Work Text:
"Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit," Stiles was saying, trying to focus on the medallion in his hands. It was a delicate thing, filigreed with silver, meant to be used in a quiet ritual space that would allow the holder to meditatively wind their magic through the carefully etched runes.
Stiles was not in a quiet ritual space. Stiles was being unceremoniously piggy-backed across some Oregonian woods by a werewolf while the witches that were hunting them down kept shooting at them.
"Less talking, more magic," Peter said grimly. He was starting to lag; the witches had caught him with a wolfsbane bullet twenty minutes ago and if Stiles had a few minutes to spare, he would have burnt it out—but he didn't. They were being flanked and herded, run to the ground, and their best bet was the very artifact they'd come up to Portland for: a teleportation amulet.
Teleportation magic wasn't a popular field. Sure, on paper it sounded useful, but in practice the power and time it usually required for a minimal payoff didn't make it worthwhile. Maybe, juiced-up, a witch could get a cast off in a few minutes, but they wouldn't get more than ten miles away and they'd be nearly exhausted in the process. The amulet wasn't really special in that regard, except that it offered a more efficient rune schema, allowing a longer cast time for a distance that might take a few hours to travel by car. Stiles hadn't even wanted it to use for teleportation—he'd just wanted it to research the specific runes and magic involved.
Unfortunately, the witches hunting them weren't after the relatively average artifact they'd purchased completely legally. No, this was the past (and Stiles' big mouth) come back to haunt them—these witches were after Deucalion's Alpha spark.
They hadn't actually acquired it on purpose. After graduation, after trying to slot into the life that had disappeared after the Wild Hunt, Stiles had still felt disconnected from the world and his future, out of sync with everything he'd thought he'd wanted before. He had college acceptance letters and scholarship offers and his application for FBI training all filled out, and yet he still found himself at Peter's, sharing his spiraling thoughts.
Then Peter had suggested he take a gap year and travel the world with him. Stiles was immediately taken on a whirlwind international roadtrip, visiting Peter's old contacts and supernatural communities, with Peter encouraging him to learn how to use his magic spark. It was new and thrilling and enthralling, and Stiles found himself again in the rush of it, researching supernatural occurrences and debating magical theory and discovering a whole new side to the world separate from the stress and terror that was drawn to Beacon Hills.
They'd been a few hours out of London when they'd run into Deucalion. Stiles had been in an academic magic exchange with a conclave of druids based near Stonehenge, who were far less cryptic and far more friendly than Deaton had ever been. One of them had been the first person to pull him aside and ask him if he knew quite how powerful he was. Apparently, Stiles not only had a spark of his own magic but a whole inferno, something to do with physical and magical resonances that turned Stiles from a spark into a Spark, capital letter fully intended. Stiles had been starting to come to that realization himself, remembering he and the Nogitsune splitting themselves apart—Stiles had ended up in the new body, made entirely of his own magic, utterly pristine. It had been at that point that Deaton had completely washed his hands of training Stiles in magic, too.
Deucalion had heard the same rumors about Stiles and had come prepared to take him for himself. Peter, obviously, had objected to that with violence—which had ended up with Deucalion's ignoble death and Peter becoming an Alpha again.
It was also then—seeing Peter step in front of him, willing to protect him with his life— that Stiles realized just how much Peter actually, seriously liked him. It was obvious, thinking back on it—this very trip was Peter's clear indulgence of him—and something about it all, that care married with violence, that support underwrit by primal, possessive love, made Stiles finally fall into bed with him, a relationship that he knew going in would be his very last one.
But Stiles had fucked up. Relaxed and sex-drunk, he'd made his regular monthly call to Scott and accidentally mentioned Peter's new Alpha status when Scott got all 'concerned' about Peter being an omega for the fiftieth time, and then he'd had to fast-talk his way around their confrontation with Deucalion, the truth of which wouldn't have passed Scott's stringent morality check. And of course he hadn't thought to strongly impress on Scott the need to keep it secret; common sense would dictate it, and who would Scott even tell?
But he hadn't. And it had spread. Which meant Stiles and Peter's fun international roadtrip quickly turned into Stiles and Peter's stressful international honeymoon, because Peter Hale didn't have the reputation of the Demon Wolf to dissuade opportunists from trying to take his Alpha spark. And it wasn't only wolves after it—apparently Deucalion's spark had been of significant interest in certain magical communities due to how many Alpha sparks he'd absorbed, so Stiles had to take a crash-course in magical protection and combat as they avoided overly interested parties and Peter futilely tried to keep their pleasant holiday on-track.
It was a little safer closer to home, where the Hale name was still remembered. But these witches had caught them off guard mainly because of the guns.
"I'm working, I'm working!" Stiles was halfway through the runic sequence and they did not have time for the rest. But his Spark technically meant he could accomplish anything if he believed. Stiles fixed his mind on the outcome and shoved his magic at it, brute-force. "Come on, come on…"
"We're nearly out of time," Peter said, his grip on Stiles tightening as his breathing starting to strain, "so this better be quick."
Stiles could practically hear the considerations Peter was starting to make—thoughts about sacrificing himself like an idiot. It wouldn't happen. Not on Stiles' watch.
The rush of that determination was enough to push Stiles' magic past the last hurdle. Stiles willed—his magic flared—
The world went white.
Stiles landed heavily on the ground with a thump. Well, not quite—Stiles landed heavily on a damaged and faltering werewolf who seemed to have taken the brunt of it. Peter looked worryingly pale and his jeans were soaked with blood all down one side. Stiles scrambled to get into his pants. "Where'd you get hit?"
"Side—leg," Peter managed. Stiles winced as he found the wound, the bullet clearly still lodged in Peter's hip. Peter had been running on that leg—but for a guy who'd burned alive three times, it probably didn't even come close to the worst pain of his life.
Stiles laid his hands over the wound and closed his eyes. "Okay, brace yourself," he said, and brought his magic to bear. He had too many mental associations with 'burning the wolfsbane out' for his magical equivalent to work any other way, but at least it meant they never had to go hunting for spare bullets or specific strains of wolfsbane. He cleansed it all, the bullet and the wolfsbane, and Peter grit his teeth and only let out a low rumble of a sound.
Stiles opened his eyes as Peter's growl trailed off; he could feel Peter's healing kick in again as the wound started closing under his eyes. A little belatedly, Stiles realized their positions: him straddling Peter's legs, Peter's jeans pulled half-down on one side. He met Peter's gaze and could see the same thought cross Peter's mind as his mouth twitched.
A moment—and Peter pulled them up, placing Stiles behind him as he let out a warning growl. "You can't hide from me," he directed toward the treeline, and after a long, fraught pause a werewolf stepped out, flashing his eyes blue in response.
He was a stranger. A very, very familiar stranger. His blue eyes, the shape of his jaw—Stiles had spent way too long admiring Peter's face to not recognize it, even a decade younger than it should be. Stiles felt dread take root in his chest as he realized what was wrong about all of this. About the clearing. About the giant tree in the center, radiating a familiarity and magical presence Stiles could recognize in his sleep.
"Stiles, what exactly were you aiming for?" Peter said, his voice low. Stiles' stomach sank.
He knew what he'd been thinking. That they had to get away, that he wanted to go home, that he needed power—
The Nemeton. He'd pulled on the Nemeton.
Just a month ago, they'd been in Aotearoa New Zealand and Stiles had spent an evening learning about mākutu from a local tribe. There, discussing spellcraft, an older man had said to him, "You've got to be careful about who you invite in to your spells. Their wishes'll be your wishes, their magic'll be your magic," and Stiles had already had a taste with the invisible scars the Nogitsune had left on him, but he thanked him anyway. It was important to know.
The Nemeton wasn't a 'who'. But it was sentient, to a degree. It could feel. It could want. And what did an ancient magical tree want?
To live.
"The Nemeton," Stiles said weakly. "Fuck."
"Yes, it does leave us in an awkward position now that I'm an Alpha," Peter said, clearly directed at their audience. "I'm happy to negotiate visitation to the territory with Alpha Hale—our appearance here wasn't intentional."
"I'm not an idiot, you realize. You haven't aged that poorly. And who's your friend?"
The younger man gave Stiles a flirtatious once-over. Stiles' Peter snarled and stepped between them, pulling Stiles behind him.
It was kind of excessive, honestly. Stiles frowned at Peter's back.
"He's none of your concern," Peter said, with an edge that suggested teeth. "Shall I meet with your Alpha, or are you abdicating your responsibility to introduce us?"
The younger Peter's eyes narrowed as he looked at his older self. "I'll bring you to her. If that meets your stringent requirements, Alpha."
"Okay," Stiles interjected, raising his hands as he stepped out from behind Peter, "enough with the dick-measuring, alright? Pretty sure they're the same size."
"No, mine's larger," Stiles' Peter said, like an asshole. Stiles gave him an incredulous look and he relented. "Though that's not important."
"Yeah," Stiles said, "because what's important is that this was an accident and baby Peter here understands we're just gonna be around until we can find our way back."
The younger Peter raised his eyebrows and gave him another lingering once-over. "I'm definitely older than you."
"Yeah," Stiles said, amused despite himself. "A baby."
His Peter smirked, turning back to his younger self. "After you, Beta Hale."
The younger Peter visibly rolled his eyes, but he did start to lead them out of the clearing. Stiles and his Peter largely kept pace with him.
Stiles lowered his voice a little and said to his Peter, "So this isn't, like, Back to the Future, is it?"
"Fortunately, no," Peter replied, with no concession given to his volume. Stiles knew it didn't really matter—both werewolves could hear him perfectly well—but speaking quietly implied a level of privacy to the conversation that they usually respected out of politeness. "I think I would remember this."
"Yeah, but couldn't Talia…" Stiles mimicked claws.
"Lydia would have seen it," Peter said, after a moment. "Surely she would have mentioned it if she did."
"Dude," Stiles said, "you literally just tossed her—tossed her into a vision, she didn't have any control! Seriously, if we change something here, is it going to like, erase us?"
"I think you might have a better idea of that than me," Peter said. "But from my research, changing the past via time travel isn't possible."
"Isn't possible isn't possible? Or isn't possible because no one remembers it after?"
"Isn't possible, isn't possible," Peter clarified. "Do you think I wouldn't have—" He cut himself off sharply, glancing at the younger Peter a few steps ahead of them, blatantly eavesdropping. "Stiles. You know me better than that."
"…Yeah," Stiles said. Of course if there was even a chance, Peter would have taken it; and if it were a matter of power, he'd had access to Stiles and the Nemeton and their combined magical talents for at least a year. "Okay. So you think this is an alternate universe? I guess that makes sense, with the Nemeton being… But then why would ours send us here?"
Peter followed his train of thought with ease. "You're saying there's something here that it wants."
"I'm saying, if it sent us here for a reason, it might not let us back until we figure out what that is."
"So access to their records on the Nemeton is something they have to offer us," Peter said, "though I'm not sure Talia will see it that way."
Stiles raised his eyebrows at him. "You don't think our future knowledge is enough of a bargaining point?"
"Oh," Peter said putting on a light, slightly mocking tone, "but who could say our universes will follow the same paths?" He sighed. "We'll see."
They exchanged a wry smile; Stiles bumped his hip against Peter's. "We don't need them," he said, reassuringly.
"No, we don't. You're right."
"Wow, can I get that on record? Peter Hale, finally agreeing with someone."
"I agree with you all the time, sweetheart."
"Yeah, because when am I wrong?" Stiles said, to the roll of Peter's eyes.
"I know I've said you should have more confidence, but there's such a thing as too much confidence."
"What? No!" Stiles pressed a hand to his heart. "That coming from you?"
"Do you two ever stop flirting?" said a not-quite-familiar voice. Stiles' head snapped to the younger Peter, who was giving them an incredulous look over his shoulder. "I'm still here, you know."
"Sure, sure," Stiles said, "I knew that. Hey, how old are you, anyway?"
The younger Peter gave him a curious look. "How old are you?"
"We're not doing this again," Stiles complained. "I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours? Or—" He looked at his Peter. "Any ideas?"
"Older than you," his Peter confirmed. "I'd say… hm. Twenty-five, twenty-six?"
"Twenty-six," the younger Peter acquiesced after sending Stiles' Peter a glare. He turned his gaze on Stiles. "And you're…"
"Me? Nineteen," Stiles said, waving him off as he turned back to his Peter. "Wait, but you were… thirty-three, thirty-four when we met? That means…"
"Yes," Peter agreed, a spark lighting his eyes as he started to smirk. "We'll have quite a lot to offer."
Stiles couldn't help giving him a side-eye; it was incredibly clear exactly what Peter was thinking about. But, well, Stiles wasn't going to give up the chance to kill Kate Argent before the fire happened, either—or Gerard, if this was before Deucalion's fall from grace.
Wow, was Deucalion actually a good guy here? Scott had always liked to sing his praises after he'd helped them out but Stiles had never forgotten who'd killed Erica and Boyd. It hadn't been that surprising when he'd attacked them in the end, no matter how much Scott touted him as 'reformed'.
"Here we are," the younger Peter said, as they walked into the clearing around the Hale house. Stiles had never seen the place not a burnt-out shell, and he couldn't help trying to spot the differences as the younger Peter stopped them a short distance from the front door.
Talia Hale was also a stranger to him, and Stiles watched with open curiosity as she left the house and approached them. He'd seen photos of her—she'd been in the newspapers, and Peter still had a few old family photos that had been in his apartment or the vault—but none of them really could capture a personality. Stiles' vague impression of Talia had filled out over the years, too, as he spent more time wondering about Laura abandoning Peter, about Derek being so obviously untrained to take over as the Alpha, about Talia erasing Peter's memories about Malia; or even about her making Peter and Derek forget the Nemeton when it was such an important part of their territory.
The younger Peter inclined his head slightly as his sister approached, baring his throat. "Alpha Hale," he said, "I found these two at the Nemeton. They claim to be from an alternate future."
Her gaze slid over Stiles, her eyes widening slightly as she took in Stiles' Peter. "Peter?"
"Alpha Talia Hale," Stiles' Peter said with a charming smile, flashing his eyes. "Let me introduce myself. Alpha Peter Hale—and my Emissary, Stiles."
Stiles quirked an eyebrow at his Peter, who gave him a brief, pointed glance.
"We're here by an accident not of our making," Stiles' Peter continued, looking back to Talia, "though we believe our Nemeton sent us here for a reason. I'd like to negotiate access to yours—supervised, if you need it—and your notes on it in exchange for our information on your future."
"If you're from an alternate universe, as you say, your information might have no value to us," Talia said shrewdly. "What could you possibly share that's worth letting a stranger access the Nemeton?"
"Well," Stiles' Peter said, raising his eyebrows and glancing at the younger Peter, "how's Derek's little girlfriend doing?"
Talia followed his gaze to the younger Peter. "Derek's girlfriend? What about her?"
The younger Peter sent a sharp look at Stiles' Peter. "She's dying," he admitted reluctantly. Stiles' eyes widened in surprise, though he had to admit it explained a lot about the whole mess from Peter's side. "Brain tumor, inoperable. I've been trying to convince Derek to ask you to turn her."
"You know I'd say no," Talia said, her eyes narrowed.
"I know you'd say no to me," the younger Peter said pointedly. "But to Derek? And even if you did—you'd force him to break up with her. Not let him watch his first love die from a disease you could prevent."
Talia's lips pressed together and she looked back at Stiles' Peter. "This is what you think is important to our future?"
"Well," Stiles' Peter said languidly, "you know how it is. Derek thinks you won't agree, so he decides to ask another Alpha to bite her; she rejects it and Derek has to mercy-kill her and when the whole thing comes out, you explicitly forbid me to investigate Derek's next girlfriend, who happens to be a hunter eight years older than him who burns our entire family alive."
"Dude," Stiles said, when Talia stilled in shock, "go easy on them, they're, you know…" He gave Peter a chiding look and Peter rolled his eyes.
"I'm not hurting their delicate sensibilities," Peter said dismissively, then paused. "Am I?"
"You survived," Talia said, recovering admirably. "Did anyone else…"
"Oh, Derek and Cora are fine," Stiles' Peter said. He glanced at Stiles. "We saw them—what, three months ago?"
Stiles nodded. "Yeah, not for long, but they're okay."
"They're with Ana's sister's pack," Peter shared, and Talia managed a faint half-grimace of a smile.
"Then you've kept the pack alliances?"
"It was touch and go for a bit," Peter said, opaquely, "but I've been traveling with Stiles to renew all our old acquaintances." He gave her a familiar smirk, and Talia's mouth twitched slightly as she sighed.
"Very well. Even if… even if that never comes to pass here, I see why you think it's important for us to know." She examined Peter, then glanced at Stiles. "You said your… Emissary needs access to the Nemeton?"
"Yeah, that'd be great," Stiles said. "I'll even put up with Deaton if I have to, though you shouldn't listen to anything he says about me."
Talia's eyebrows crept up her forehead and she exchanged a look with the younger Peter. "He isn't… a danger?"
"I never expected anything from Deaton and he fully lived up to those expectations," Stiles' Peter said bluntly. "He didn't protect us or help us and I don't trust him. Is he actively malicious? It's doubtful—"
"Derek," Stiles reminded him, and he and Peter shared a grimace.
"All right, he can be if the circumstances align. But he prefers to manipulate other people into doing his dirty work rather than get his hands dirty himself. So he isn't an active threat."
Talia studied Stiles' Peter for a while. "It's not that I don't believe you," she said, "but as you said, this is another universe. If you don't mind his supervision—"
"It's fine," Stiles said.
"—then I'll allow you limited access as you require it," she finished. "As to where you'll stay…"
"We'll happily stay in the cabin," Stiles' Peter said, "or with my other self, if he has the room." He raised his eyebrows at his younger self, who wrinkled his nose in distaste as he and Talia exchanged a series of glances Stiles couldn't interpret.
"Peter will host you," Talia decided. "I'll contact my Emissary and he'll share his schedule with you."
"As you say, Alpha," the younger Peter said, sounding resigned. Stiles grinned at him and he looked even more put-upon. He looked over both Stiles and Stiles' Peter. "I suppose you both need a ride."
"It would be appreciated," Stiles' Peter said smoothly. "My thanks, Alpha Hale."
"Alpha Hale," Talia acknowledged, and watched them as they left.
Apparently this Peter owned more than just his exotic sports cars; he directed them to a nice Mercedes and Stiles sighed in relief as he slid into the back seat next to his Peter. "You don't still have this, do you?" he asked, glancing at his Peter, who shrugged one shoulder.
"It burned with the house," he said. "Luckily, both my Cobras were at the garage."
"You and your stupid cars," Stiles mumbled, ignoring Peter's raised eyebrows.
"As if you can talk—"
"It's sentimental!"
"My Cobras could be sentimental," Peter said, not even trying to be convincing, and Stiles rolled his eyes and side-eyed the younger Peter.
"Do you have two of them too?"
"One, actually," the younger Peter disclosed, "though I have my eye on another. You're not a fan?"
"Come on, dude, they're a monument of a mid-life crisis," Stiles said, waving his hands for emphasis. "Aren't you too young for that? It screams 'I've got more money than god so I'm going to waste it on this impractical sports car that I can never legally get up to full speed in the state of California.'"
"Are you really insulting my taste in cars because of my age?" The younger Peter gave Stiles a disbelieving look over his shoulder. "I understand why you think your version of me is having a mid-life crisis, but—"
"No one is having a mid-life crisis," Stiles' Peter said, interrupting him.
"He's nineteen," the younger Peter said sharply, then glanced at Stiles. "…No offense."
"Oh, none taken, creeperwolf is a cradle-robber and I have a kink for older guys who'll take care of me," Stiles said blithely. "You would not believe the shit I got from Cora. Not to mention"—Peter gave him a look and Stiles quickly shifted gears—"Derek. Derek gave me the eyebrows. You know the ones."
The younger Peter shook his head, looking nonplussed. "How did you even meet?"
"What, you mean the time you kidnapped me and offered to bite me?" Stiles said, grinning at his Peter. "Or maybe that time I crashed my Jeep into a lizard—or at Derek's place?"
"Let's go with Derek's place," his Peter said, eyebrows quirked and a fond smile touching his mouth.
"Derek's place, then. You hung around and made creepy comments while I was busy questioning your existence."
"And thinking I lived in a cave."
"And hoping you and your millions had a secret lair like Batman."
The younger Peter looked very dubious as they pulled into the apartment block's garage and piled out of his car. He led them to the elevator and pressed the button for the penthouse. "And how much of that was true?"
"Surely you can tell with your senses," Stiles' Peter said, and the younger Peter raised his eyebrows at them.
"You're an Emissary—so you must have magic. And I've known how to deceive werewolf ears for years."
"I mean, yeah, we could lie," Stiles admitted, "but we haven't. Like Peter didn't before, with Talia."
"The truth can be worth more than fiction, sometimes," Stiles' Peter said. "And that's not to say we haven't… selectively told the truth."
"Don't worry," Stiles finished for him, "we've got plenty more bombshells where that came from."
"Oh, great," the younger Peter said, leading them out the elevator and unlocking the door to his apartment. "Well, this is me. You'll be in the… guest room?"
"Yes, we'll share," Stiles' Peter said, heading inside with a speed Stiles couldn't match. "Dibs on the shower!"
"You asshole!" Stiles called after him, and stuck out his tongue at Peter's back as he disappeared down the corridor. Stiles didn't bother to follow, instead perching on a stool at the kitchen island, taking the glass of water the younger Peter offered him. "Thanks."
"I'd say 'make yourself at home', but it looks like he already has," the younger Peter said dryly. He gave Stiles a thoughtful once-over. "Really, I have to say I'm… surprised. Not that I doubt my own appeal, but…"
"You're like, twice my age?" Stiles offered, smiling a bit as the younger Peter visibly suppressed a wince. He studied the man for a long moment: this Peter had his own problems, sure, but he couldn't even imagine a fraction of what Stiles' Peter had survived. And even though Stiles was a handful of years younger than him, Stiles still felt like this Peter really was… young. "Dude, I don't know what to tell you. We didn't start off on the right foot and you made it difficult to trust you, but I think at one point I realized… I realized I was it for you. And, well, I have my own jagged edges, you know? We've always worked together well and once I knew—I decided you were it for me too."
Peter's ears were pink and he was watching Stiles with an unexpectedly open expression. "That's… surprisingly romantic."
"Hey, this"—Stiles gestured between them, smirking—"isn't just you being my sugar daddy, you know."
Peter cleared his throat. "It doesn't hurt, though, right?"
"Nah," Stiles said, "it doesn't hurt." He waggled his eyebrows and Peter laughed, light and open.
"You're… very much not what I expected," he said, finally. "But I think I can see it."
"Glad to have your approval," Stiles said dryly, making Peter smile before he changed the subject.
"Have you eaten? Should we order something?"
"Yeah, I mean, you know your own taste," Stiles said, waving a hand lazily and glancing up as the shower stopped. "Peter'll know what I want, you can ask him. Oh, you have spare clothes that aren't yours, right? He'll be pissy as hell if I have to wear yours."
"Aren't we technically the same person?"
"You try that argument, I'll wait," Stiles said, raising his eyebrows, and Peter grinned at him.
"You're right, it's probably the smell," he admitted. "Even I can tell we're not quite the same. I think I've got some new stuff in the guest room—here."
Stiles followed him out to the guest room and quickly picked out an outfit from the clothes Peter indicated. A moment later his own Peter joined them; he was wearing just a towel, using another to dry his hair, and Stiles gave him an appreciative once-over that doubled as a check to see his wounds were mostly healed.
They were. Even the bullet wound to his hip had healed to just a faint red mark that would be entirely gone by the morning.
"Why hello, sweetheart," his Peter said, stepping into Stiles' personal space and rumbling pleasantly as he scent-marked him thoroughly; after a few seconds, though, Stiles pushed him away.
"I'm literally about to wash, you can mark me up again later."
"Oh?" Peter said flirtatiously, leaning in, "I can mark you up, can I?"
"We have an audience," Stiles reminded him, "so unless you want everyone to think you have an exhibitionist steak…"
"Please don't," the younger Peter added, an unreadable look on his face as Stiles gave him a brief smile. "At least wait until I'm not here."
"Yeah, Peter," Stiles said pointedly, and his Peter sighed and pressed his nose to the edge of his hairline behind Stiles' ear, inhaling deeply, before he pulled away.
"Very well, I'll cede to the majority," he said. "Now, you should have some clothes for me?"
Stiles decided to leave them to it as he headed for the shower. Peter's apartment had a guest shower to go with the guest bedroom, which at least saved them from breaching his personal den, but Stiles had only ever used the ensuite when he stayed over. It had probably been a sign that he should have noticed from the start—but then, Stiles would never peg himself as someone quick on the emotional uptake.
He undressed and hopped in the shower, the mirror fogged from Peter's own. The hot water pounded down on his skin and Stiles let out a breath in a heavy sigh. Of course Peter would blame the Nemeton for throwing them here, and Stiles wouldn't deny it its culpability, but Stiles had caused this too. He'd been warned, he'd known better, and he'd still overreached in panic rather than draw further down into himself.
What was a Spark, in essence? Stiles was technically a being of magic, but he still found himself clinging to his human limitations, to the barriers and expectations of his own mind telling him he wasn't good enough. It was Deaton's voice, it was Scott's, it was Stiles' own; it was the futile hope that he wouldn't become what he feared most.
But it hadn't been the Nogitsune he'd been afraid of, not really. It'd been the power that he held, the power Stiles had been left with. It had been himself, and everything he could do with it.
The past eight months (and had it really been that long? It felt both too long and not long enough) had helped. Stiles was hardly going to condemn Peter for killing people who wanted to kill them, and Peter was only ever pleased—verging on delighted—when Stiles did the same. But a few months spent learning about his magic and how to use it didn't erase the last three years, and Stiles knew he needed to get over himself.
He especially had to now, here. If some things were the same he was going to guess some others were, too, and digging the Nogitsune out from the Nemeton's roots was going to test him immensely if he didn't have a proper grasp on his magic and capabilities as a Spark.
Stiles sighed again as he finished washing himself off, turning off the hot water as he grabbed for one of the spare towels. The spare clothes the younger Peter had offered him were incredibly generic—sweatpants and a t-shirt—and hung a little large on Stiles, but at least they should be scentless enough not to give his Peter hives.
Both Peters were in the open-plan living room when Stiles came out, and their food delivery had apparently come and gone while Stiles was brooding in the shower; one of them had unpacked the pasta they'd gotten onto Peter's nice ceramic plates. Stiles meandered over to behind where his Peter was sitting on the couch, and wrapped his arms around his shoulders as he leaned down behind him to press their cheeks together, letting his eyes close for a moment as he breathed him in. The Peter he knew was sharper and grayer and harder, and yet somehow was the person absolutely suited for Stiles; it was strange how well they worked, but Stiles couldn't imagine them being any other way.
Peter tipped his head, rubbing their cheeks together, his scruff rough against Stiles' skin as he hummed in pleasure. "Hello, beautiful."
"Hey yourself," Stiles said, smiling a little, and manfully ignored Peter's little moue of displeasure as he pulled back to grab his plate and a fork. "Fill me in. Any luck?"
"Mm, unfortunately my other self has no more books on the Nemeton that you haven't seen already," Peter said. As Stiles came back into his vicinity he tugged on the t-shirt Stiles was wearing and drew him down beside himself on the couch. "I've just been reading this history from his grandmother's time—around World War 2."
Stiles pulled a face and Peter shared a faint grimace with him. "I know, sweetheart, but I'm sure you've realized…"
"Yeah," Stiles said, "I know. Have you mentioned—"
"Well, I could, but then…"
"Fair enough," Stiles acquiesced, starting into his pasta, and glanced up at the other Peter, who watching them both like they were a show he wasn't sure he liked or not. "Hey, what's your policy on killing people for things that haven't happened yet?"
The younger Peter gave him a slightly incredulous look. "…What?"
"I mean, I'm sure they've already done some heinous shit," Stiles added, "but I'm not sure I can be bothered redoing all the research—though I guess we'll be here a week or so at least…" He glanced at his Peter and they exchanged a half-shrug. "I just wanted to hear your opinion. I mean, I know what my Peter thinks."
"…I suppose it's fine with you?" The younger Peter considered them both. "Personally, I wouldn't… not condone it. But Talia wouldn't like it."
"Mm, I thought so," Stiles said, and heaved a sigh. "Great. Well, what she doesn't know won't hurt her."
His Peter chuckled, but the younger Peter frowned a little, eyebrows drawing together. "I'm reporting to her, you realize."
"Which is why you're going to give us some space and time alone," Stiles' Peter said authoritatively. He raised his eyebrows a little. "After all, you don't really want to hear what we get up to, do you?"
"By which you mean…?"
"Don't threaten him," Stiles chided, picking some of the rapidly cooling pasta off his Peter's plate. "But Peter's right, just tell your sister we're—"
"Making love," his Peter said.
"—fucking," Stiles finished. "Very loudly. Very kinkily. Whatever gets her to back off because it's awkward."
"And we probably will be," Stiles' Peter added, "so it won't even be a lie."
"…Do you really have to have sex in the guest room of my apartment?" the younger Peter said, wrinkling his nose. "It's going to reek in here."
"You're being very accommodating?" Stiles offered, batting his eyelashes at him in the way that always made Peter cave; the younger Peter's expression shifted as he eyed Stiles with visible trepidation.
"…You are our guests at the moment," he said finally. "It would be bad diplomacy to make you take it to a hotel—no matter how much you should be."
"Your sacrifice is appreciated," Stiles' Peter said warmly, an incredibly smarmy smile on his face. Stiles elbowed him and they both smirked at each other before turning back to finish off their food.
Stiles' Peter kept the conversation light after that, sharing noncommittal details about their own life that Stiles was sure the younger Peter was hoarding, just as they both kept every detail about the current time period he shared in mind. It turned out they were basically on target with a week; Talia had been in conversation with Deucalion and he was planning on having a peace treaty meeting with Gerard Argent very soon. It must have helped her acceptance of the story Peter told about Derek and Paige, knowing the number of Alphas that were going to be running around Beacon Hills, and Stiles wondered if she'd ask them which Alpha Derek had gone to in the end.
Of course, for all that the peace meeting had ended up in blood and death, it was an easy enough problem to solve: bring a camera or voice recorder, wait until Gerard gassed all his hunter allies, then kill him dead. Considering just how long Gerard had haunted them Stiles was going to give Peter that death as a freebie, for all that he wanted to kick that old man's teeth in himself. Kate would require tracking down, but Stiles had faith in their ability to find her—if they were very lucky, Gerard's timely death would bring her to town.
There were still some questions that the younger Peter wouldn't even know to answer, though, ones that they'd have to find out themselves. For one, Stiles had started to wonder when, exactly, the Nemeton had been cut down—was this universe special in that the Nemeton was still standing, or had it actually been flourishing when Talia had erased Peter and Derek's memories of hiding in the root cellar underneath it? Had it been cut down before or after the fire? Gerard Argent had been weirdly obsessed with the Nemetons, and Stiles wouldn't put it past him to chop one down and think it dead and gone, but had they waited for the Hales to die before trying or had it been done years before?
Of course, most of this was more relevant to their own universe than this one. Stiles helped the younger Peter with the dishes and then they shooed him away—luckily, Peter was scheduled for patrol. "Keep it to the bedroom or I'll kill you," he promised them darkly, and Stiles laughed and gave his Peter the sloppiest kiss he could manage until the younger Peter, incredibly exasperated, left out the front door.
"He's gone?" Stiles said, still catching his breath as Peter's claws pricked his hip.
"He's gone," Peter agreed, kissing him again, and they gave each other slightly amused smiles as they headed back to the spare room. The king-sized bed was nice, but not as nice as the master; just like the sheets and the bathroom and the lube.
"This has made me really homesick," Stiles said, flopping back onto the bed and propping himself up by his elbows as Peter followed him. "I didn't even stay over that much but wow, I miss your stupid penthouse and stupid cars—"
"Don't think I've forgotten you calling them a mid-life crisis," Peter half-growled, hands sliding under Stiles' shirt and pulling it off in a smooth tug. "You brat."
"Creeperwolf," Stiles teased back, grinning, then sobered a little. "Seriously, isn't this weird for you? Talia, the rest of your family… I mean, you weren't that close, but…"
"We were close enough," Peter agreed. "It's… a surprise, to see them again."
"Feels complicated?" Stiles wondered.
"Feels complicated," Peter echoed. "Now am I fucking you or not?"
"I don't know, are you?" Stiles tugged at Peter's t-shirt and Peter agreeably got undressed as Stiles kicked off his borrowed pants. "C'mon, old man, show me what you've got. You didn't get shot too many times today, did you?"
"That was today, wasn't it?" Peter grimaced faintly before pushing Stiles back on the bed, caging him in with his arms. "You didn't expend too much magic tossing us through dimensions, did you?"
"Fuck, you're never gonna let that go, are you?" Stiles said, and Peter gave him an incredulous look.
"Sweetheart, you know me better than that."
"Yeah," Stiles said, resigned. "I do."
Peter kissed him then, languidly and thoroughly, and Stiles buried his hands in Peter's hair and let himself enjoy it. Peter was a generous lover and Stiles never had any complaints; it certainly made a change from Stiles' earlier fumbles with Malia and Lydia and, after they'd broken up, with the small handful of people he'd picked up at the Jungle. Peter being good at this was something he had expected; what he hadn't was the sheer care Peter took with him, the emotion he barely bothered to hide that marked him as thoroughly as he marked Stiles. Sometimes when Stiles kissed him, or when he felt that surge of warm emotion that came easier and faster every time, Peter would get this look on his face: surprise that veered on gratitude, a gentleness that surpassed disbelief. After the first time, Stiles had made it his goal to have Peter look at him like that again, and again; and, as if he read Stiles' mind, Peter obliged.
They showered together after, squeezing in the stall and bumping elbows, and then, relaxed and content, scrounged for water and snacks in the kitchen.
"So," Stiles said, leaning against the kitchen counter and watching Peter plate up a charcuterie board, "we're doing the Nogitsune first, right?"
"It's probably best, if you can." Peter tugged him into a half-hug and Stiles pressed his nose to Peter's shoulder, breathing him in. "Or we can leave it, sweetheart. They won't know any better. We could even warn them if you feel so inclined."
"When are they gonna find a better person to get him out than a visiting Spark?" Stiles scoffed, shaking his head. "No. I'll do it. And, I mean, I hate to do it Scott's way, but as long as he's pointed in a different direction…"
Peter shook his head. "We don't hunt down all the wendigos in the world, just the ones who hunt in our territory. That doesn't make you like Scott."
"…Yeah," Stiles conceded. "And then…"
"Gerard, of course. I'll tear off his head myself."
"And Kate."
"And Kate," Peter agreed. "Unfortunately, we'll probably be saving Deucalion."
"I can't believe he was actually a good guy?" Stiles said doubtfully. "It's hard to think he was so naïve."
"His logic in the whole process was rather lacking. But we've gotten our revenge."
"Yeah," Stiles said, letting his breath out in a sigh.
"And we can't micromanage their future for them," Peter reminded him, briefly pulling away to pack his charcuterie accoutrements away.
"So the rest'll be up to them?"
"Yes, it'll be theirs to handle." Returning to his side, Peter's arms closed around Stiles, holding him tight, and then he lifted him as easily as air. Stiles threw his arms around Peter's neck and wrapped his legs around his waist, clinging to him like a koala as Peter took him to the couch, holding Stiles in one arm and their snacks with the other. "Let's see what my grandmother has to say about the Nogitsune."
Stiles scrunched his nose against Peter's hairline. "Think she even knew about it?"
"No, not really. But who knows, we might be surprised."
"Oh, great, surprise! Because that's always worked out so well for us."
"Well, what's the worst she could say?" Peter said philosophically. "We've already been through the worst case scenario; you'll do better this time."
"…Thanks, I guess," Stiles said. "All right, pass me the book, let's see what we've got."
~
It wasn't until the next evening that Stiles and Peter made it to the Nemeton again, this trip featuring Alan Deaton's persistent disapproval. "I mean, you don't have to be here," Stiles said, not for the first time, as Deaton watched him with silent reproach. "You know that, right?"
"Alpha Hale wishes you to be supervised," Deaton said clearly. "And I trust her judgment."
"Sure, sure," Stiles said, "well, just… stay over there. Please."
He gestured to the far edge of the clearing, and Peter gave Deaton a cool, faint smile until he followed him away from the Nemeton's trunk. It was strange for Stiles to settle himself by the edge of the Nemeton when he was so used to seeing it cut down; he would never forget the immensity of their own Nemeton, the vast width of its stump. Alive, this tree was no less wide but felt—more rooted, more stable, a slow-growing thing, and as Stiles set his hands on the tree and closed his eyes, he could feel it reach back.
The Nogitsune's influence was a dark, void-like stain, a black spot on the sun of the Nemeton's magic. The Nemeton didn't want it there; it was siphoning the Nemeton's power through the mere fact of its existence, a blight the Nemeton had trapped because there was no other way to stop its infection. And the Nogitsune himself—Stiles knew him intimately, of course. At one point they'd been entwined with each other, Stiles keeping him trapped as he sought to free himself, playing Go against each other in the void. At one point the Nogitsune had enough power to create a new body and shoved Stiles into it—alive and undamaged, as much as he could be, and less than a day later his original body had turned into nothing but dust.
So what did the Nogitsune want? He was a void kitsune, a chaos demon; he fed on pain and strife and chaos and he so deeply hated this place that had trapped him, the same way a prisoner would hate its jail. But more than that, he hated Noshiko who had trapped him here, who had betrayed him when he had given her exactly what she wanted; she had broken their contract in return simply because she didn't like the shape of his fulfillment of her revenge.
If Stiles set him free, there was every chance the Nogitsune would go after Noshiko first. Revenge was a different beast to self-defense and much harder for Stiles to countenance, but it didn't mean he didn't understand. Peter had gone after Kate and her accomplices as soon as he had woken, half-feral and mind fixated, and Stiles didn't begrudge him those deaths, the murders of people who the justice system would give a slap on the wrist at most. And even here, in this new world, Kate and Gerard Argent were dangers Stiles couldn't fathom leaving for these people to deal with without warning; just because they were probably going to let Gerard attack Deucalion to prove he was a danger didn't mean Stiles would reject a more quiet assassination if it was necessary. The Nogitsune's vendetta against Noshiko was a crisis of her own making, and as long as he didn't hurt Kira or the Hales, as long as he left Beacon Hills alone—
Yeah. Stiles was willing to make that deal.
He reached out and touched that cold, empty void—familiar in the way it resonated with him. The Nogitsune startled; Stiles could feel his calculation as it overtook his surprise. As the Nogitsune started to pull something together—a plea, a trick, a puzzle—Stiles instead sent it the encapsulation of his desires. That he would offer the Nogitsune freedom, for a deal; that he would leave and focus his revenge, that he wouldn't catch Beacon Hills or Kira in the crossfire.
The Nogitsune stilled. He thought, And you would trust a deal made with this kitsune, knowing why I was imprisoned here?
Stiles thought back, I would trust a deal made with you because of why you were imprisoned here.
The messages they shared were more concepts than words, and Stiles' had his understanding of the Nogitsune woven through, his empathy and his knowledge, with the slight edge of his tempered and tightly contained fear.
The Nogitsune considered his offer.
You know me, Spark?
Yeah. In another life.
The moment lingered. An interminable time later, the Nogitsune said, Very well. Then let us discuss the terms of our deal.
Peter would tell him it took more than five hours, in the end. But all it took was Stiles sending a bare thread of power to the Nogitsune, the Nemeton stopping its confinement for a fraction of a moment—just long enough for the jar holding the Nogitsune to break.
Stiles opened his eyes with a heavy sigh. His muscles burned with exertion despite the fact that he'd just been sitting still.
A fly buzzed by Stiles' nose. Stiles looked at it cross-eyed for a moment, until it buzzed again and flew away.
Then, Stiles met Peter's gaze across the clearing. Even at this distance, he could see the weight of relief in Peter as Stiles nodded in confirmation. "It's fine," Stiles said out loud, his voice rough. He cleared his throat. "I think we can go?"
"What did you do?" Deaton asked, watching him with narrow eyes. "Something has changed."
"Just helped your Nemeton out," Stiles said. He patted the trunk and the Nemeton offered him a sliver of gratitude that was so forceful it nearly overwhelmed him. "We're good now."
Peter was there to offer Stiles a hand up, and Stiles braced against him as he tried to stretch out his legs. "Good work," he said warmly, "I knew you could do it, sweetheart."
"Yeah," Stiles said, wryly, "thanks for believing in me."
Peter smiled. "I always will."
They still had to decide on their next moves as the pack summit met, as the town flooded with werewolves and Deucalion and Gerard made their plans. Stiles still had spells to prepare to ensure Peter would survive anything they could throw at him.
But for tonight, Stiles and Peter would go to bed. And maybe they'd sleep in tomorrow.
~
They spent the next few days not doing anything in particular. Stiles and Peter went to some old favorite restaurants that had closed or changed hands, Peter's favorite pizza place and a cafe Stiles used to go to with his mom, while they tested out Stiles' attention-diverting charms until they were completely foolproof. Talia and Peter kept them largely at arms-length, but they were both busy with the pack summit and the numerous Alphas wandering around, Ennis in particular raring for a fight. And the hunters, too—Stiles and Peter kept a sharp eye out for Gerard and his crew.
They met with Talia once at the house, either a bribe or a test for Peter, who watched their pack with barely suppressed hunger in his eyes. He quietly pointed everyone out to Stiles, his sister Olivia and her wife Ana and their boys, both werewolves; his brother Adam and his human wife and daughter. Stiles caught a glimpse of Cora, tiny the way he'd barely remembered her from elementary school, and Derek as a shy, cheerful teenager, and immediately knew they wouldn't come back here again.
He was almost glad they hadn't appeared a year earlier, that there was no chance of seeing his mother again, wasting away in a hospital bed as her dementia ate her alive. It might have just hurt worse in the end. But Peter was stronger than him; he didn't show any of the conflict he must have felt on his face, though that evening, he pressed his face to Stiles' hair and held him tight.
The next day, the younger Peter told them about Deucalion's peace treaty meeting—how he and Talia hadn't managed to convince him to call it off. Stiles exchanged a glance and a shrug with his Peter and the younger Peter gave them a sharp look.
"Are you going to interfere? Don't do anything I wouldn't do."
"That's quite permissive," Stiles' Peter said, smirking back. "After all, it could be argued that I am you."
"That's debatable," the younger Peter retorted.
"Don't worry," Stiles said reassuringly, "we won't get caught unless we want to."
"…And that's not reassuring at all," the younger Peter said, eyebrows raised a little. "Should I have pushed harder to get it called off?"
"Nah," Stiles said, "it's fine. We'll sort it out."
The younger Peter's mouth twitched slightly and he shook his head, releasing a sigh. "Just keep me out of it."
"It'll be fine," Stiles' Peter said, "…though you might want to listen out for signs of a fight."
"Great," the younger Peter said. "I'll tell Talia, I suppose. And you won't be anywhere near it?"
"You won't see us," Stiles agreed. The younger Peter gave him a pointed look that said exactly what he thought of that statement, but he left them to their own devices. And, well, they had somewhere to be.
~
There was something to be said about the moment just before a fight.
Stiles leant against a support beam in the abandoned distillery, watching one dead werewolf try to talk to one dead hunter about peace. His scent- and attention-blocking charms held up, as they did for Peter, who was mixed in with the small group of werewolves behind Deucalion. Maybe Stiles would never get the thrill Peter did from getting his claws dirty, from warm blood splattering his hands, but just as Stiles had gotten used to being threatened and chased around and hurt he'd gotten used to this, too.
Hunting. Peter liked to call it the predator's instinct. Stiles liked to call it Peter's bloodlust rubbing off on him.
They waited and watched as Deucalion said his piece. They kept still as Gerard smiled and stepped toward the gas valve handwheel.
A second later, smoke started pouring out of the pipes in the distillery, filling the space with a gray, steamy haze. "Hey!" Stiles suddenly shouted, raising his voice over everyone's shocked exclamations and starting toward Gerard. "Are you trying to kill us?"
"It's wolfsbane!" Peter said, just as loudly, and barrelled at Gerard, throwing him straight to the ground.
Gerard's blood splattered. Peter howled. Stiles leant his weight on the handwheel and spun it closed as the wolves and hunters both tried to fight through the aerosolized wolfsbane. Then, Stiles met Peter's glowing red eyes through the fog and held out his arms; Peter scooped him up and they were out through the doors before the gas cleared.
Peter kept running until they were well-clear of the distillery, and only let Stiles down once they had reached the carpark closest to town. After wobbling on his feet slightly as his balance reoriented to flat ground, Stiles started patting Peter down. "You're all right? You didn't breathe anything in, did you?"
"Your protections worked a charm," Peter said warmly. "I'm fine. See?"
He pulled out a handkerchief to wipe the blood off his hands, showing Stiles his undamaged claws. Stiles let out a sigh of relief.
"Okay, okay, good. You got him?"
"Oh, yes," Peter said, smirking with pleasure. "Gerard Argent is very, very dead."
"Good. Good." Stiles' breath left him in a rush. "…So, lunch?"
"Sure." Peter smiled at him and opened the car door for him, then rounded it to take the driver's seat as Stiles slid inside. "Where do you have in mind?"
"Hmm. Well, after all that magic and murder… I'm feeling like curly fries."
"Your wish is my command," Peter said smoothly, turning onto the street that led back to town and Stiles' favorite diner.
An hour later Stiles had polished off his plate and Peter was still on his first cup of subpar coffee. They'd spent the time tossing ideas back and forth about what Deucalion might get up to in the future if he didn't fixate on power anymore—they ran the full gamut of ideas, though Peter's suggestion of 'full-shift seeing eye dog' amused Stiles the most. And meanwhile, Stiles had been ignoring the gradual, needling feeling that he should be back in the Preserve.
Peter caught onto his restless shifting with ease. "There's something?"
"…I think we should go to the Nemeton," Stiles said reluctantly. "It's pulling at me."
Peter's expression immediately grew concerned. "Then we should go," he said, rising to his feet and pulling a hundred out of his wallet to leave on the table. "Do you think it's time for us to leave?"
Stiles drew his lower lip between his teeth as they headed for the door. "Hard to say. I wouldn't say no?"
"I've left a letter for the Peter here at the apartment," Peter said, "so don't worry, if we leave they'll still have some warning."
"You wanted to kill her, though."
"Well, we still haven't managed to track her down in our world," Peter reminded him. "She's the one who I'm going to take my time with."
"You're such a bloodthirsty creep," Stiles said, rolling his eyes, but he was smiling despite himself as he hopped back in the car.
"All the better to seduce you, my dear."
"Just playing up the big bad wolf thing, huh? Okay. Let's go see what the tree wants."
It was hard to assign desires to a tree, let alone anything as old and fundamental as the Nemeton. Stiles had guessed theirs wanted to live; that this trip would be a catalyst to provide it with new life. It had always felt… not dead, but tainted, struggling, reaching out for anything that could help and bringing in all manner of enemies instead because it didn't care about human moral compasses or Stiles' fervent desire for Beacon Hills to be quiet and left alone. This Nemeton had been, while perhaps not thriving with the Nogitsune feeding off its energy as it trapped him, at least alive and surviving. And now it had a link to Stiles, one that it was using with great effect.
"So," Stiles said, as they walked through the forest, "if you had to pick—"
One moment they were in the woods; the next they were in the Nemeton's clearing, and Peter shoved Stiles so hard he went flying—barely managing to catch himself as he scraped his palms on the dirt. It was immediately clear why he had: a mountain ash circle enclosed Peter and standing right by the Nemeton holding a handsaw, his gaze fixed on Stiles, was Alan Deaton.
"Holy shit," Stiles blurted, "did we seriously push you so hard you went evil? Is that what this is?"
"'Evil'," Deaton repeated, coolly. "Of course you have such an inadequate understanding of the world, with that as your mate. This land was perfectly balanced before you came in here—before you did this!"
He gestured at the Nemeton. Stiles chanced a brief glance at it and saw the budding green of a new growth from the base of the trunk. It was obviously a gift for them.
"Perfectly balanced," Peter repeated, claws extended as he paced the bounds of his mountain ash cage. "I have to wonder. How do hunters fit in to your 'balance'?"
Deaton barely spared him a glance. Stiles' spark stirred under his skin. "They're human. They're not my concern."
"Wow," Stiles said, "That… you know, that explains a lot. I've gotta ask, though—by balance, you means the wolves and the Nemeton, yeah? Their strengths need to be 'balanced'?"
"Yes," Deaton said, "that's it. It's a pity." He reached down to his hip and pulled out a bag of what Stiles could only assume was some sort of poison—wolfsbane? Mistletoe? "You could have been directed, taught…" He sighed.
"Yeah, no," Stiles said, "dude, you had plenty of chances but you do not like me and the feeling's very mutual. Though now I'm thinking our instincts are amazing. How many times's it been, Peter?"
"Oh, plenty," Peter said, stilling as Stiles briefly caught his eye. "All the Argents."
"All the Argents," Stiles repeated, "and you can't forget Theo, and did I tell you about Matt? The kanima, too." As he talked, he used a thread of his spark—just small enough to slide under Deaton's notice—and wound it through the medallion around his neck. The spell it held was familiar, now, and Stiles was never going to mess it up again. "Oh, and Eichen House. Are we gonna tell Talia about that or…?"
"Unfortunately," Deaton said, "you won't be discussing anything with her," and he tossed the powder he was holding into the air toward him.
The moment suspended, like a crystal about to fall. A blink—and Stiles' magic surged and he was at Peter's side, already breaking the mountain ash line.
Peter leapt at Deaton with all the power of a fully enraged Alpha werewolf. Stiles could hear the pain in Peter's roar but an instant later it didn't matter: Alan Deaton was dead.
Peter was visible smoking as he ran back to Stiles' side. Stiles set his hands on Peter's face as Peter leaned in to check on him, Stiles' eyes sliding closed as he concentrated on what he could: clearing whatever Deaton had done from Peter's system.
Whatever it was prickled uncomfortably at Stiles' magic as he ran it through Peter's body, and Stiles could only be grateful he hadn't had the chance to be poisoned by it himself. The cleansing process must have been uncomfortably painful but, Stiles knew, Peter was first and foremost a survivor. He'd already lived through much worse and it took far too much damage to faze him now.
Peter was nuzzling against Stiles' palm when Stiles opened his eyes again, getting a glimpse of Peter's pale face before his werewolf healing finally started to kick in. "Thank you, sweetheart," Peter rumbled, pressing a kiss against Stiles' palm, and Stiles sighed. His hands were shaking as he pulled them away.
"Maybe let's have a few less surprise fights to the death," he said, "…oh, shit."
"Hmm?"
"What the hell are we going to tell Talia? We just killed her Emissary!"
Peter turned to look at the body he'd left. It was very dead. After that one mistake, Peter had gotten into the habit of doing a very thorough job. "…You said something about leaving?"
"…Yeah, I think the Nemeton wanted me to stop him, but it's ready for us to head back. You're saying—"
"Let's pick up one last present for this Peter," Peter said, "and then we can go home."
"…Home, huh?" Stiles repeated. Relief filled him. "Yeah, okay. Let's go home."
~
Peter Hale sighed as he stepped outside the mess of the abandoned distillery and what remained of Deucalion's supposed peace treaty. There had been nearly a dozen casualties but, frankly miraculously, no deaths apart from Gerard Argent, who had been killed by a mysterious werewolf none of the others remembered specifically—a clear sign of interference from their alternate universe visitors. Peter could only be vaguely and reluctantly grateful the alternate Peter hadn't put him on the hook for the murder; it would have been all too easy for him to frame 'Peter Hale'.
But then again, it was clear that whatever the alternate Peter and his Emissary wanted, it wasn't to harm the Hale Pack. Peter could only assume their approach was designed with that in mind.
Speaking of which…
Peter narrowed his eyes as the other Peter and his Stiles approached him. Even from a distance he could smell the scent of smoke and fresh blood not completely washed off, and Peter's mouth pulled into a frown as he took them in: the other Peter was looking a little pale, and his Stiles, a little tired.
Also, for some reason, the other Peter was holding a young coyote.
"Here," the other man said, and without any further warning, dropped the coyote in Peter's arms. Peter nearly fumbled the creature as he struggled to grasp it. "Malia, this is your father, Peter Hale. Peter, this is your daughter, Malia Tate. Tell Talia Corrine attacked her and her family and you need to protect her better. Ask her about the details, I'd love to know what she'll say but unfortunately, we're called to leave."
"…Already?" Peter said, glancing down at the coyote in his arms who did, indeed, smell a bit like a shifter, and then immediately filed that concerning realization away for later.
"Yeah," Stiles said. He smiled and waved at the coyote. "See you, Malia. Oh, and, uh, tell your sister sorry about Deaton. In our defense, he did try to kill us first."
"…Ah," Peter said.
"Yeah, so, have a good life, dude, thanks for putting us up."
"I left a letter for you in the guest room." The other Peter smirked and added, "Good luck."
"Yeah, good luck, watch out for hunters, don't die in a fire, and Malia, you be good, okay? Okay. Hopefully, we won't be seeing you, but it's been… fun."
Peter's coyote—Peter's daughter?—strained a little against his hold as Stiles and the other Peter walked away, but she settled when Peter placed a hand on her back. It was incredibly obvious why they'd left him with her now; Peter couldn't follow after them when he had what was clearly a young shifter, biologically related to him or not, to look after.
They disappeared into the trees. Peter smoothed his hand down Malia's head and sighed. "It's you and me now, Malia."
They'd said Talia would have answers for him, and Peter couldn't help but wonder what they were. How could he have a daughter without knowing—without anything in his memory that would reconcile with this reality of a coyote-shifter girl?
There was one possible answer which did stand out, particularly with Stiles' previous mention of Talia's claws.
It looked like neither of them would have a peaceful night tonight; not even once they got Deucalion's pack and Gerard's hunters mollified and sent away. Peter pressed his lips together and started towards the house. Talia wouldn't be happy with any of the news—but Peter wouldn't let her avoid his answers about this.
But perhaps it was the blessing of that older, harder Peter; perhaps it was the evidence that even if his world burned, he could find something good in the world, that he could find someone to love. Regardless, with their enemies dead in the water and ample warnings from the future, Peter would let himself feel a little optimistic it would work out.
~
It was a warm day in early March when Peter stopped by the house again for a meeting with Talia. They hadn't really improved much; Talia was still overbearing and interfering, but at least now Peter could just raise an eyebrow and say, "Malia," to stop her in her tracks.
(He could still hear that alternate universe self of his: "Be thankful you can complain about her at all." What a depressing thought.)
It was a school day, so Peter was in the kitchen watching with amusement as the kids poured in in the late afternoon. There were Olivia's two, teenagers now, shoving at each other and flashing their eyes; there was Talia's youngest, Sara, chattering excitedly at Derek, who must have finished early to pick her up. Cora, in her last year at high school, took her time coming back, walking through the door mid-conversation with—
Oh. Oh.
Peter's nostrils flared as his gaze landed on Cora's friend. He would recognize that boy anywhere, that messy brown hair and cheeky smile and wide brown eyes, those plush lips half-opening in surprise, and that scent…
"Hello," Peter said smoothly, coming to a stop in front of him and holding out his hand, "we haven't met, have we? I'm Peter Hale, Cora's uncle."
"Uh. Wow. I'm Stiles. Stiles Stilinski," Stiles blurted, his scent sweetened with attraction and arousal as he gave Peter his hand. Peter smirked at him flirtatiously and, instead of shaking it, brought it to his lips to brush a kiss over his knuckles. Stiles turned beet red.
Cora made a gagging sound. "Uncle Peter!"
"I'm just introducing myself," Peter said, smiling warmly at Stiles, who seemed shell-shocked by Peter's charm offensive. "It's a delight to meet you, Stiles. In fact, I'd love to get to know you better—"
Talia audibly cleared her throat from the other side of the room.
"—you are eighteen, yes?" Peter finished, instead of what he was going to say.
"…Yeah," Stiles said, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, "yeah, I'm—I'm eighteen."
"Perfect," Peter said, his thumb rubbing small circles into Stiles' wrist. "Now, Cora has my number, and I do think you're resourceful enough to get it from her, hmm?"
"I—yeah," Stiles managed. "I can do that."
"Excellent, sweetheart," Peter said, pressing his thumb against Stiles' wrist one last time before he reluctantly let him go, and Stiles swayed towards him a little, his eyes stuck to Peter's face. It was a boost to Peter's ego, not that he needed one, but he could already feel Talia's pointed judgment mounting. "Then I'll look forward to hearing from you."
"Yeah," Stiles repeated, eyes bright as if Peter were the only thing that mattered. "I'll definitely see you again."
Peter gracefully bowed out just in time to interrupt Talia on the approach. She gave him a sharp look and Peter raised his eyebrows at her, and after a moment, she sighed. "He's in high school."
"He's eighteen," Peter countered.
"…At least wait until he's graduated?" Talia said, grimacing slightly. "He's really…?"
Peter knew exactly what she meant. When they'd been visited by the pair from another dimension it had been both brief and profound; and most notably, it had been immediately apparent their scents had been so intertwined they had to be mates.
That Stiles wasn't this Stiles, of course. That Stiles had been hardened by whatever traumatic backstory everyone in that universe seemed to have in spades, had been a beautiful boy grown into a beautiful man but one whose sharp edges and darkness were a perfect fit for that Peter, a much harder and darker man than Peter himself. This Stiles, though… he smelled like potential—a boy with edges, yes, but not hardened into diamond; one who was malleable enough to fit with Peter's own.
"Why didn't you tell me your uncle was smoking hot?!" Stiles was whispering to Cora as they headed upstairs, perfectly audible to werewolf ears. "Holy shit. Was he flirting with me? He was flirting with me, wasn't he?"
"Why would I tell you? Ugh, he is such a creep—oh my god, you're actually into him?!"
"Cora, that man is the most perfect specimen I have ever seen and yes, that includes Derek, I know he was my bi awakening but you've gotta let it go—"
"That's my uncle you're talking about, Stilinski."
"Your incredibly hot, super flirtatious uncle—"
"Yes," Peter said, after a moment, "he's my mate."
Cora let out a heavy groan that showed she'd been eavesdropping on them as much as he'd been on her; Peter didn't bother to repress his smirk. "That's Malia's dad you're talking about."
"Malia's—? Hi Malia! Um, sorry your dad is hot? I think he was flirting with me? If I marry him am I gonna be your stepdad?"
"…I guess?" Malia said after a moment, sounding vaguely bemused. "Are you getting married?"
"I mean, I want to? Do you think he'd say yes?"
"Welcome to the family," Cora added dryly, and Peter let the sound of their laughter fade as he focused back on Talia, watching him with thoughtful eyes.
"Well, I'll leave dealing with the Sheriff to you," she said, with more than a little schadenfreude.
"Wait, the Sheriff?"
"Sheriff Stilinski? Stiles' father?" Talia prompted him, raising her eyebrows and clapping him on the shoulder as she moved to leave. "Good luck, little brother."
"…Ah, fuck," Peter muttered, closing his eyes and taking a deep, settling breath.
After all, this Stiles wasn't some fey, enticing creature come to his world to create as many problems as he solved; no, he was a teenager with a history and a family and an apparent friendship with Peter's daughter and Peter's niece. But Peter, too, wasn't a nearly-packless Alpha on a revenge spree; he had his family and pack, a career as a lawyer and his duty as the Left Hand.
But they had the chance to grow in to each other the same way the other Stiles and Peter had, for Stiles to leave his mark across Peter's apartment and in his bed, for their scents to intertwine until they were nearly indistinguishable. Peter had had just a glimpse of that life, of that possible future, and he wanted it.
And what Peter wanted, Peter got.
He let his breath out in a long exhale and listened for Stiles and Cora—working on a history project in Cora's room. Peter glanced around, spotted the kitchen, and decided to bring some drinks up for them. It wouldn't be good to let them get too complacent without him, after all.
And if he could flirt with Stiles some more, well. Peter was excellent at taking advantage of all available opportunities, and he wasn't letting this one go.
Stiles would be his. Peter was looking forward to it.