserving of their licenses.

"Did you just mom arm me?" Jackson looks down at his own arm as if he's surprised to see it there, retracting it quickly. "Hey I'm not complaining it probably would have hurt like a bitch to yank my ribs around by the seatbelt."

"Maybe I'm just aware of how soft and breakable you are." Jackson says, near petulant, "and anyway, you're a bit out of it today, it's an instincts thing."

"Aw isn't that sweet," Stiles coos, poking a finger at Jackson cheek that gets quickly swatted away, "protecting your squishy human friend."

"Well yeah, you know I've got your back," he swats at Stiles poking finger again, "knock it off dork."

"Such sweet pet names you have for me schnookums," he says, parting pat to Jackson's cheek before he settles back into his seat, smiling at the glare Jackson shoots his way. Stiles sobers a moment, "thanks, and look I know you have a whole pack of super buff werewolf buddies now, but I'll be around too."

"Obviously, where else would you be?" Jackson glances at him, eyebrow raised, and Stiles thinks that even if he's not a werewolf, not part of the pack, that having them as friends is just as nice.

"Why do we always get into the sappy shit in your car Jax?"

"Stop thinking so hard and smelling so miserable all the time and we won't have to." Jackson says, "I'll stop reminding you you don't have to deal with everything alone when you do."

"Ouch, right for the jugular," but he should have expected it, Jackson's never been one to pull his punches, even when they were little. Werewolf senses do put him at an advantage though, "this doesn't seem very fair."

"Get used to it." Jackson says, smug as ever, "what are you stuck on? Maybe talking it out will help, it used to."

"I was just thinking about pack dynamics, Boyd's clearly Derek's second, Peter's the left hand, you need an emissary," Stiles rattles off. "According to the books I've been reading, Derek acknowledging the roles would make everyone feel more secure in the pack bonds, it'd be good in a pinch too so you know who to listen to if things go pear shaped, but before you can even get there I think you guys need to bond properly as a pack."

Stiles brings his arm up to lean against the window, finger coming up to his mouth to bite at a nail.

"You puppies are all getting closer, or starting to, but Derek is still acting like he's not allowed to be a part of any of it and Peter acts like he thinks you guys won't want him to either." He pulls his finger from his mouth hands gesturing emphatically now, rambling picking up speed as he goes, "training will help everyone getting more comfortable around each other physically, more contact for all the instincts you guys have and passive scenting and stuff, but the human brain side of it is harder to predict."

"But on the other hand we keep jumping from emergency to emergency, and we don't have time to slow burn all of it, Derek and Peter need to know you guys trust them to be able to trust you all in a rough spot, but with the whole mess with Peter while he wasn't himself, Erica and Boyd trying to run and getting tortured, Isaac eyeing off Scott, Derek making questionable decisions and keeping secrets while he was under pressure and new to everything, Danny feeling like he's only there as your boyfriend and plus one, and you reluctant to go lizard in front of all the wolves because you're worried about being different, theres a minefield waiting to be tripped. How does all of that get resolved without pushing anyone away instead of bonding everyone together? How does any of it get brought up without making people feel more defensive and less trusted than before? And that's not even starting on Allison and Lydia and Scott, and Chris Argent hovering around, and whatever the fuck Deaton is up to, and not finding Gerard's body, and the Sh- and the shit that could pop up out of the woodwork next."

Stiles is panting by the time he's finished, and Jackson waits for him to catch his breath some before speaking.

"See, isn't that better?" Stiles just gapes at him, incredulous, hands flailing his direction after a moment of stunned silence.

"In what world is that better?"

"We're at my house for a start, so we can go inside and stop 'being sappy in my car' if you want." Stiles looks around quickly and yeah they're parked in Jackson's driveway, he hadn't even noticed they'd stopped moving, too caught up in everything swirling around in his head.

"I- yeah, sure, let's do that." They're already here, and Peter said he'd be home later, so Stiles figures he might as well.

Sitting at Jackson's ridiculously expensive looking marble kitchen counter half an hour later they haven't made much progress. They either need more time, or less problems to deal with, one or the other.

"Okay, you're right that actions speak louder than words would work better, everyone's gone through too much crap for words to fix everything." Jackson says, sounding all reasonable, "but wouldn't you suggesting to Derek that Boyd be his second show Boyd and Derek both that you trust him not to run off?"

"What would that do?" They need Derek to feel like he can trust Boyd and vice versa, not either of them to feel like Stiles trusts them.

"What do you mean what would that do? Derek trusts your opinion, you're the one that's been researching all the how to alpha stuff and linking everyone together." Jackson says, like Stiles is a small child, "haven't you noticed that everyone pretty much orbits around you?"

"What are you talking about?" Stiles says, sure Derek has been spending a lot of time at Peter's, and sure Stiles has been relaying everything he finds in the books to Derek but that's just research.

"For someone so perceptive when it comes to everyone else you're really dumb when it comes to yourself aren't you?" Jackson shakes his head at him, "you live with Peter, you've helped him reconnect with Derek, you're helping Derek learn to be a more effective alpha. You're the one that busted Boyd and Erica out of the basement and convinced them to stay, you're the one that brought Danny to the warehouse, you held Derek up in a pool. You tried to convince me I was the kanima and keep me alive instead of letting the others kill me. And you started the whole pack meeting thing in the first place to get everyone together."

"But that doesn't- you-" Stiles sputters, "that doesn't mean the others are gonna trust each other just because I tell them to."

"Don't be stupid of course they will," Stiles looks at him skeptically, and Jackson heaves a put upon sigh. "You lead by example, you're close with Peter, you include him, the other's will too, you suggest Boyd, you show him and everyone else he's trusted, you praise Derek and you give the other's confidence in his leadership. It's all stuff you're already doing and the others are copying, if you weren't better suited as our emissary I'd have thought you should be Derek's second."

"Wait what?" Stiles says, absolutely flabbergasted. "I can't be an emissary, I'm not a magic user."

"Did you or did you not make mountain ash out of thin air? Sounds pretty magical to me," Jackson says, "Which part of this is tripping you up Stiles? Your pack needs you, get with the program."

"I'm not pack," Stiles says, "since when have I been pack?"

"When weren't you?" And if he wasn't looking at Stiles like he was an idiot before he definitely is now.

"Uh always? This whole time?" And okay him and Jackson have been getting along great lately, he usually gets to watch him make that face at other people, this is entirely unfair. "Don't look at me like that, Derek has told me I'm not pack and to butt out more times than I care to count, so have most of the puppies."

Tipping his head back a little so he doesn't have to look at Jackson, Stiles instead stares at the pendant lights above the kitchen island, this whole kitchen really is an interior designers wet dream come to life.

"Wow you're a bit messed up over all of this aren't you?"

"Hey."

"No really, you just what, help with research, keep people alive, do literal fucking magic to try and protect everyone, and then you let people tell you that you aren't a part of it?" Jackson looks annoyed with him now, and it makes him want to scream, "why don't you just-"

"BECAUSE I SHOULDN'T HAVE TO" Stiles bursts out, hands planted on that marble counter top, "none of you had to fight for a place, and I'm tired Jackson, if what I do already isn't enough, so what, I'm not pack."

"Don't say that." Jackson bites out.

"I'm not, I'm fine with it, I don't have to be pack to help, so I'm not pack." Stiles rationalises, though it's more to himself than Jackson at this point, trying to calm down.

"Stop saying that." Jackson's eyes flash, lip pulling back into a sneer that makes Stiles stubbornly set his jaw in return.

"Why? It's true, I'm. Not. Pack." A low warning hiss comes from deep in Jackson's chest, eyes glowing steadily now.

"You are MY pack." Jackson yells back, claws lengthening and scales beginning to crawl their way along his skin.

"I'm your friend" Stiles stresses, he's not going to back down from some were posturing, "if that's not good enough take it up with your pack."

"I AM" Stiles huffs out a sigh, Jackson's only working himself up more, tail out now and whipping, and while he knows he's in no danger, and Jackson's family could certainly replace anything, property damage feels inevitable the longer this drags out.

"Fine, alright, I'm your pack." Stiles says placating, and even speaking it aloud makes something settle in himself too.

Jackson narrows his eyes at him, as if he doesn't trust the sudden shift, rounding the counter and marching Stiles right onto a plush couch that feels like a cloud and an angora rabbit had a baby. Where do you even buy something like this in Beacon Hills? Somehow managing an air of haughtiness in spite of the scales and tail and utter petulance he's exuding, Jackson sits practically on top of him, still ever mindful of his injuries.

"You're my pack, and if you ask any of the others they'll say the same, you try telling Peter you're not pack and see how he reacts." Jackson grumbles around fangs too large for his half transformed state. Stiles flicks his forehead.

"Put away the teeth Jax," he says with a roll of his eyes, "and if you're gonna be a possessive little shit you might as well do it properly."

"You're the one who keeps going on and on about the importance of scent marking pack, you made your bed now I'm gonna lie on it." Jackson says, features receding to his usual human once more while he rearranges himself to drape across Stiles lap. "Remote's over there, pick whatever you want."

"So we're not gonna talk about the whole grr hiss? Okay then." Stiles resigns himself to playing pillow for a while, queuing up the next episode of Arrow on Netflix and settling in for the long haul. He's becomming far too used to his days being emotional rollercoasters, and it's kind of funny, if he thinks about it. Jackson pulls out his phone and stabs at the touch screen with his thumb, angling it towards Stiles to read when he makes an inquiring noise.

'Care to explain why Stiles doesn't think he's pack?'

"Jackson," he says chidingly, "leave Derek alone."

"No, I don't think I will." Jackson says, matter of fact, "we're dealing with this now, you'd do the same if I said I wasn't pack and you know it."

'?' Derek texts, which is really enlightening, so of course Jackson copies and resends exactly the same text he sent before, because he's as much of an ass as Stiles is.

'who said stiles isnt pack' Jackson scoffs, and Stiles can't help but agree.

'You did dumbass, and the rest of the island of misfit toys.' Before he can hit send Stiles makes a disapproving sound, so he amends it to, 'You did, oh mighty alpha, and the rest of the island of misfit toys.'

Well, at least he changed some of it. Jackson startles when his phone rings, shushing Stiles to be quiet before picking up and immediately swapping to speaker.

"Of course Stiles is pack." Derek says in lieu of a hello, already sounding irritated.

"You tell him that lately?" Jackson shoots back, gesturing at the phone in a way that screams I told you so.

Stiles is too busy feeling stunned to pay him much mind. When. When did Derek decide he was pack over the last... two weeks? Two weeks since he last told Stiles to butt out of his pack's business directly. Maybe slightly longer, since what he said in the pool, but he definitely didn't think of Stiles as pack before that night in the warehouse either.

"-could use your words, I've heard him say that how many times?" He hears Jackson say as he tunes back into their conversation, "and you said it to all of the rest of us, including Danny when he joined. So why didn't you say it to him too?"

"He always knows, I don't need to tell him anything."

"You are the reason misunderstandings like this happen." Jackson says icily, "you know how he is you need to tell him these things."

If Stiles pushed him onto the floor right now it'd serve him right 'you know how he is' what's that supposed to mean? He digs his fingers into Jacksons side in retribution, making him jerk and writhe and slap at him back with a betrayed look.

'I'm helping' he mouths, so Stiles tries to look as unimpressed as possible.

After a long bout of silence on his end Derek sighs audibly.

"I'll talk to him. Is that all?"

"I don't know, what are you wearing?" He leers up at Stiles and bites his lip in such an exaggerated way that Stiles has to slap his hand over his mouth to stop his laugh escaping.

Derek lets out a weary sigh again, like he's questioning his life choices, and hangs up.

"Jackson why?" He says snorting with his laughter.

"We're cheering you up is why, and because you still haven't mentioned your gigantic crush on Derek, even though I tell you everything about me and Danny, so we needed a convenient segue." Stiles isn't laughing any more.

"Nope, that's not, nope," and this is awful because if Jackson knows, then Derek- nope. "Maybe I don't want to hear about you and Danny being disgustingly in love, have you considered that?"

Jackson snorts, like Stiles is the one being ridiculous, and really the audacity of him.

"You know that's a lie, you love it, you're this closet romantic who loves the big gestures and the true love stuff." And look, Jackson's not wrong, but it doesn't mean Stiles has to concede the point, so he doesn't. Jackson continues anyway.

"Oh Jackson, it was like a movie, you were dying in his arms, he cradled you close and told you he loved you, and true love's kissed you back to being a real boy." Jackson mocks with his voice pitched high, palms together against his cheek and eyelashes batting dramatically on a fake swoon. "You eat that shit up with a spoon, stop trying to change the subject."

"There's no subject to change, okay? It's barely even a crush-"

"HA lie," Jackson says poking him in the chest, Stiles swats at his finger.

"It's never gonna go anywhere why does it matter? Ugh." Tipping his head back over the top of the couch Stiles closes his eyes in hopes of blocking out the last five minutes. "You're the worst, if you know who else does?"

"Probably Erica and Boyd, and I'd guess that there's no way Peter hasn't picked up on it. You aren't exactly hard to read when you're not trying to be."

"No, why," he draws out the words with a whine, "why didn't you tell me this sooner, god that's mortifying."

"Stiles, nobody cares, from what I can telll everyone is rooting for you two anyway, Erica says she 'ships it' I don't think Boyd cares either way, and Peter is Peter." Jackson points out, and yeah that's fair, but still Stiles can't believe he's been walking around practically screaming out his crush for all the werewolves to see. "Oh and Danny knows, of course."

"Of course." Stiles deadpans, because why wouldn't Jackson gossip with his boyfriend, "are you going to tell him all my secrets from now on or?"

"As if I had to tell him anything, he knew for longer than I did." And that tracks, he supposes, it's not as if he was exactly subtle during the whole Miguel thing. Speaking of Danny.

"You get that if Danny Prince Charming'd you that makes you the princess, right." He says, looking down at Jackson with a smirk.

"The prettiest princess, yes," Jackson says with one eye cracked to look up at Stiles from his lap. "And I know you'd love being a princess for a day too, so don't bother."

"Yeah, you're probably right about that." Stiles can't say he wouldn't enjoy being swept off his feet from time to time, preferably by a broody hunky werewolf, but he's not picky. "You feeling better?"

"Me? I'm fine," Jackson makes a show of shuffling around, getting more comfortable where his head rests on Stiles' thigh.

"You realise I do have to go back to Peter's at some point right? He's expecting me, picking up dinner and everything." Jackson huffs impatiently, picking up his phone again and typing out a few messages that Stiles can't see.

"There, taken care of, you're staying here tonight. Pack bonding or whatever."

"Peter is pack too, Jackson," Stiles says with an eyeroll, though saying it hasn't lost it's thrill just yet. Jackson closes his eyes, waving a hand in the air as if to dismiss it.

"He gets you all the other days, I'm sure he can deal with it for one night." And that's that apparently, Stiles does get up to grab his phone- to a veritable symphony of Jackson's grumbling- and send off a text of his own, as soon as he's back on the couch Jackson reclaims his spot.

'I've been commandeered for the evening, apparently. Staying at Jackson's for the night, sorry about dinner.'

'Nonsense,' comes Peter's immediate reply, 'enjoy yourselves, I'll see you tomorrow evening.'

'Alas, I am trapped.' On a whim Stiles snaps a quick photo of Jackson, practically lounging in his lap, and sends it through.

'Well, lizards do need to seek out warmth, perhaps put out a nice rock in the sun if you need a moment to yourself.' Stiles snorts, causing Jackson's brow to furrow before he resettles, on the brink of sleep already.

'I'll keep that in mind. Thanks Peter, see you tomorrow.' Setting an alarm for an hours time, Stiles settles further into the couch, it's nap time, apparently.

The crick in his neck later will be worth it he thinks, letting a small smile steal across his face. He's pack, he has a pack! It's nice being able to end his day on a high, and for once he's not going to think of all the things that could go wrong tomorrow. He has a pack.

Chapter Text

Rifling through his duffle and backpack Stiles realises it's probably time to swap out some of his clothes from the jeep again, there's only so many combinations of his three shirts, pair of jeans, and two plaids that he can make after all. Fashion, thou art a heartless mistress.

He looks from the pile of clothes to the closet, considering. Surely he can leave these few shirts up here for now?

He walks over with the stack, walks back. No, he should take them back down to the jeep, he knows himself, he knows he'll get entirely too comfortable, too attached.

Would that be such a bad thing? He takes a few steps back toward the closet, changes his mind again. Ugh. Enough of this, his things go downstairs in his jeep, he's maintaining these boundaries for his own good he tells himself firmly.

"Okay, different plaid, swap out the jeans, two new shirts," he looks down at himself thinking a moment, ah right, "underwear, socks."

Running over the list in his head over and over so he wont forget anything, jeans socks two shirts underwear plaid, jeans socks two shirts underwear plaid, jeans two socks underwear plaid, he almost bumps into Peter in the hallway.

"Shi-oot, shoot, sorry." He smiles, but Peter isn't looking at him, instead warily eyeing the duffle Stiles has slung over his shoulder. "I'm just swapping my clothes out."

"You know you can bring your stuff up here, I'm sure there's plenty of room for it all in the closet if you're not ready to unpack, it's at least the size of the jeep." He says it very... not pointedly, but it feels like he's speaking very precisely, carefully.

"It's fine, I don't want to have to lug it all down again," Stiles says waving off the oddness of the moment. Or maybe, "unless you need your garage space back? I can find somewhere else to park the jeep, I really don't think anyone would steal anything from it."

Peter looks at him, eyes ever so slightly narrowed and a tension around his mouth that suggests he'd grimace if it weren't too likely to give away whatever it is he's internally debating himself over.

"Ooooor not?" He adds, eyebrow raising after a few moments of silence, "you can just... let me know what you decide when you're done standing silently in the hallway?"

That does get a small smile out of Peter, followed by a soft huff.

"I have something I wanted to show you, I was waiting for it to be properly finalised, because I didn't want to add any extra stress or anxiety onto your plate." He looks Stiles over, assessing as always, so Stiles attempts to look much calmer than he currently feels. Moot point with all the werewolf senses, but if Peter didn't want him to panic he probably shouldn't have led with such a stress and anxiety inducing sentence. "Ah, that wasn't too helpful was it, how about you go sit on the couch, I'll just grab something from my desk and be right with you."

"Yeah, sure, no problem." Stiles says going to sit on the couch, perfectly calm in spite of his lying heartbeat. So if it could stop the whole attempting to escape his ribcage thing now he'd appreciate it, thank you very much.

Peter appears in the living room almost immediately, looking strangely nervous and hovering next to the couch rather than joining him on it. It does nothing for Stiles' own nerves.

"Earlier, if you recall, I asked if you'd allow me to take care of things, with your father." Peter starts, more stiltedly than Stiles has ever heard him, "you said I could."

"I did," Stiles agrees apprehensively, this whole sitting standing thing really isn't working for him. "Can you just- sit and calm down or something, you're freaking me out."

"I'm perfectly calm-"

"Then tell that to your face." Stiles points out, hand raising to flail in said face's direction.

"I-" Peter chuckles, shaking his head with a bewildered grin, "perhaps I am a touch nervous."

He sits, which helps, and pushes a folder across the cushions he's left between them, hand not leaving it even when Stiles attempts to take it.

"Alright, let's try this again, shall we?" Peter clears his throat, shifts a little in his seat. "I asked you if I could take care of it, help with the issues the Sheriff caused, that could arise with school and medical needs, and housing, and so on."

He taps onto the folder, pushing it the rest of the way to Stiles and letting go almost reluctantly.

"Yesterday, I... got all my ducks in a row, so to speak." He's becoming timid again, and it's so unlike the confidence he always exudes that Stiles is more curious than worried now. Okay he's still worried, but he doesn't feel like he has to be ready to bolt at a moments notice anymore, at least.

Stiles picks up the folder, not opening it yet, just taking the time to look at Peter.

"And it's got you all," he gestures in Peter's general direction, "because?"

"It has, perhaps, occurred to me at this moment that you may have preferred someone else, or that I could have done this differently." He winces, "I can still get things changed if you wish, I only sent the paperwork off last night, there is time."

Someone else he said, which probably means... guardianship? He could have gotten, but then his father would have to- unless he? Stiles feels like his brain is stuttering, he doesn't want to get his hopes up or jump to conclusions. He's almost scared to open the folder now, but it's the only way to find out.

"Okay, alright, how about I open this and put us both out of our misery? And then if I have questions I'll ask them, sound good? Good." Peter nods, so Stiles opens the folder, the word 'Adoption' blaring up at him in bold letters, sending his mind reeling, because just. How?

Stiles starts leafing through the papers, noting his dads signature right there on every line, adoption agreement, guardianship, relinquishing of parental rights, and on and on. He closes the folder, pulls it to his chest, Peter's signature on the adoption paper burned into the backs of his eyelids every time he blinks.

"Are these real?" He asks, voice hoarse with emotion, because he has to ask, has to be sure. Hes struck suddenly by exactly how much he wants this, these last two weeks have been the best he's had in years and he doesn't want to give it up for anything. "You can't just forge a signature on this sort of thing and call it a day you know."

"I'm sure I could if it came down to it, but no, it's all above board and official." Peter says, seeming more confident after Stiles' reaction, "avoiding a court case though, in this instance, is a useful perk of the supernatural community when it comes to adoption. In a few days it will be official and legal."

"So, what does this mean, exactly?" Because it could mean a lot of things, it could mean he gets to live here with Peter until he finds his own place, it could mean Peter will just take care of the administrative side of things so Stiles can stay in town. Or, it could mean that Peter wants Stiles to stay.

"I'm not expecting anything, Stiles, it can mean whatever you'd like it to mean. If you don't want to stay here I won't-"

"Tell me what you wanted to happen when you filed the papers." Peter's lips purse, still reluctant, so Stiles adds, "Ignoring the Sheriff thing for a moment, when have you ever known me to do something I didn't want to do?"

"I was hoping you'd stay," Peter admits, and it feels like trust, like he trusts Stiles to make his own choices, "that you'd want to stay, I should say, but if you don't want that I-"

"I'm going to keep interrupting you every time you try to reassure me I have a choice, because I know you, so I know I do." Stiles says pointedly, because it feels like Peter's roundabout way of being self depreciating, to continually insist that Stiles would want to be somewhere else, that somehow Peter is unsuitable even though he's been the only one to show he wants to be.

Before he'd seen these papers, before he'd seen Peter's signature right on the dotted line saying he wants to adopt him, Stiles would have taken it poorly, he's able to admit that about himself. He can still feel the stirrings of that little voice in his head fighting to tell him Peter wants him to go, that he's gently trying to get Stiles out of his house by repeatedly mentioning he doesn't have to stay, that Peter will find him somewhere else if he wants is just a prompt to go and get out of Peter's hair.

Except Peter's adopting him. He doesn't have to go nearly far and Stiles knows it, he could have gotten guardianship and called it a day if he wanted to help with the Sheriff. He could have done nothing and Stiles would have moved out as soon as he was healed up enough even if it meant sleeping in his jeep until he found a more conventional job and a place he could afford.

But no, for once Stiles is going to make the choice he desperately wants to make and not the one that stupid little voice is telling him he should. Peter wants him here, he tells himself, clutching the folder that bit tighter.

Peter wants him here.

Peter who's looking at him as if this is important, like he really doesn't want to get this wrong, and Stiles just. Peter wants him here, and when was the last time he felt like he was wanted around in his own home, when he wasn't tiptoeing around the Sheriff's schedule and hiding in his room pretending he didn't exist, making food and cleaning and keeping out of sight light a ghost haunting the walls. When was the last time he even felt like he had a father? He can't examine that thought too closely yet, he's getting too far ahead of himself, it hasn't been a full two weeks since he left but it feels- he feels so-

"Stiles I want you to stay, I want you to live here, and call this your home without shying away mid word, I want you to unpack your jeep and know you belong here." Peter reaches out, wipes Stiles cheek where tears are rudely escaping him, before pulling back "perhaps it is selfish of me-"

"Peter,"

"No, let me finish, it almost feels as if I'm taking advantage of a horrible situation you've been put in, and that does worry me, it will always worry me. What I want here isn't important."

"It is to me. Nobody just- the last person who wanted- before my mother died, before she was sick even, because after she was she- things were... I don't want to talk about that but, you aren't manipulating me or taking advantage of me by sincerely showing me I have better options. You don't have an ulterior motive, you aren't as slick as you think you are when you do, you've always given me a choice. Even before, you gave me a choice." Stiles lightly punches the knee Peter has up on the couch, "you aren't the big bad wolf in this story Peter so stop villainising yourself."

"You're the one that's upset Stiles, I should be comforting you here."

"I'm not upset I'm happy," he stresses, because he is, sad memories crowding the edges aside this is so overwhelmingly wonderful. Peter wants him here. He smiles, "you want me here."

"Yes, I want you here." Peter smiles in return, and it's so soft, and unguarded, and, and big bad wolf my ass, Stiles thinks. He finally makes himself release his death grip on the folder, to put it back on the couch and push it toward Peter.

"Congratulations, it's a boy," he chirps, Peter rolling his eyes fondly, fondly, as he reaches out to take it, but Stiles can't make himself let go. "Actually wait, these are mine now, I, yeah you can print a new copy, no takebacks."

"Alright, you can keep those, the originals are off with my lawyer, they'll be filed as soon as possible, and an in the know judge up in Sacramento will take care of it." The curl in Peter's smile turns indulgent and he stands, a hand trailing on Stiles shoulder up to ruffle his hair, "in the mean time, what do you think about finally unpacking that jeep of yours? Or we can always paint first, if you'd prefer?"

And Stiles isn't stupid okay, he might not have a werewolf nose but recently dried paint isn't exactly a hard smell to pick up on. He knows Peter had painted the room not too long before he invited Stiles to stay, a soft mauve-ish purple that complemented all of the dark red toned wood in the room without making it feel small. His room- and he can call it that now even if only in his own head for the time being- feels safe and comforting, it's lovely and Peter clearly thought he would like it, and he does.

"You picked a good colour, I like it how it is, but I- we can unpack some things, yeah." Peter notices his slight hesitation and pins him with a look, Stiles huffs a sigh, "my ribs are not playing nice after being at school today, and I made you a promise that I wouldn't overdo it, so I'm trying to keep it."

"Quite right, no heavy boxes for you until you're healed, even without enhanced strength on my side I'm sure I could have the jeep emptied out in no time by myself." He studies Stiles' expression a moment, "why don't you call Jackson over to help? We can order a pizza after we're done."

"You've got yourself a deal," how Peter can know him so well in such a short amount of time is mindblowing, but Stiles finds himself grateful for it, not wanting to sit around and watch Peter do all the heavy lifting by himself. Fishing out his phone Stiles grabs the duffle off the floor where he'd left it, taking it and the folder back to his room while he shoots a text off to Jackson.

'Hey Jax wanna come over so I can borrow your muscles? There's a pizza in it for you.'

Jackson is probably the only other person he feels comfortable seeing him so vulnerable right now. He's been handily ignoring the fact that his entire life is stuffed into his jeep, and taking it all out and shoving it in his room isn't going to let him hide behind out of sight out of mind much longer. Though he thinks he's probably better equipped to deal with it now, without all the uncertainty clouding his thoughts.

'You just want a chance to ogle my bulging biceps'

'No olives on the pizza'

Smiling to himself Stiles stashes away his things, ordering pizza for the three of them. Three pizzas, actually, because he's learnt by now that were-creatures have ridiculous appetites, and he's a growing teenage boy himself.

When Jackson arrives they head down to the jeep, and Stiles tries to swallow down the tension that takes hold of him watching the garage door open and reveal his jeep innocently sitting there, full of everything he owns.

"So, you want me to take my shirt off while we do this or..." Jackson says, drawing out the word as he plays at lifting the hem of his shirt. Stiles just shakes his head at him, a half surpressed smile stealing it's way across his face. "No? Damn, I knew I should have taken the time to find a tank top, guess you'll just have to drool over my muscles another day."

"You're an ass," Stiles says pulling out his keys, no time like the present, right? Though he does feel significantly less on edge. Opening up the back of the jeep he picks a few boxes at random and points the others toward them. "Alright, just... stack them on the floor in my room I guess?"

Jackson looks from the boxes, to Peter, to the boxes again, competitive face out in full force.

"I could take more than you in a single trip." He says, confidently.

"And it's very cute that you think that," Peter replies, amused, and it's so... silly, just messing around and keeping things lighthearted, that Stiles can't summon up the discomfort of before.

"Guys there's less than ten boxes in here and a couple bags, it's a jeep not a tardis." They both turn to look at him in unison, Jackson looking offended and Peter contemplative, as if he'd issued a challenge. "No. No we are not doing this in one trip, you're going to drop my things everywhere, none of the boxes are even taped."

"It'll be fine," Jackson says, enthused, Stiles can only grimace.

"Okay, fine, just leave the stuff on the front seat alone," he's not risking his mother's things for their shenanigans, anything else will at least be fun to watch, "you break something and you're buying me a new one."

"Deal," they pull everything from the car, unfortunately without the extra box there's an odd number, so the contest is quickly abandoned, but watching them stack and divvy everything out as if it's all very serious business is it's own sort of fun.

In the end they both take a stack of boxes, Jackson with three and Peter with four, bags over each elbow to complete the load. They can't quite see where they're walking, mostly relying on their other senses, and hey this might be good as a training exercise, balance, strength, relying on their senses, all that good stuff. Stiles grabs the box of his mother's things, it's not like they have any hands to stop him and it's not that heavy, locking up the jeep and garage before sedately walking behind Jackson and Peter while they bicker.

"Elevator's coming up." He points out, hearing a curse, he can't wait to see how Peter fits his stack through the low doorway. "Need me to press the button for you?"

"No," Jackson says immediately, turning his head to face Stiles and cursing again when his stack slides slightly off balance. "You don't have to look so smug about it."

"Oh no I do actually, this is great, really riveting stuff, you're both very strong and not struggling at all." Stiles says with as much condescention as he can manage, Jackson only scowls.

Watching Peter crouch walk his way into the elevator is just a cherry on top.

They make it back to the apartment, eventually, and get all of his things set down in his room, the doorbell ringing moments later when the pizza is delivered. It's a shame they didn't have to share the elevator with the delivery boy.

Sitting around the table and sharing their food Stiles doesn't think about the boxes sitting in his room, or the Sheriff signing him away, he doesn't think about Scott becoming unanchored, or Grandpa Argent running around, or the dozens of other problems looming on the horizon.

Instead Stiles thinks about what a nice afternoon this has been, about Peter and Jackson letting themselves look completely ridiculous just to cheer him up, about how Peter wants him here, and Jasckson claims him unequivocally as pack. Stiles looks at the three of them sitting together, content with the feeling of family that surrounds him. It feels like coming home.

"So," Jackson says around a mouthful of pizza, "finally unpacking, does that mean you're accepting that your stuck with us? In the bougie part of town and everything, for shame."

Stiles grins, heart feeling light.

"Yeah, I guess I am." He says, not feeling stuck at all.