Chapter Text
For a long time, there’s only the void.
The void is black and silent. Only sometimes, there are distant noises. High-pitched beeping and urgent voices, jumbled words that make no sense to him.
The void is numb. He's floating in it like he's underwater. Everything is blurry and dulled through the dark smooth water surrounding him. Shielding him from what is waiting, lurking, above the surface.
When the void starts to fade, when its gentle embrace loosens, he protests. Tries to cling to the merciful numb blackness. But it’s no use. Something is pushing him up, back to the surface. However, it only happens slowly, gradually. He’s deep underwater and the light isn’t visible above him. He starts to feel alone and it is scary. He also starts to feel pain. It's an everlasting ache, pulsing through him in a steady rhythm. He starts to feel for a connection. He knows there should be a connection ... Something. Bonds. He briefly panicks, because they are gone. They are ... No, not all of them are gone. There are still two pack bonds left. Two pulsing silver lines. He clings to them like to an anchor and lets them pull him a bit closer to the surface.
Eventually, he can sense the presence of people around him. He starts to feel touches, starts to understand words and starts to have jumbled thoughts. He's coming back to himself and he isn't sure he likes it. He's Peter Hale and he lost his family because some hunters decided they are not allowed to live. Because some hunters decided to burn the peaceful pack of werewolves to the ground. He is Peter Hale and he thought he died in the flames. But apparently, he didn't. He must be at a hospital and the beeping must be his heart.
It's overwhelming when Peter gets his senses back. Everything smells too sharp and sour. He's touched almost all the time, it seems. Some hands are gentle and calm. Others are impatient and on the edge of being too rough with his sore skin.
He can hear noises far away, hasty steps, bright laughter or humming. Sometimes, someone cries.
Sometimes, someone sits on the chair beside the bed with a heavy sigh.
Sometimes, it’s Derek. Or Laura. Derek barely talks. He just sits there, breathing and shifting around. There are rare moments when he reaches out, his fingers brushing Peter’s hand. But they are almost always pulled back like Derek has burned himself.
“I’m sorry,” the boy sometimes murmurs. Peter vaguely wonders what he's sorry for. For surving? For being alright? He really hopes that's not how Derek feels. Because ... He's glad his nephew and Laura are okay. Is glad they weren't in the basement with him. They deserve to be happy. But they aren't. Of course, they aren't. Not after this.
While Derek barely talks, Laura can’t seem to stop. She talks on and on. Her Alpha spark is fresh and fickle, like the flickering flame of a nearly burnt down candle. She's always whispering, her voice breaking sometimes. She touches his hand, takes it only to drop it soon again, clearing her throat nervously.
“How am I supposed to do this,” She asks, and the room gives no answer. “How … I don’t know how to do this. I’m not Talia. I’m … It’s too much. This pack is too weak and I can feel it. I know I have to, to find others. I have to make our pack stronger. Have to protect it. But … How? I can’t. I don't know how. I … I want them back. I want our family back. Uncle Peter, please wake up. I need you."
Chris is different. Chris sits on the chair, leans forward and grasps Peter’s hand tightly. His presence is strong and clear. He doesn’t whisper. But he does sound choked off. Like he’s trying to get the words around a stone in his throat.
“God. I’m so sorry. If I’d known … I would have done anything to prevent it. Anything. I’m so sorry I can’t make it unhappen. I wish I could turn back the time. But ... I want you to know that I took care of them. I seeked them out. I found them. They won’t ever hurt anyone again. I also took care Derek and Laura have … someone. Someone who looks after them. They’re still so young and Laura has the Alpha Spark now, I … Jesus. They’re staying with Noah and his son right now. Noah Stilinski. You always liked him. I’m sure he was here too. He took photos of your injuries, they were ... evidence. He never thought it was an accident. Always tried to find the arsonist. He couldn't, of course. Shit. Peter. I … I really hope you’ll wake up. There are so many things I want to talk about. Things happened … I made some decisions. Just … Please come back.”
Chris hesitates. He bends over Peter and cups the unburnt side of his face. His hand is calloused, the skin covered in the little scars Chris has collected over the years. It stays on Peter’s face for a long moment, warm and solid. Peter misses it, when it disappears.
Chris leaves, his steps slow and heavy.
He doesn't come back after this visit.
When Peter wakes up, he is alone. He blinks up into too bright lights and swallows, his throat dry and his tongue heavy. First, he feels like he’s floating. His body is too light. But then he is able to move his toes and fingers. He can feel them prickle. It feels like pin pricks. He tries to open his mouth and startles when he feels the pull of tight skin. He raises one hand shakily, to touch his face and his fingers move weakly over raised taut skin. His face is a map of scar tissue.
In one violent moment, everything returns. It’s like he’s back in the basement and he’s burning. He’s pinned under a collapsed joist and he can feel the fire licking at his crushed leg and hip, a sharp neverending pain, like he has never felt it before. But he’s distracted from the pain and the sickening smell of his own burning flesh, when he hears a weak voice calling his name. He raises his head and sees Leah, his youngest niece, reaching out for him, her eyes wide and reflecting the flames. He fights to get out from under the joist and the pain is excruciating, but the desperation is stronger. Maybe … Maybe he can get Leah out of the window somehow. She is small … He crawls towards her, ignoring the flames reaching for him from all sides. He pulls his broken leg after him, and he’s almost reached Leah, when she says his name again, barely audible, and her eyes slip shut. She’s so small, he thinks again. So small. She’s going to die. They are all going to die. Leah never hurt anyone. She was excited to go to school next summer, she wanted to become a famous popstar one day, and now she’s going to die. The moment Leah starts to close her eyes and slumps, passing out from the smoke, is the moment he gives up. There can’t be a life after this … The fire roars and now it’s the only noise to be heard. He breathes in the smoke and burns and waits. He barely notices that someone suddenly grips his arm, that someone pulls at him, pulls him away before a piece of the collapsing ceiling can hit his body. Suddenly, he’s laying on mercifully cool grass, staring up at the sky. The stars are gone. That’s the only thought he manages, before he slips into the void. The stars are gone. The smoke has drowned them …
They’re all gone.
They’re all gone. The realization hits Peter so violently, it’s like receiving an electric shock. His flight instinct kicks in and he tries to get out of bed frantically. As soon as his feet touch the cold tiles, his body fails him for the first time in his life. His legs collapse and he falls on the floor face-forward, ripping out some tubes and needles in the process. It hurts briefly but he barely notices it, too shocked about the fact that he just fell - and can't get up again.
Steps approach, fast and light. A woman. A nurse. One of his nurses. He smells her perfume and knows it’s not the redhead with the rough hands and the unkind eyes, not Nathalie, it’s Melissa. He likes her better. She talked to him when she worked, when she washed his hair or applied balm to his burns, telling him about what was happening in the world. Or about her son Scott who wants to become a vet. He’s working part time at Deaton’s clinic. Alan Deaton. The Hales' former emissary. The world is small.
Melissa’s steps falter at the door. Peter hears her gasp. He guesses she’s not seen many coma patients spontaneously waking up and trying to get up. From where he’s laying on the floor, his face pressed against the tiles, he can only see her shoes. Melissa catches herself after a moment. She hurries into the room, crouching beside him. “Mr. Hale? Can you hear me?”
Peter groans. He tries to talk, but nothing works. Melissa lays a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Okay. Just breathe. Help is coming.” Of course, Melissa can’t get him up and back into bed alone. She stays at his side, her hand stroking gently, until a doctor and another nurse arrives, fussing over him, their voices dripping with surprise. Peter starts to realize they didn’t expect him to ever wake up. Well, he starts to think that wouldn’t have been so bad. At least, the void and what came after, wasn't so painful and cold. Or so humiliating. He can’t believe he’s being manhandled into the bed by humans, feeling boneless and heavy at the same time.
It’s his first lucid day and God, does Peter hate it. He hates every single second of it.
He is weak. Nothing about his body works like it is supposed to do. He lost so much weight and muscle mass, he can feel the sharpness of his hip bones. But the worst are the scars. They feel tight on his face. When he opens his mouth, they tug at his lips. When he closes his eyes, the skin around them twitches and aches. Everything feels too tender and too numb at the same time.
The doctor tells him he’s a medical miracle. He’s standing in front of Peter’s bed, excitement in his eyes, while he is talking about third- and fourth-degree burns, about multiple complicated surgeries and over a year of coma. While he is talking about physical therapy, diet plans and skin crafts. Peter wants to wipe the smile from the man’s face. That forced cheerful smile. Because, that’s all he gets here. Forced smiles or pitiful glances. He’s the miracle. The survivor. The tragedy they’re eating up greedily and whispering about together, when they think Peter can’t hear them. But thanks to his still perfectly functioning werewolf senses, he hears it all. And he hates it. He hates everything. He’s not a miracle. He lost his family, his pack, and is stuck in this broken body, weak and useless, not able to protect the rest of his pack. He’s always been the protector, what is he supposed to be now?
“Should I call someone? Derek? Or Laura?” Melissa asks him, her voice too gentle. He hates it. But he doesn’t hate her. She’s just doing what she can. He shakes his head. Not yet. Not now. He can’t deal with them right now. Can’t deal with the relieved smiles or the happy tears they’re maybe going to cry. He just wants to close his eyes and sleep. At least whatever they give him is preventing the nightmares he’s sure he would have otherwise. He can sleep in peace while being awake is agony.
When Peter tries to eat solid food for the first time - just tomato soup that smells and looks bland - his hand holding the spoon is trembling and he spills almost everything on the towel over his chest. He grits his teeth and fights actual tears of humiliation down. Melissa doesn’t try to comfort him. He’s grateful for that. He couldn’t stand it.
Noah Stilinski brings Derek and Laura to the hospital the next day, leaving the room after he pushed them in gently, to give them some privacy. The pups stare at him with wide eyes, as if they don’t dare to believe he’s awake. Peter tries a weak smile for them, because it’s not their fault he’s like this. They lost their parents. They are young and scared. Laura makes a noise resembling a sob and grips his hand, her eyes flashing red. She looks almost startled at that, but Peter flashes his eyes blue in return, more to reassure her than to show his loyalty - he wouldn't be of any value to her anyway - and just like that, the pack bond feels a bit stronger. Laura smiles carefully. “I’m glad you’re awake,” she says, squeezing his hand. Derek stands behind her, ducking his head. He glances at Peter and something in his eyes is … strange. Peter frowns and Derek startles, quickly looking away, into a corner of the room, hunching his shoulders. He smells wrong. But Peter can’t figure it out. His nose is practically blind from the smell of disinfection surrounding him all the time.
Laura hesitantly tells him something about her school, her eyes flicking from his eyes to the scars and back. Peter thinks she looks older. She had a year with the Alpha Spark now. It clearly exhausts her, but she is strong. She will manage.
Peter tires quickly and Noah is the first who notices it. He ushers Laura and Derek out of the room gently. “Thank you,” Peter tells him, although he’s so exhausted, even his tongue feels heavy. “For taking them in.”
“Of course,” Noah says. “It was the least I could do.” He studies Peter for a moment, his eyes filling with a certain kind of thoughtfulness, that makes Peter wonder how much the Sheriff knows already, and how long it is going to take him, to find out the rest. After all, he's having two werewolves in his house now. Laura and Derek have learned how to blend in and hide, but there are certain things that are always difficult to hide. Noah leaves after a quiet, “Goodnight.” Peter’s glad, when he’s alone again.
Days pass. The pups come to visit regularly. Laura starts to look better. She talks louder and walks with more confidence. Derek is still withdrawn and never looks at Peter directly. But he thinks, it might be the scars. Chris doesn’t show up. Peter doesn’t know if he should be disappointed or relieved.
After some time, Peter can feel his body getting stronger. The wolf is stirring more often, starting to get restless from being in bed all day. Even though he hates every second of it, he grudgingly works with the physical therapist, doing the ridiculous exercises and enduring her too cheerful praises.
When he’s finally able to walk again - he can only take staggering, slow steps and has to support himself on crutches - he goes to the bathroom alone, intending to wash himself for the first time in ages without any stranger’s hands touching him. By the time he’s standing in front of the sink, he’s breathing heavily and can feel sweat trickling down his back. He looks up, and then he sees his face in the mirror. He sees his face and it’s like his breath is punched out his throat.
He didn’t think it would be that bad. He didn’t think his face would look so ruined. He strokes his fingers over the white stretched skin and shudders at the feeling. He looks like … like an abomination. Hysterical laughter wants to rise up at that thought. He’d always laughed it off, when some hunter called him an abomination for being a werewolf. Because he’d always been proud about being a born werewolf, about being special . But here he is, supporting his useless broken body on crutches meant for weak humans, here he is, his face a destroyed landscape of scars, a lasting reminder of what happened. Peter thinks they won’t vanish, because the fire, the smoke, even the air contained wolfsbane. The scars are imprinted on his body and they will always remember him.
A weak noise escapes his throat, resembling a sob. His legs tremble and can’t keep him up anymore. He slumps and leans his head back against the cool tiles, panting. He stays there for an unknown amount of time, groaning and closing his eyes, when his bladder starts to really burn with the pressure. Peter tries to get up, only to slump back on the floor with a gasp. He can’t get up on his own and fights the feeling of shame and self-hatred for almost half an hour, until he finally presses the call button beside the sink. He hates to be helpless, he hates to be touched and manhandled, but he would hate pissing himself on the floor of the bathroom much more.
After this, everything gets worse. His body seems to stop the process of healing. Maybe, because he just doesn't care enough anymore. He can feel himself slipping into a depression. Questions haunt him whenever he's awake. Why is he even still alive? Why didn’t he just die with his family? Why did this happen? Why …
From now on, Peter avoids the mirror when he dares to make his slow staggering trips to the bathroom.
But even without seeing the scars, he has violent flashbacks and nightmares, especially when they start to reduce the medications he’s on. He screams himself sore in the nights and ends up sweat-bathed and shaky on the days, gasping into the pillows. He’s not talking to anyone about what he sees. Not about the first moments, when he still thought they could escape only to find the tunnels closed with mountain ash. Not about seeing his sister burn. Not about Leah’s little hands reaching for him again and again. He doesn’t talk about it.
His doctors and even Melissa carefully mention talking to a therapist. Peter only scoffs. Someone like him doesn’t see a therapist. A human therapist would never understand … He could never tell them about how it is like, to be utterly trapped, to hear and smell everything. No. He can’t see a therapist. He’s alone with the pictures in his head. With the echo of smoke in his nose and screams in his head. No one can understand. He’s alone with this.
Under everyone’s worried and pitiful eyes, Peter stops talking, eating and moving all together. He just lays there and lets time happen, wishing often enough it would just stop. It doesn’t. It passes impassively.
Until a full moon comes up.
A full moon comes up.
Peter feels a bit stronger. But also restless. The wolf whines and scratches at his mental walls. Peter knows what he craves. The long runs through the forest. The joy of freedom. The thrill of a hunt. Oh how he craves that.
And when the moon is finally full and fat on the sky, too bright and too pulling, Peter gets up on legs that for once don’t tremble under him. He gets up and doesn’t even think while climbing out the window, barefooted. He shudders pleasantly when his feet touch soft grass. His legs carry him to the forest slowly. He’s only wearing his hospital gown and the night is cold, but he barely feels it. He’s probably lucky he’s not seen. The streets are empty, since it’s raining cats and dogs. The rain feels heavenly on his skin. As does the breeze that is blowing.
When he reaches a familiar clearing, Peter lifts his face up to the moon and closes his eyes, inhaling the scent of the forest. Pine trees and blackberry bushes. His heart beats faster and his wolf howls in joy. He shifts for the first time in ages. Allows the wolf to come forward. And all of a sudden, the world looks different. Feels different.
He’s on all fours and everything is so intense, he startles and makes a noise. It’s a whine. And when he looks down at his feet, he understands. He’s looking at the powerful paws of an actual wolf. He is a wolf. The wolf.
He doesn’t know why or how this happened. But his confusion quickly makes place to excitement. Like this, he realizes, he doesn’t feel broken. The wolf is strong. The wolf is hyper aware of everything and isn’t feeling depressed. He just wants to run. But the most important thing is: The wolf has no scars.
Being the wolf is marvelous. It’s what he wants. What he needs. It is a gift.
And suddenly, he asks himself, why he should even try to change back. So he doesn’t.
The wolf raises his head and howls at the moon.