Archive of Our Own ^beta

He hasn't slept in three days. The walls of his room are covered in photographs, newspaper articles, reports, graphs, maps and strings. So many strings. Red, green, blue, yellow, tying everything together.

Yet, nothing makes sense.

Staring at a picture of his dad, Stiles feels his heart pounding in his chest, knows that a panic attack is just a breath away, and brutally fights it back. With a shaking hand he reaches for a half-full can of Red Bull and drains it.

In one hour and seventeen minute, it will be seven days.

Seven days since someone or something took his dad, leaving no trace. For the first forty-eight hours there was an all-out manhunt. Every deputy in the county, half of the police force from two neighboring counties, searched tirelessly.

The FBI came into it in the fiftieth hour, Scott's dad leading the way. Even Braeden came back to help search for a couple days.

The hunt continued, but with no leads, gradually people began to pull away. Other crimes took precedent.

Now only Parrish and the Pack continue to search, and they're exhausted.

Stiles' only hope is that Lydia hasn't screamed.

Rubbing tired eyes, he takes out his phone and tries Derek again.

Voice mail is still full.

He loves Scott as his brother, but he's never been the best tracker. Malia and Liam aren't as good as he is, and even Mr. Argent hasn't had any luck finding a trace of the Sheriff's whereabouts, and Stiles knows he's used every hunter contact he still has.

Nothing. There's nothing.

It's like his dad just vanished into thin air.

Frustrated, Stiles tosses his phone onto his bed and follows it down. He doesn't want to sleep, fights it, but his body is no longer able to process the caffeine. He promises himself he'll just close his eyes for a couple of minutes.

Darkness flickers behind his eyelids, and he slips into it.

With a startled gasp, he comes awake, jerking up, whole body shaking. Stumbling from the bed, Stiles makes it into the bathroom before dropping to his knees and vomiting into the toilet.

A dream. It was a dream.

But, so damned real.

His dad...claw marks on his chest and shoulders, eyes empty, black bruises around his neck. Dead. Dead. Dead.

No....

Tears streaming down his cheeks, Stiles throws up again, bile and liquids. Stomach churning, shoulders shaking, he sobs until all he can do is curl up on the rug.

He's not sure how much time passes, but finally he drags himself up, rinses his mouth, and stumbles back into his room. With a trembling hand, he picks up his phone, but can't handle flicking it on.

He's human. He won't hear her scream.

He...doesn't want to know.

He has to know.

Finally, he finds the courage and turns on the phone.

There are no messages, no texts.

Relief floods him and he sinks down onto the edge of the bed. Just a dream.

Stiles isn't sure how long he sits there, but finally he realizes the last light of the setting sun is long gone. A glance at his watch shows him it's just past midnight. Over seven days now. One week.

He tries Derek again.

As he stares blankly at his phone, an image from his dream returns. Not of his dad, not from that part that forced him awake, but something earlier.

Blue eyes flashing. A cocky grin.

A memory.

'I was the best tracker in the Pack. Derek learned everything he knows from me, but I didn't share all my tricks.'

Peter.

Peter, whom he both hated and oddly liked in equal measure. He can never forgive him for the attack on Scott, but he also can't forget all the times they researched together, how easily they fell into working together, how Peter just seemed to get him.

And respect his mind.

Most people, even sometimes Scott, discount his intelligence.

Not his dad, though, and not Peter.

Twenty minutes later, showered and in clean clothes, Stiles opens his dad's gun safe and takes out his back-up piece. Carefully he checks it, then loads the magazine and slams it home. Safety on, because with his luck he'd shoot himself in the ass, he slips it in the back of his jeans and tugs his red hoodie down over it. Phone in his pocket, duffel bag loaded with supplies in hand, determination on his face, he leaves the house and gets in his jeep.

On the drive to Eichen House, Stiles goes over blueprints and guard schedules in his head. No one else was concerned about Peter possibly escaping, but that made no sense to Stiles. The guy came back from the dead! Anything was possible.

So, he learned all the secrets of the supernatural prison, just so he could make sure Peter never escaped, because even if there were times he liked the guy, he had never completely trusted him.

In the end, Peter proved he was still a psychotic killer and Stiles felt barely a pang of any emotion other than anger and hate when he was locked away. The only times he thought about him were when he was making sure he couldn't escape.

Or when he remembered how easily they worked together to figure shit out.

But, that's one of the reasons Peter may be the only one who can help him now when all everyone else has done is run into dead ends and find no clues.

Stiles has to trust that Scott can take care of himself. In the end, no matter how much he loves his brother, his dad is his world.

If Peter can find him, he'll deal with the guilt over setting him free later.

He'll deal with whatever Peter will want of him, too.

A half mile or so from the gates, he turns onto a rutted track that leads into the edge of the Preserve. Right before the forest begins, he cuts across a ditch, wincing at the scrape of thick bracken on the underside of the jeep. Shifting into high gear, he climbs the other side and into a meadow. Wildflowers and grasses are waist high in places, so he edges along the woods where the undergrowth is lower, silently praying the engine doesn't stall.

If it does and he has to abandon the jeep, Peter can take them into the forest, and no one knows its secrets better than that wolf.

After a few minutes, Stiles stops the jeep and turns off the engine. Turning to the right he sees the high wall. Somewhere along that side is a hidden door.

For the first time ever, he's grateful for the memories the Nogitsune left behind.

Taking a deep breath, he gathers himself, then grabs the bag and leaves the jeep. The trek across the deep meadow takes twenty minutes before he reaches the wall. Once there, he closes his eyes for a moment and lets the memories come, then opens them again to move three paces to the left. He pushes on three separate stones. Repeats the process, and a small opening appears. Before he enters, Stiles takes three items from the bag, then slings it over his shoulder.

Pale light hits the wall and he glances up. Through a break in the clouds, the full moon gleams. This is either the best or worst time to attempt a break-out of the supernatural prison.

The one unknown is Peter's condition. Despite repeated attempts, he's never been allowed to see him.

With a shrug of his shoulders, Stiles slips onto the grounds of Eichen House. He looks at his watch, letting four minutes pass before moving forward towards a delivery entrance. The two guards that patrol are more efficient than one would expect for an asylum, and Stiles knows they're armed with more than simple batons for normal human patients who might escape. That actually helps with this, because they stick to routine patterns when moving around the grounds.

He also knows that in the fifty years since the basement level of cells was built for the supernatural, there have only been seven beings that made it outside. None made it to the outer walls. The last was over eight years ago. He hopes that means the guards, while efficient enough, will be relaxed as well.

Dropping into a crouch behind a low hedge row, he watches one of the guards stroll along a path fifteen or so feet in front of him. As soon as the man turns a corner and goes behind a tree, Stiles silently moves the other way and ends up a couple dozen feet from the entrance he's looking for, pressed against a another tree.

While the gardens and grounds are designed to be soothing, between them and the building is about twenty five feet of open space. The delivery area has a gravel drive and turnaround, two high garage doors and one regular door to their right. There's a spotlight above it, but he knows no one monitors the area during the night. Any ambulances or cars bringing patients go to the front.

Turning, Stiles tosses the small canister in his right hand fifty feet away, then does the same with the one in his left, throwing it so it lands well away from the first. As he silently counts, he takes the lanyard from his neck and fingers the keycard he swiped from Brunski the year before after Jordan shot him. Hacking into the servers soon after, he learned that the administration never noticed it was missing and, more importantly, never removed the card from the system.

It should work.

The first shrieking siren and smoke bomb goes off, quicky followed by the second, and as shouts ring out from the guards and around the front of the building, Stiles makes his move across the well-lit ground to the door.

A swipe of the card and he's in.

There's no one waiting for him and as he moves through the empty service corridors, he begins to hear the sounds of yelling, panicked patients, and barking of orderlies and doctors. There's a skeleton staff this time of night and that helps. Stiles evades everyone, heading unerringly to the secured door to the basement level most of the staff knows nothing about.

The card works there as well, and he makes his way silently down a set of stairs. Through another door with a convenient window, he sees that the orderly station is abandoned. Opening the door, he hears howls and roars from the corridor ahead, sees the one guard banging on a tempered glass wall and yelling at whatever is inside that cell to shut up.

There are usually three orderlies down here, but Stiles hoped that his distraction would draw at least two away, and he was right.

Now comes the hard part.

Looping the lanyard around his neck again, he takes out the gun and flicks off the safety, before holding it easily down at his side.

The one place he was never a flailing spaz was the gun range. His dad started taking him there when he was ten, and, still, once a week they spend a half hour or so there. Stiles knows guns.

He's just not sure he can use one on a person.

The guard has moved down a couple cells and is yelling at something else that's howling to be quiet. Unimaginative threats to tranq everyone are spewing from his mouth, and the noise from most of the cells blocks any sounds Stiles makes as he pads down the corridor, quickly glancing into each cell he passes.

No Peter.

But, nothing gives away his presence either, a few of the more human in appearance giving him intrigued looks. Pressed against the glass of one cell, Meredith gives him a smile and a thumbs up, and he wishes he could free her, too, but, as if she knows, she shakes her head and points to her left.

Of course she knows why he's here.

Lifting the gun, he crosses over to the guard and presses the muzzle to the nape of his neck.

A curse bursts from the man and he starts to turn.

"Don't move."

Stiles' voice is harsh and hard and hoarse, but the guard freezes.

"Peter Hale."

"Fuck you."

Snorting, he presses the muzzle harder into tender skin, then pulls it back and with all the strength gained from wielding a crosse and flinging balls into nets, he smashes the heaviest part of the gun across the man's hand.

He immediately goes to his knees and Stiles hits him again. The third blow across his temple sends him hard into the glass, causes blood to spurt above his eyebrow, and sends him unconscious.

There's no way to tell how long he'll be out, so Stiles keeps the gun in hand as he hurries farther down the corridor. Four cells on the left, he finally finds him.

Peter's standing a foot back from the glass, hands loose at his sides, a blank look on his face.

His hair is long and lank, his beard scraggly. The gray scrubs are faded with a couple small holes and his feet are bare. There's no recognition in his dulled eyes.

Damn.

Swallowing hard, Stiles uses the keycard on the panel to the right of the glass and a portion of it slides up.

"Peter?"

Cautiously he watches the werewolf, finger on the trigger of the gun. Slowly Peter tilts his head, lifts his nose, sniffs the air, then brilliant blue eyes lock on his.

"Stiles."

"Um, yeah. You in there?"

A smirk forms. "Thanks to you and your little band of do-gooders, where else would I be?"

"I meant mentally," Stiles snaps back. Yeah, the asshole's 'in there'.

"There's a lot of commotion. Did you do something naughty?"

"I need you to come with me." He gestures to the corridor with the gun.

"For more of the torture they call therapy? I don't think so."

"My dad's been missing for a week. No one can find him. You brag you were the best tracker in your Pack. Was that a lie?"

The smirk disappears as Peter strides out of the cell and heads towards the entrance. "No." He glances back once, lips twisted, eyes narrowed. "But, I'm not altruistic enough to help you for free."

"You get out, isn't that enough?" Stiles hurries after him, then past him to use the keycard to open the door, before peering cautiously out. Still no guards or orderlies.

"No."

Asshole.

But, Stiles knows he'll give him anything if he'll just help.

They encounter resistence on the way out, including two guards on the outer door Stiles used to gain entrance to the building, but Peter dispatches them, though not with ease. From one of the first ones, Stiles borrowed a taser which he uses on a couple more before they reach the outside.

One of his biggest worries about Peter was the wolfsbane pumped into his system. He was unable to access records to show a schedule of treatments. During their escape, Peter remains in human form, using his fists and feet to knock out their opposition. While thinner, he's obviously kept some of his conditioning and strength. His ears don't seem bothered by the alarms now sounding either.

Worried, but not enough to take the time to ask him anything, Stiles, gun still drawn, leads the way outside and across the now very lively grounds. No one has found the secret door in the outer wall, though, and they're through it without being seen. He has the keys to the jeep out before it comes into view and, as Peter settles next to him, he heads it across country to a little used dirt road heading out of the Preserve and parallel to and not crossing any roads leading to Eichen House. Stiles knows it dead-ends after a mile and a half, but there's only one more field to cross before they reach a county road.

They don't speak until they're on that road, Stiles driving the speed limit, going a circular way to Derek's loft.

He knows there's a chance he was recognized so going home is out, which is why the relevant research is in his backpack on the backseat.

As he drives, he fills Peter in, but doesn't ask what the wolf wants in return and Peter doesn't say anything, though it's clear he's listening.

Using the code he cracked easily enough to get into the underground garage, Stiles parks the jeep next to the covered camaro, and grabs everything for the trip to the elevator.

"Why didn't you ask Derek for help?"

Pushing the button, Stiles shoots him a questioning look, then realizes..."He left town. I can't reach him."

Peter's face closes down and he silently follows Stiles onto the elevator.

Derek never visited his uncle.

Wow.

The loft is dusty and smells stale. He's had a key since long before Derek left town, but has never used it. The power still works so someone's paying the bills, and he flips on the lights before heading to the table to spread everything out. As he looks up at Peter expectantly, he tries not to frown at the calculating look on the older man's face.

"Before we go any further, we need to discuss our deal."

A sour pit opens in Stiles' stomach, but he nods. Leaning back against the edge of the table, he crosses his arms over his chest. "Make it quick. We need to start searching."

"Stiles," Peter says softly. "You know the statistics better than anyone. The chances of your father being alive are very small."

Pain clenches at his heart. Of course he knows that, no matter how much he wants to deny it, but...but... "I need to know, one way or another. I need to know what happened. I need...closure." Voice dying away, he swipes a tired hand over his face. "What do you want, Peter?"

"What I've always wanted from that first moment in the long term care ward. You."

Stiles has always been majorly in denial over whatever weirdness might have been between the two sometimes and he gapes at him. "But...but you can't turn me! You're not an Alpha."

"That was never the bite I was offering you," Peter replies silkily, eyes dropping to Stiles' wrist.

An outraged noise bursts from Stiles and he automatically shakes his head. "You really are nuts!"

Peter snorts. "Of course I am. I was burned alive and trapped in agony as I healed for six years. Of course I lost my mind," he scoffs. "Being an Alpha brought me back to sanity. Losing it again..." He shakes his head. "I was hanging on by my fingertips. There are two options for a nearly feral Omega to return to sanity and wholeness. Becoming an Alpha or..." He gives Stiles an expectant look.

And, of course Stiles knows because research is his thing, and he knows what a bite on the wrist from a werewolf can do, but he nearly chokes on his breath spitting it out, because there's that need to deny again. "Taking a mate."

Peter grins and Stiles' stomach lurches. As he shakes his head in automatic denial again, the wolf moves forward and past him to pick up the t-shirt Stiles' dad wore to sleep in the night before he disappeared, and raises it to his nose. "What will it be Stiles? Do I go out and kill an Alpha?" The implication being, of course, Scott. "Or do I take a mate? A strong mate to anchor me."

There's no option there.

"We don't have time," Stiles mumbles, feeling numb all over, the exhaustion finally pushing aside the adrenaline that came from the break in and out of Eichen House.

"Of course we'll find your father first before we consummate the mating." Peter takes another deep whiff from the shirt and his brows furrow. "I'll take your word, sworn on your mother's name, your father's life. I'll know if you're lying."

Swallowing hard, Stiles nods, then mutters, "I swear, on my mother's name and my father's life, that I'll be...be your mate."

Jesus.

Peter nods in acceptance, then sets down the shirt and turns to him. "The two of you smell so much alike, especially now with the scent of gun oil on your fingers and I learned a year ago to filter out the medicinal scent that pervades your skin, but when you opened the door to my cell, your scent was both strong and faded, and I was momentarily confused until I smelled the shirt."

Stiles' brain goes into overdrive and he chokes on his breath. "He's in Eichen House?"

"The scent was faded," Peter cautions. "It's possible he's no longer there or that he's dead. It's even possible he was there before he disappeared to check on me or one of the other prisoners. I've been...a bit out of it. You picked a good night, Stiles. Over the last few days I've finally developed a tolerance to the wolfsbane poisoning my mind and body," he sneers.

"No, he told me the two times in the past year that he's gone there to check on someone, and both times it was in the regular ward. He's left the supernatural prisoners to Deaton and Argent," Stiles says quickly. "Fuck, why would he be there? He's human, completely human." His hands dig into his hair, pull as he spins around to look at all the evidence, trying to find something to connect his dad to Eichen House or... His heart stutters and his vision narrows. "We...we've suspected...There've been medical experiments on some new werewolves in town. We didn't connect them to Eichen, though."

"Did you tell your father about what's going on?"

"Yeah. Full disclosure to him was part of the deal to let me stay involved," Stiles stammers, flipping through papers, reaching for his phone, before he spins on Peter, panic filling him. "Was he there? Did I walk right past him?!"

Peter shakes his head. "No. The scent was at the end of the hall from the door you came through."

"So he was just five or six cells away from you?" Stiles shrieks. "Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck!" Spinning, he runs for the door, nearly tripping over the stairs. "We gotta go back now!"

"Stiles." Peter's loud, deep bark makes him stumble against the door, and, as he scrabbles for the handle, he realizes he's panting and crying. "Stiles," Peter says softer, from right behind him, and then there are hands on his shoulders, turning him, and he's crying against the psycho's shoulder. "You have to plan, gather the Pack, your dad's deputies, Deaton, even Argent." He growls the latter; Stiles feels the rumble against his chest. "At the end of that hall is a door that leads to a sub-level. None of the guards or orderlies go down there. They shove a prisoner through and that's it. I've seen maybe a half dozen disappear through there. None have come back."

"No," Stiles sobs, hands clutching at the back of the thin top Peter wears, fingers digging into muscles, as he shakes all over in horror.

All the while Peter's hands run soothingly over his own back, finally one rising to cup the back of his neck. "Take everyone and every weapon Argent has. Get a warrant if you can. I hope he's alive, Stiles," he murmurs against the top of his head. "But, either way, you'll know, and if they are doing experiments down there, stop them."

Stiles takes a few minutes to force himself under control before releasing his death grip on Peter and stepping back. While he's still trembling, it no longer feels like he's going to shatter into a million pieces. "Get cleaned up and changed if there are any clothes Derek left behind. There's a couple power bars in my backpack, so fuel up. I'm going to get a hold of Scott."

For the first time, Peter looks startled. "I'm not going with you. They'll just lock me away again!" He actually looks scared, too.

"I need everyone," Stiles replies, voice determined as he pulls his phone from his pocket.

"I'm not at full strength."

Ignoring his protests, Stiles starts typing a text. "I swore on my mother's name and my father's life I'll be your mate."

"Easy enough to ignore that once I'm in that fucking terrarium again!"

Lips tightening, Stiles shoots him a hard look. "My word, Peter!"

"Right, sure, and then you conveniently ignore Argent putting a wolfsbane bullet in my brain!" As he yells, he backs up, hands raised defensively, and it's so unlike him that Stiles angrily hits the send button before stuffing the phone back in his pocket and stalking down the steps and over to Peter. Wrapping his fingers in the loose, thin cotton shirt, he jerks the wolf into a kiss.

Peter stills in surprise and then just melts. Softening the kiss, Stiles presses against him and licks at his lips until they part. Their tongues tangle and the kiss deepens until they're both breathless. When he pulls back, he stares into wide blue eyes for a moment, before taking Peter's wrist and lifting it to his lips.

Taking a deep breath, Stiles bites down, breaking the skin, tasting blood, then murmurs, "I, Przemyslaw Janek Stiliniski, take Peter Matthias Hale as my sworn mate. Under the full moon I promise fidelity, trust, and companionship. To be his pack. To be his anchor. To be his everything." Slowly he lifts his eyes and, seeing the wonder in Peter's, lifts his own wrist to the wolf's mouth.

"You know the ritualistic words," Peter murmurs as his fangs distend. "You truly are a wonder, Stiles." And he bites.

He also doesn't stumble over the pronunciation of Stiles' ridiculous real name, either.

Creeper.

But, Stiles can't help but be impressed. Maybe Peter really had been thinking of this since their first meeting.

"Ten minutes and we're leaving, Peter."

"So, no time to consummate?"

Rolling his eyes at the amusement in his, Jesus, mate, Stiles stomps over to the table to gather what he needs. Peter disappears up the stairs and Stiles calls Parrish. Ten minutes later, he slings his backpack over his shoulders and hands Peter a power bar as they leave the loft.

"Good thing I left some of my clothes here. Derek's taste is incredibly dull." Though he managed to trim his goatee and find some product for his hair, the peacock. Pulling at the v-neck collar of the teal, long sleeved t-shirt, he makes a face. "I've lost muscle mass."

"Can you shift more than your fangs?" Stepping off the elevator, Stiles frowns at the bandage around his wrist, then over at Peter's where the bite has turned to faded scars.

Peter flashes his eyes and extends his claws. "Enough." As they get into the jeep and Stiles starts the engine, he asks, "Can I trust that you need my help enough that you won't let Scott or Argent or anyone try to kill me?"

There's a tiny part of Stiles that wants to get out of this deal by letting just that happen, but he knows better. While human, between his so-called spark and the Nogitsune possession, there's probably enough of the supernatural in him that he knows the risks to himself aren't worth it. Still, he doesn't want to think about that, so he just says, "The mating isn't complete until consummation. We don't have time for that now. To keep my word, you have to survive," he snaps because he's both scared of that...and intrigued.

Because, despite being a complete psycho who sided with the woman who killed his family, Peter's always intrigued him.

"It's probably a good thing we started the mating. I already feel stronger, more in control. Somehow you're forcing the residual wolfsbane from my mind."

"Good."

"Where are we going?"

"Scott's."

"Did you tell him about me?"

Stiles gives him a quick look before turning into Scott's neighborhood. "No. I'll explain that I needed your tracking ability--the truth. We don't tell him what you demanded in return. Not now."

"And if he goes for my throat or Argent for his gun?" Peter clips out.

"I'll stop him. I'll tell him the deal was you go free, that you won't go after him."

"And he'll believe you?"

"Yes, because Scott trusts me. He trusts that I'll do anything to protect him. I always have." He catches sight of Peter both frowning and nodding.

"And Argent?"

"Jeez, dog with a bone," Stiles mutters as he pulls into the driveway. There's a Sheriff's SUV and Lydia's car on the street and Deaton's VW bug behind Scott's bike. Taking a deep breath, he admits the full truth of what he knows about matings between werewolves or werewolves and humans touched by the supernatural. It's a closely guarded secret, but, really, very little is secret to Stiles. "Does he know what can happen to one mate if the other dies a violent, sudden death?" Ninety-five percent chance of death within weeks and, even though this is definitely not a love match, Stiles isn't willing to die, especially if his dad's alive.

"If any hunter families do, it's the Argents." He's obviously not pleased by that. It's a closely guarded secret because, in most cases, then all hunters would have to do is kill one mate to cause the other to die as well. Only half the muss and fuss. "Why am I not surprised you do?"

"So I'll take him aside and show him the bite. He'll probably want to kill you for that alone, but he won't." Stiles is sure about that. Even if Mr. Argent doesn't know, he'll believe Stiles.

Peter gives him a sour look, but follows him out of the car and up the walk. He's trying for nonchalant, but Stiles can tell he's on edge.

This is all moving so fast. There are so many things that can go wrong. He's exhausted and running on what little adrenaline is still flowing.

And he has to find his dad. Alive or dead, he has to find him, and that can't wait, because if he's alive, they could be hurting him. They could be torturing him. He can't...

Peter's hand wraps around the nape of his neck and Stiles realizes he was hyperventilating on Scott's doorstep.

"We'll find him."

It sounds like a promise.

Stiles knocks and opens the door.

Before they can even step inside, Scott barrels past him, launching himself at Peter and knocking them both over the railing and onto the lawn.

"What did you do to him?" he yells, punching Peter in the face twice before slamming his head into the ground. "What did you do to convince him to break you out?!"

"Jesus, Scott," Stiles yells, dumping his backpack and running down the steps to grab his best friend's shoulder. Scott growls at him and shrugs him off way too easily. "Stop it!"

Peter isn't fighting back, just covering his face the best he can. As Scott punches him in the stomach, Stiles tries again to grab him, only to get pulled back by Parrish who has his gun out and sent stumbling against Lydia and Kira as Liam growls from the porch and Deaton watches with his usual annoying detachment.

But it's Chris Argent who has just arrived and shoves the business end of a shotgun against Peter's temple who puts a momentary end to the violence.

Struggling free of the girls, Stiles yells 'no' as he flings himself onto Peter, one hand reaching up to grab the end of the rifle, the other pushing Scott away. "He found dad, he found dad!"

"He's lying to you Stiles," Scott barks in disgust as he rises to a crouch to grab Stiles' shoulders.

Stiles fights him and, to his relief Mr. Argent pulls the gun back to aim it at the ground.

"You can't trust him, Stiles," Argent points out at the same time Deaton asks, "How did you get him out of Eichen House?"

"My dad's there. He's there. Peter smelled him."

"He's lying," Scott stresses. "He's a lying murderer!"

"Stiles, I know you're desperate, but, come on. Get up," Parrish says a bit more gently. "We haven't given up on finding the Sheriff."

But, they have. They have.

Still sprawled across Peter, he meets his eyes and sees the resignation there and it makes him even more determined.

"This is going well," Peter murmurs. "Why should I have expected anything less?"

"Not helping," Stiles hisses before glaring back over his shoulder. "He's not lying because I gave him what he wants."

"His freedom," Lydia snaps. "Stiles, really!"

He flails his arm back at her, but it's Mr. Argent who grabs it and hauls him yelping to his feet. Narrowed eyes glower at the bandaged wrist as hard fingers push the gauze aside. Then, lips tightening into a hard line, he releases Stiles and steps back.

"You have faith in what he says that much?"

"...Yeah." Feeling himself flushing, he turns and helps Peter to his feet, keeping him behind him.

"Chris?" Scott asks.

"Let's go inside, Scott," is all he says as he shoulders his shotgun.

Scott looks confused, a bit lost, but he slowly nods. "Okay, but why are we suddenly believing Peter?"

"Do you trust me, Scott?" Stiles snaps.

"Of course!"

"You'll do anything to find your father, that's become quite obvious," Lydia points out, glaring past him at Peter.

"Lyds..."

With a flounce of her skirt she turns and stomps inside, followed by a confused Liam and a shrugging Kira.

Parrish doesn't look happy but reholsters his gun before following them.

"There's no reason for the Sheriff to be detained at Eichen House," Deaton says quietly as the rest move onto the porch.

"He's in the sub-level," Peter replies icily.

"Impossible."

"The scent in the hall was too faded for him to be in a cell, but it lingered. It wouldn't have if he wasn't there somewhere."

Deaton's eyes widen. He actually looks shaken.

"Have you ever been down there?" Stiles asks and isn't surprised when Deaton shakes his head. "Maybe that's where the doctors that have been wreaking havoc on the town are doing their experiments."

"Shit," Argent mutters. "Yeah, that would make sense."

"Was your father investigating that?"

Stiles gives Deaton a cold look as he passes him, keeping Peter at his side away from everyone else. "He investigates everything."

The tension inside the house is heavy, but at least everyone seems willing to listen as Stiles lays it all out. Well, everything but Peter's price for helping. Lydia never stops glaring at the older werewolf, but she does relax enough to start using her brilliance to help strategize how to find and free the Sheriff.

Dawn rises as they talk and Stiles grows more and more antsy. He hasn't had enough sleep or any Adderall since the afternoon before. He's surviving on fumes and the coffee Kira keeps making.

And Peter's occasional centering touch.

Stiles hates the plan they come up with, but he's growing too fuzzy to come up with something else, and when Peter agrees, if a bit reluctantly, he gives in as well.

Collapsing on the couch as people start gearing up, going to the bathroom, in the case of Scott and Kira kissing as they fill the dishwasher, he runs his hands tiredly over his face then tenses as Lydia perches next to him.

"You're an idiot," she states flatly.

He's too tired to snap back anything clever, just frowns at her until she grabs his hand and flicks a finger over the bandage.

"I've dated werewolves. Do you think I did that blindly without knowing everything about them, their traditions, their rituals?" she stresses.

Color floods his cheeks.

"I repeat, you're an idiot."

"No one could find my dad," he whispers, his chest aching at the memories of feeling so helpless.

"There was nothing else you could give him?" The hint of compassion that seeps into her voice and the fingers that wrap around his makes him suddenly want to cry.

Because he's scared for his dad and for his future, and he's confused because there's always been something more than seething hatred and weird attraction amongst the emotions he feels for Peter. He's never wanted to face it, but now he has to.

"He needs an anchor to stay sane," he mumbles dully.

"You know, I was always surprised that after he got out of my head and came back to life, he left me alone and turned all his creepy attention on you."

"You saw that?" he asks, truly surprised, because even he tried not to see that, letting it only linger on the edge of his dreams.

"You may be the intuitive one, Stiles, but who's the true genius here?"

Tired, he grins at her, then lets her hug him tightly, only smiling more when she whispers, "If he hurts you, I'll cut off his dick. It won't kill him, just render him useless."

"I...um...might actually want him not useless."

She snorts.

When she lets him go to join Parrish to go over last minute logistics, Stiles sees Peter hovering nearby, and gestures for him to join him. When he does, a part of Stiles wants to curl up against him, but that's a bad idea for too many reasons, them not being alone being number one.

"This plan is risky."

"I trust you won't let them keep me there, Przemyslaw."

"Dude, don't ever call me that," Stiles groans, then yawns helplessly. "I need about a week's worth of sleep."

"I can help with that later," Peter says with a leer on his face that makes him roll his eyes.

"I'll probably be unconscious for part two of the ritual if I don't get some sleep first. If you don't care, go for it."

"I'm not the eighteen year old virgin. I think I can restrain myself until you're awake."

"It's creepy that you know I'm eighteen, and so not a virgin."

"You've never been with a man, and it's rather sad that you have such a low impression of me that you think I'd break the law to mate with you before you were of age."

Stiles shoots him an outraged look. "I was barely sixteen in that garage!" And he could have been with a guy. Really. It's not like he hasn't thought about that a time or two or fifty.

"I was crazy," Peter retorts but there's amusement in his voice. "I'm sure I would have been remorseful...at some point."

Stiles actually barks out a laugh that has Scott shooting him a suspicious look and Lydia rolling her eyes at him. But, at least thinking about sex with Peter Hale is distracting him from worrying about his dad.

It's very hard for him, the natural born cynic, to have faith his dad's alive.

Hopefully they'll know one way or another within an hour, and either his world will grow brighter or a large part of it will end.

The plan is ridiculously simple, and that just makes it too fallible in Stiles' opinion. Of course, he barely had a plan when he broke into Eichen House to free Peter just a couple hours before and that had worked.

He's still shocked that it had.

Mr. Argent, Parrish and Deaton will take Peter in the front, returning a prisoner, insisting they take him down to the supernatural level. Since Parrish is something not completely human, they should all three be able to do so with little hassle. When they reach the cells, Kira will short out the electricity, Lydia will scream which will hopefully set off the prisoners and patients alike, and, during the ensuing chaos, the rest of them will go in the same way Stiles did earlier.

It shouldn't matter if Brunski's keycard works or not with the power off. Kira can keep the generator from kicking in, too. And even if there are more guards and the patrols are different, they have two werewolves. Four if Liam can talk Brett and Tracy into joining them.

Stiles wishes Derek was here. Hell, even Isaac. Surely he could use his scarves to strangle a couple of guards.

Though having Malia around might be a tad awkward since they broke up when she left with Derek to find her mother.

Of course, now he's mated to her dad, so it would be even more awkward, and he really needs to stop that train of thought now.

Especially since he lost his virginity to her.

Really needs to stop thinking of her.

So, he distracts himself by checking the charge on the stolen taser and stuffing the gun in his waistband again.

"Do you know how to use that gun?" Argent asks him as they head out, because of course he saw that.

"Son of the Sheriff," Stiles clips out.

"Can you use it?"

Turning a cold look on him, all he says is, "I'm not Scott." It seems to satisfy the older man who heads to his own car. Deaton is going with Parrish and Peter in a pair of Argent special handcuffs in the official SUV. Stiles and Peter share a look before the werewolf is pushed into the backseat behind the grate and where the doors don't open from the inside.

Stiles hopes Peter trusts him enough to let this happen.

"I don't get this," Scott mutters, disgruntled as he climbs into the jeep with Kira, Liam going with Lydia to pick up Brett and Tracy on the way.

"What?"

"How you can trust him."

"I have something he wants," is all he's willing to admit to as he starts the engine and pulls out of the driveway.

"Yeah, his freedom. We can't just let him go. Stiles, he'll come after me again."

"No, he really won't."

"You're the one who doesn't trust anyone! I don't..."

He interrupts his best friend. "Scott, after we find my dad and I've gotten a month's worth of sleep, I'll explain. I promise. Just...you have to have faith that I know what I'm doing."

"You know I do." He sighs and scrubs his hand over his face, then shifts from goofy friend to Alpha between breaths. "One way or another, all the mess this year ends today."

Stiles watches Kira reach over from the backseat to take Scott's hand and hopes it ends with no one on their side dying.

And his dad being alive.

Everything goes to plan. Lydia screams. The power goes out. Chaos erupts. Running on fresh adrenaline and determination, Stiles leads the way through the secret door in the wall. There are more guards, but with four werewolves, their way across the gardens is basically unimpeded, as is their entrance to the building and down to the basement. Despite the power outage there are strip lights on the stairs that must run on something other than main and generator power, but Stiles pulls out his flashlight as they're not very bright.

The door opens without the need for the keycard, and Scott and the Pack quickly take out the three orderlies who seem to be bickering over what to do. Stiles steps into the corridor first, noting that the same strips of lights run along the floors. The cells can't block the sounds of the prisoners--howls, growls, screeches, and pounding on the glass come from most.

Halfway down the corridor, even in the dim light, Stiles sees Peter free of his cuffs, and feels something lighten in his chest. He's okay and obviously faking being docile. Parrish, Deaton and Argent are also still going with the plan, loudly discussing issues with the three guards and keeping their attention away from the door the Pack has just entered.

Eager to get the next stage moving, Stiles forgoes the caution he's been going with and heads in.

Only to have a guard come out of nowhere and put a gun to his head.

Coming to a sudden halt makes Scott run into him, and he hears the yells of outrage from his friends, but mostly he hears his own heart hammering as bad memories from the previous year come back. Before he can react, say anything, do anything but freeze there, claws yank the guard's head back and sever his throat. The gun goes off, but at the ceiling, and as plaster rains down, Stiles sees one of the other guards down the hall aiming at Peter's back, hears him yelling.

As one guard dies at his feet, Stiles calmly takes out his gun and shoots the one aiming at his mate in the head.

The places goes insane. Lydia screams and there's fighting between the Pack and the other guards and a couple orderlies armed with tasers who come from the stairs behind them.

And all Stiles can do is sink into Peter's arms, ignoring the blood dripping from his fingertips and the heavy gun smoking in his own hand.

"Let's find your father," Peter croons and, keeping one arm around his shoulders, guides him forward.

Dimly he notes that the guards and orderlies have been contained, shoved and locked into, ironically, Peter's cell, and that none of the good guys have more than a bruise or two, but the exhaustion's coming back hard and he can barely stay on his feet. He doesn't fight it when Peter passes the gun to Mr. Argent or lets Scott and Argent take the lead to the door at the far end.

"Breathe, Stiles."

Stiles obeys, relying probably too much on Peter to keep him upright, but he can't think about that now.

His dad. That's all he can manage to focus on.

At the door, the werewolves except for Peter go ahead of them and they all descend into darkness. Electricity crackles between Kira's fingers lighting their way. Behind them, Lydia keeps watch with Stiles' flashlight.

By the time Stiles and Peter reach the bottom of a long set of stone stairs, there's a brutal battle being fought. Three weird looking doctors, a half dozen heavily armed guards, and the Pack. In the dim light, Stiles sees the racks of instruments, the metal table, the chains hanging from the ceiling.

And the cells with bars instead of glass walls. Three of them. Two empty. One...

He chokes, can't breathe.

There's a body collapsed on the stone floor of the third cell. A naked body with graying blond hair and a marine tattoo on one shoulder.

Still and silent.

Too late.

A cracked, devastated scream echoes from him and he pulls free from Peter, runs through chaos and noise, tears streaming down his cheeks. As he falls to his knees by the cell, Peter's there, ripping the lock from the bars, yanking open a gate. Stiles crawls through, sobbing, tears blinding him, but he has to reach him. Has to touch him.

As he does, numb fingers touching a bruised and cold cheek, the words Peter's been saying over and over finally reach him.

"He's alive, Stiles. He's alive."

And his father stirs, blinking open one blackened eye with a wince.

Horror is replaced by joy and Stiles falls into his dad's still strong arms, crying now in relief.

"Knew you'd find me," his dad mumbles, both of them shaking like leaves, but everything will be all right now.

That's what his dad says over and over as the battle behind them rages until it finally doesn't.

The Pack wins.

Stiles doesn't care.

Even when Parrish enters the cell and crouches down next to them, Stiles doesn't leave John's arms, doesn't turn his face away from his shoulder. The exhaustion has him in its grip and all he can do is listen and breathe.

But, he knows Peter is kneeling next to him, not touching, but there for him.

"I want this place shut down," his dad, the Sheriff now, barks. "Have all the human patients transferred to the psychiatric care ward at County for now. Argent, I'm trusting you to deal with the patients on the floor above. They stay alive, you get me?" He doesn't wait for an answer. "Parrish, get a few other deputies and arrest the administrator, chief of staff, and head nurse of this shit hole. They knew I was down here. They knew," he stresses.

Stiles shakes in sudden relief.

He hates this place. It needs to close for good.

Parrish responds quickly and is gone. Mr. Argent a bit more hesitantly, but he leaves to call in some hunters he trusts.

Deaton drops to one knee in front of them. "Sheriff? I found some scrubs that should fit and I think these may be your boots."

"Thanks, Doc. Did you know what was happening here?"

"No. I had a hand in the incarceration of several beings on the floor above, but only with the firm understanding that there was to be no experimentation. I...I should have realized they wouldn't hold to that. I'm sorry."

"Not your fault," John replies gruffly.

Hearing Peter snort in disbelief, Stiles replies in complete agreement, then his dad is jostling him a bit.

"Kiddo, I need to get dressed. We need to get out of here," he says softly.

"Yeah...Yeah...'kay." Slowly he pries his gripping hands off his dad's back as he's released as well, and then he all but falls into Peter's open arms. He knows his dad sees it all, but he's too tired to deal with it now.

"Sheriff, I've got him," Peter says, his voice even and firm.

"Yeah. We're going to talk about that." As clothing rustles and groans come from John along with mutterings of 'damn, so stiff', Stiles flushes.

But, doesn't let go of Peter.

After that, everything is a bit of a blur. Stiles knows there are bodies and blood in the sublevel, that the incarcerated supernatural beings are causing a loud ruckus one level up, his dad, though bruised and tired, is alive and in charge, and that no one in the Pack suffered more than superficial wounds.

The next thing of which he's completely aware is the front steps of Eichen House under an early spring sun. There's chaos and control together with ambulances, cop cars, even a couple news vans jamming up the circular drive, people yelling orders and questions.

And, still, his dad's in charge.

Leaning heavily against Peter, Stiles watches his father's every move. Even in ill-fitting scrubs, he's the Sheriff. It's only when he makes a move to Parrish' SUV to accompany the three prisoners into the station that Stiles moves, stumbling across the gravel towards him.

"No, dad, ambulance. You, hospital, get checked out." God, his tongue feels useless, his brain a mess of barely firing neurons, his eyes ache and sting from being open for too long, but he can't let his dad go back to work.

Strong hands catch him before he can fall, and Stiles blinks blankly into John's strong, determined face. Despite the bruises, there's more color there.

"Kiddo, I'm fine. Hungry and tired, but nothing's broken, just bruised. They beat the hell out of me the first day, but then pretty much left me alone. The things they did to others..." He shudders and shakes his head. "I have to see this through. An hour tops and then I'll be home."

"At least...at least let the EMTs look at you, okay? Please?"

There's a sigh, but then John nods. "Okay, but only if you agree to have Lydia or Scott drive you home. Stiles, you look a lot worse than I feel," he adds softly.

"Haven't slept, eaten, no meds." The gravel at his feet his looking really comfy. "Had to find you," he mumbles, and hugs his father as tightly as he can.

"Then you go do that and when we're both rested, we'll talk."

Stiles shakes his head. There's something they have to talk about first, but his mind is seriously shutting down.

His dad stiffens and says flatly, "Hale."

Oh, yeah.

"I'll see he gets home safely, Sheriff."

"Parrish said you helped find me, but that doesn't explain what you were doing out of here in the first place, nor does it wipe out what you did to get put here. The experimentation, the torture I witnessed, no one deserved that, but you're going back to lock up, Hale."

Peter gently pulls Stiles from his dad's grip. "You don't have the authority to make that decision, Sheriff, and those who do, have already agreed to let me go. We have much to discuss, but your son is about to collapse."

"I'm not letting you take him!"

"He'll be fine, at your home, waiting for you. If you're that concerned, come with us, or send Scott. He's already proven he can beat me," he adds a bit sourly.

"Fine. Scott!"

Stiles' vision is going fuzzy and dark around the edges and he can feel himself collapsing against Peter again. Shit. "Adrenaline rush going, going, gone..." He giggles.

And that's the last thing he knows for a long time.

Stiles awakens warm and comfortable. As sensory input flitters into his mind, three things take precedence: his own pillow is beneath his head, he's still dressed, though his shoes are gone, and he's being spooned by strong arms.

Home, dad, still daytime...

Peter!

His instinctive flailing is captured by the wolf's hands as he breathes into the nape of Stiles' neck, "Relax, your dad's not home yet."

"How long?" he chokes out.

"Hm? Just over two hours."

Why he still feels tired, though at least his brain is functioning. Freaking out, but functioning.

"He said an hour." Worry wars with petulance, and he squirms, wanting his phone which is on his night stand, just out of his reach. Finally, Peter huffs and lets him go, but before he can grab the phone, he hears the front door open. "Shit."

Huffing again, Peter rises gracefully from the bed while Stiles scrambles awkwardly to his feet, nearly tripping over them in his haste to get out of the room before his dad finds them.

"Stay here," he hisses over his shoulder, rubbing at his crusty eyes and wincing at the film on his teeth. On top of it, his stomach growls.

"I don't think so." Slipping his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, Peter makes a gesture of 'you first' with his head.

Stiles groans and staggers out the door and down the stairs, but first notices that Peter's feet are bare.

And they're sexy feet.

Jesus...

When he reaches the bottom of the stairs, he smiles in relief at the sight of his dad coming towards him, looking tired and bruised, but so very alive, and flings himself against him, never wanting to let him go.

"Dad," he chokes out, breathing into John's neck, taking in the scent that's uniquely him, and nearly crying again.

"I'm okay, Stiles. I swear. Just tired and really needing a shower, and..." His voice cuts off and he stiffens.

Stiles' shoulders slump. Shit.

"What is he still doing here?" the Sheriff bites out.

"I thought we should have a chat," Peter says evenly. "In the kitchen perhaps. Stiles hasn't eaten anything and I'm sure those sadists fed you about as well as they did me."

"Why don't I go find my gun with the special bullets instead?"

"Dad..." God, he's still tired and really doesn't want to deal with this, but if he tries to avoid this talk much longer, Peter will probably just spill it all and have too much fun doing it before whisking him away to his dank lair.

Or that really nice condo on the other side of town with the maid service so it probably even has clean sheets on the bed.

"I'll make sandwiches, shall I?" Smiling, Peter passes them and walks into the kitchen.

"Stiles," John hisses, pulling fully away and staring with hard, confused eyes at him.

"Um...We kind of need to talk to you." Rubbing the back of his neck, he sees worry enter those eyes. Dammit, that's one of his tells. Dropping the hand like it's on fire, he scuffs his toes in the carpet like a guilty child--another one, dammit, dammit.

"What did you do?"

Since there's more concern then accusation in his father's voice, he sighs, "Something maybe stupid, but I...I had to find you and no one had a clue and Peter's a really good tracker, way better than Scott and don't even get me started on how bad Liam is at it, and I couldn't reach Derek who has never learned to empty his voicemail box, the Luddite, and so I...I kind of made a deal."

"His freedom."

He can feel himself blushing. "Um, that and one other thing."

The scent of bacon frying from the kitchen makes John turn his head, his nose twitching.

"Why is there bacon cooking?" Stiles asks, scandalized as he follows his dad, who's turned into a bloodhound, into the kitchen. Peter's slicing tomatoes while bacon cooks.

"I'm making BLTs. Hard to do that without the bacon."

"How did you even find it? It was buried beneath the kale and cauliflower."

Peter taps his nose and Stiles rolls his eyes.

"Sounds good. And the coming explanation better be just as good," John growls before sitting at the table. "Also, I want the regular mayo, not that fat free crap."

"Dad," Stiles whines, but goes to the fridge to dig it out of the back corner of the bottom shelf.

"Stiles, that stuff has no actual food in it," Peter points out. "You should make your own. It's not hard."

"Sure, eggs and oil, that's real heart-healthy," he snipes back, plunking the jar down next to the whole grain bread. When he turns to fetch glasses and the pitcher of iced tea, he sees his dad eying them with a cop's suspicion.

As Peter assembles sandwiches, managing to find three lettuces leaves that aren't wilted--it's not like Stiles was in the mood to go grocery shopping over the last week--Stiles pours glasses, adds ice and joins his dad at the table, fidgeting with a napkin. Peter sets plates in front of each of them, then sits down next to Stiles with his own.

"I've missed cooking," he muses.

"Maybe you shouldn't have tried to kill Scott."

Stiles thunks his forehead down on the table and debates over whether or not just to stay there, but the sandwich next to him looks and smells so delicious.

Sighing, he lifts back up and takes a huge bite. Might as well enjoy it before his dad kills him.

Peter's free hand lands gently on his thigh and, for some reason, Stiles doesn't jump out of his seat or freak out or anything.

It feels...good.

All three eat about half their sandwiches, before John gestures to Peter. "Talk."

"Dad!" No, Peter talking is bad.

"Let me be the first to remind you that your son is eighteen now and that when I first had certain thoughts in a certain direction, I was insane."

Yeah, that was crystal clear. As John's eyes narrow, Stiles' mouth falls open and he gapes at Peter who just takes another bite of his sandwich.

"Go on," John says, voice dripping with ice as his hand clenches around his sandwich, mangling it a bit.

Peter's voice loses all levity and snark. "Do you know what inevitably happens to Omega werewolves, Sheriff?"

"They go feral."

He nods. "And once they do, there's no going back. They're the reason hunters came to exist in the first place. Omegas are a danger to the human population and our secret. Stable packs hunt them down as often as hunters. Without a pack, there are two ways to keep from going feral. The first is by becoming an Alpha. I'll admit, it's something I've always wanted. However, I wasn't going to kill family to do so. That, in the end, I did, is something I will never forgive myself for. Oh, I gave myself the excuse that I was insane, which I was, and that Laura abandoned me, which she did, but it was still unforgivable." He takes a sip of his tea before continuing. "When I was younger, my plan was to mate with the daughter of an Alpha who without the potential or desire to follow her father or mother, would let me take the spark peacefully at that Alpha's death. Instead, I fell in love, something I didn't believe I would ever do, mated happily with her, and put aside one desire for a new one of a true family."

"Your wife died in the fire. I'd forgotten," John says softly.

"Another reason for my psychosis. How I survived, I don't know. Maybe the drive for vengeance already existed in my broken mind. With mated pairs, if one dies violently, the other will usually follow soon afterwards, even if no love exists between them. There's a bond formed in mating, and that's the second way for an Omega to become stable."

His dad didn't become Sheriff because he looks good in the uniform. Stiles immediately sees the knowledge fill his eyes, watches as his lips tighten and his shoulders tense.

"I'm about thirty seconds away from getting my gun and I'm not even half-joking this time," John barks. "You've, what? Mated with my son?" He's half out of his seat when Peter replies in the affirmative.

"Dad," Stiles cries in alarm as his father's face turns red and his fingers grip the edge of the table so hard his knuckles turn white. "Dad, it was my choice! I agreed."

"He manipulated you. You were desperate to find me."

"Yes. I can't...without you, there's nothing," he stresses, reaching out and grabbing his dad's wrist, feeling his racing pulse. "Dad, dad, it's okay. It's not..." He steals a glance at Peter, who's clearly on edge--his fingers have tightened on Stiles' thigh--but is still and silent for once. "I've...felt things for him for a couple years." Embarrassed, he drops his eyes, but is relieved to feel John relax a tiny bit. "Nothing happened," he quickly adds. "Peter never did anything truly skeevy, but, sometimes, I kind of...wanted him to," he whispers, face burning.

Peter's grip relaxes a tiny bit, too.

John slumps in his seat and scrubs his free hand over his face, and Stiles finally relaxes as well, because his dad has his own tells, and that's his 'okay, we'll get through this' one. "I need to process this. I need a shower and about ten hours of sleep and then a meatlover's pizza before we talk this through. Maybe more of all of that."

"Dad?" Stiles voice breaks with emotion, and John tugs him half off his chair into his arms.

"It's okay, Stiles. I don't get it. I probably never will, but you are an adult. And you know if he fucks up and hurts you in any way, I will shoot him full of wolfsbane." That's said over his shoulder, directed at Peter.

"I wanted my freedom, true, Sheriff, but I needed a mate, and for a while now, there's only been one person I've had any interest in taking that step with. I went about it wrong, but I was desperate. As desperate as Stiles. I do take this seriously. Mating isn't taken lightly by my kind. I manipulated Stiles, true, but he more than anyone knows and accepts that I'm not a good person. I truly like your son, Sheriff."

"I'm not happy about any of this, but...Chris explained why I can't arrest you; Scott's willing to give you a second chance because Stiles asked him to trust him about you; and Stiles...well..." John sits Stiles back fully on his chair and cups his cheeks. "You really are okay with this?"

"Yeah. I know what I'm getting into. I knew Peter would want something. I'm okay that it's me."

"Just a few months ago you were ranting about how he should have been killed."

Stiles shrugs. "I doth protest too much?" At Peter's snort, Stiles whacks him in the shoulder. "No one asked you."

"Jesus, maybe I should be more concerned for Hale," John mutters and drains his iced tea. "I'm heading up. We'll talk more tomorrow. All three of us, and you treat him right, you got that?"

"I plan to," Peter replies, his hand now caressing Stiles' thigh.

"Tomorrow?" Stiles give his dad a confused look.

"It's noon. I'm going to sleep, eat, sleep some more. You need to do that, too. If you do anything else, I don't want to know about it." Sighing, John rises and drags Stiles up into a final hug. "And take your meds with you."

"What? I'm not going anywhere, dad."

John smiles sadly at him, then glowers at Peter. "You have someplace that's not a hovel?"

"A condo on Larkspur."

Stiles watches in even more confusion as his dad's eyebrows shoot up in appreciation--yeah, that's the gated condos in the rich part of town.

"Stiles, keep your phone on and you call me for any reason, got it?"

Really confused, because his dad is being bizarrely reasonable and Stiles had half figured Peter would end up shot or stabbed or at least ridden out of town on a rail and it almost sounds like they're getting some kind of weird blessing and...he really needs his meds and another six hours of sleep to deal with any of this...

"I'm confused," he mutters.

"You're an adult. You still have school on Monday, but if this is what you want, I'm not going to stop you."

"Um...yeah...I do." He glances back at Peter and, for an instant, sees a look of wonder on his face before it returns to placid. "Not sure why, but I guess we have time to figure that out."

Stiles takes his meds, stuffs a few clothes items of clothing and toiletries into his duffel bag--after dumping out the blueprints and various weapons and empty water bottles--and lets Peter drive the jeep. Despite two hours of sleep, he's still exhausted. Whatever adrenaline relief brought him is long gone, and the long week of fear and poor eating and nightmare filled catnaps, have caught up to him again.

As he stumbles from the car onto the pavement of the parking lot next to Peter's building, he realizes the whole trip here was a blur, and when Peter's arm goes around his waist and he takes the bag from him, he's grateful.

They're inside the building and Peter's top floor condo within a few minutes, and before he can barely look around, they're in a bedroom dominated by a king sized bed draped in navy and ivory bedding, the bed itself dark wood with intricately carved head and foot boards.

Sudden, well, not fear, but worry sparks him back to full awareness and he swallows hard. "Peter?"

"You're half-asleep on your feet. I'm not much better. We'll sleep as long as you want, eat, then talk."

"Okay," he stammers, relieved because he's pretty sure his earlier joke about what would happen if Peter tried anything--he'd sleep through the whole thing--would come true in a few minutes.

And he really wants to be awake for that.

"Bathroom's through there. I prefer this side of the bed. Get changed and get to sleep, Stiles. I'm going to do a quick check and make sure everything's locked tight and nothing's missing, then I'll join you."

"'kay," Stiles yawns and grabs his bag before shuffling into the very white bathroom. The navy is carried over here along with red on towels and other bathroom stuff, and he's sure he'll appreciate the double headed shower and the jacuzzi tub sometime, but right now, he can barely keep his eyes open to undress and put on flannel pajama pants and a worn Star Wars t-shirt. When he makes it back to the bed, he drags down the duvet and sheet on the far side, crawls onto the bed, sinks into the really comfortable memory foam, and doesn't even miss his pillow.

He's out within thirty seconds.

When he awakens, Stiles surfaces slowly, noticing several things in no particular order: the mattress beneath him is incredible, forming around his body; the room is dim; his hand is resting on something hard and warm and moving; a hand not his own is on his hip; his mind is finally clear.

Opening his eyes wider, he sees he's turned over, facing Peter who's awake and watching him from beneath hooded eyes. Stiles' hand is on his bare chest. He can feel his heart beating, slow and steady.

"It's not fair how built werewolves are," he mumbles, as his fingers move independent of his brain.

Peter, of course, smirks, and Stiles flushes and pulls away to flop over on his back.

"How long was I asleep?"

"It's just past eight, so not long enough."

"I feel a hundred percent better." As if on cue, his stomach rumbles, and Peter rolls off the bed, bouncing to his feet.

"I showered before joining you in bed. Why don't you take one now and I'll order out for food. Pizza?"

"Yeah, anything but pineapple or anchovies."

The shower is just the right amount of pounding to wake him up fully. Forgoing his cheap bodywash and shampoo, he indulges in Peter's expensive organic ones, leaving him smelling lightly of citrus and rosemary. After brushing his teeth and running a towel through his hair, he puts his pajamas back on with clean boxers and pads barefoot out of the bedroom. There are a couple of closed doors along the short hallway before the condo opens up into a large living room, with a dining alcove at one end and a chrome and black kitchen separated by a bar with two stools.

Peter's at the door paying for the pizza and a six pack of what looks like expensive foreign beer. Closing the door with his foot, he turns, smiles at Stiles, and gestures towards the dining table. As Stiles walks across the room, the aroma of pizza hits him and he also notices the expensive looking leather couch and wood furniture not marred with moisture rings, and is glad they're eating at the table.

Spilling food all over this elegant room is probably not a good idea.

There are plates on top of bamboo placemats at two of the four spots--the table itself is dark wood like the rest of the furniture but sturdy and modern looking. Incongruously there are papertowels instead of cloth napkins. That sign of normal makes him relax and he slides onto a chair.

Peter takes the other and opens the pizza, then places a bottle of beer in front of him.

"I'm still not of legal drinking age."

Peter snorts. "If you can tell me honestly that you have never had alcohol, I'll fetch you water."

Rolling his eyes, Stiles uses the bottle opener and takes a sip of beer, then reaches for a slice of pepperoni pizza.

They eat in silence, each draining a beer, until the pizza is gone and they're each on their second bottles.

"Why do you drink beer?"

"Contrary to the belief of teenagers, beer and other alcoholic beverages aren't just for getting drunk," Peter replies lightly. "And, really, what else would you drink with pizza?"

"Okay, yeah. This is good, too. I've only had the cheapest shit."

"Well, no more of that for you. You've just become a very wealthy young man. I was able to recover about half of the money stolen from me, and I have about half that amount tied up in real estate and long-term investments."

"So, we'll never be poor."

"I never was. I just didn't have any easily available funds when the bonds were stolen. I've since converted the returned money back into bonds, but spread them around several bank boxes and other places. I won't make the same mistake twice."

Mistakes. Yeah. "So...no more desire to become an Alpha?" He watches Peter carefully.

"I suppose it will always be there, but I'm not driven by it. Even though we haven't finished the bonding, my wolf is calmer, my mind clearer, the constant underlying fear gone."

"Yeah, about that..." Stiles watches Peter tense and quickly shakes his head. "Not backing out. Not sure that's at all possible anyway."

"It could cause irreparable harm," the older man murmurs, taking another sip of beer. "I won't push you, Stiles. I manipulated you into agreeing, but, while I'm many things, I'm not a rapist."

"Yeah, no, I know, and I wasn't lying to my dad, Peter. Half of me hated you and wanted you dead, and the other half just wanted you, and I just lied to myself for months about that. I didn't understand it myself, knew no one else would. And sometimes I wondered if I was just imagining that you wanted me, too."

"No, I was always attracted to you, but once I regained my sanity, I never would have done anything until you were of age. If we were closer in age, maybe, but I'm nearly twenty years older than you, and while you are often incredibly mature, you're still a teenager."

"But a legal one now." Shrugging, he picks at the label on his nearly empty beer bottle as he can't meet Peter's eyes. "I let you manipulate me, because I believed you'd help me, and mating with you, it's not a hardship, even if I did freak out at first. I wasn't supposed to be attracted to the villain," he mumbles.

"I wasn't always a villain," Peter replies softly. "I was always a smartass, but I loved my family, my wife. That story I told you about Paige and Derek, it was mostly true, but I didn't reveal how horrible I felt after she died, how I tried to help Derek through it. I'd been mated for just over a year and I wanted everyone to feel that kind of joy. Derek thought Paige would only love him if she was a wolf, so I wanted that for him, too. I know that everyone believes I was trying to escape the fire and leave everyone behind, but I was closest to the tunnel, everyone else but two of the toddlers were on the other side of the basement, and I tried to send them through the door once I broke it open, but they were too young, and I could feel Talia's Alpha command to save them reverberating through me even as I burned and the babies succumbed to the smoke. The last thing I heard was my mate crying my name."

Face going pale, Stiles reaches out instinctively, taking Peter's trembling hand. "Jesus, I...You don't need to say anything else. We've both done both horrible and wonderful things. We need to move forward, right?"

Peter's fingers squeeze around his. "Yes."

"I set you on fire."

"I was actually impressed by that. I was impressed by everything about you."

Despite the dark emotions he's feeling, Stiles can't help but chuckle. "We're both kind of twisted, y'know."

"And, heads and shoulders above everyone else in the Pack, except for Lydia, in intelligence, wit, and the ability to verbally cut any idiot to pieces."

Now he openly laughs, and all the tension from stirred up memories disappears.

Together they clean up the dishes and bottles, Peter storing the remaining beer in the refrigerator as Stiles rinses the empties for recycling. As he dries his hands, he sees his mate casually leaning back against the chrome fridge, watching him, and sudden arousal hits.

Stiles takes two steps forward and then is pressing Peter hard to the metal, fingers twisting in the t-shirt he'd put on, lips open and hungrily meeting his in a needy kiss.

"You want this?" Peter pants against his mouth.

Licking his own lips, then Peter's, Stiles murmurs, "Listen to my heart. I want this. I want you. I'm not going to regret this. Oh, I'm sure we'll piss each other off every day, but I want..."

As his mouth silences his babbling with an even hotter kiss, Peter's arms wrap around his back, pulling him even closer, then slide lower and hoist him off the ground. With a grunt of surprise, Stiles waits for him to step away from the fridge, then wraps his legs around him as Peter carries him out of the kitchen.

He should feel weird being carried, but it's incredibly erotic, and his cock, already twitching, hardens even more as it brushes against Peter's rippling abs. A few minutes later, his back hits the bed, Peter following him down but not crushing him. The room is lit only by one bedside table lamp, and it's warm and comfortable, and Stiles starts to run his hands over any part of Peter he can reach, as they kiss again, deep and needy.

Finally, as they're both breathing hard and trembling, Peter pulls away to yank off his clothes, and Stiles takes the hint and follows suit, fingers fumbling, but finally getting himself bare. As he admires his mate's gorgeous body, Peter returns the favor, and Stiles is no longer the shy sixteen year old, hiding a too lanky body beneath too many layers. He knows he's in good shape, his cock long, and he's finally developed more than a few wisps of hair on his chest and down his treasure trail. Peter's is thicker, but not by much, and Stiles likes it.

The wolf grins and licks his lips. "Remind me to kiss every single mole some day, but I'm afraid I don't have the patience right now. They didn't even leave me aware enough to jerk off in Eichen. I'm a bit pent up."

Stiles snorts and nudges his hip with his foot. "Well, can't have that. Don't want you exploding prematurely."

Rolling his eyes, Peter opens a drawer and takes out a bottle of lube, then urges Stiles onto his front and up to his knees and elbows. "It'll be easier for you the first time this way."

"Yeah." Glancing over his shoulder, he feels his breath catch at the sight of Peter's cock, hard and thick, and his ass clenches in anticipation. "Have you, with a guy, y'know?"

"Yes, though it's been awhile, college. I figure it's like riding a bike."

"I fall off of bikes."

Laughing, Peter bends down and kisses his shoulder, then his cheek, before moving between his legs, spreading them a bit. "Have you ever fingered yourself?"

"Bi here, dude, of course, and I have a dildo. Its name is Troy."

"Good. I'd love to take an hour opening you up, Stiles, but I'm not joking about being pent up."

"It's okay. Troy's not as big as you, but I can take it," he chokes out, then breathes, "I want to take it." The last word comes out in a squeak as a slick finger breaches him. He tightens his muscles around it, then wriggles for more. "Yeah, good. Jesus, fucking good."

"Oh, you are beautifully responsive," Peter praises as his pumps his finger before adding a second.

Twisting his head, Stiles watches the pleasure and lust on the older man's face, the way his skin flushes, the bead of pre-cum slicking the tip of his cock as it pulls back from the foreskin.

"Troy's circumcised. This is new. I bet blowjobs are awesome with a foreskin."

"If you're willing, you can find out tomorrow."

"Shit, yeah." His mouth goes dry at the thought. He's long imagined giving a bj, on his knees, mouth aching as he just takes a big dick fucking into him. A third finger pushes into him, making him wince a bit because, while he's not been locked away on meds for more than half a year, he hasn't jerked off in over a week. That's got to be a record for him.

The fingers pull out and Peter takes a hold of his squirming hips, then leans down to place hot kisses on his neck. "Ready?"

"Yeah." As he takes a shuddering breath, he forces his muscles to relax so he's ready for the first push.

Peter goes slowly, but doesn't stop until he bottoms out, his pelvis smacking Stiles' ass.

It feels fucking amazing. A bit of ache and burn, but not much more than when he's fucking Troy into him, and he can't get the angle that Peter's got just right. His own cock twitches and spurts a bit of pre-cum, and then Peter pulls back slowly only to fuck into him harder, hitting the sweet spot inside him.

"Fuck," he hisses, shaking with need.

"Okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, don't stop. Oh fuck," he squeals as Peter thrusts again, even harder this time, and Stiles grabs the pillow with his trembling fingers and shoves back into the next drive.

"Fuck, you're perfect, so tight and hot," Peter growls as he starts to pump faster, his fingers biting in the best way into Stiles' hips, his body trembling against Stiles' own shuddering one. As they both fall wordless, only able to grunt and groan and, on Peter's part, growl, the older man leans over Stiles' back, and the angle changes again. As hot lips find his ear, his cheek, a hand wraps around his dick and pumps, slick with lube and Stiles' own wetness, and the younger man cries out in pleasure.

"God, good, fuck, fuck, fuck," he babbles as his whole body stiffens, a bolt of white hot pleasure goes through him and he spills all over Peter's hand.

"Stiles," he groans, latching his human teeth onto his neck and biting he shakes and comes inside him.

Both panting for breath, they collapse together, Peter turning them onto their sides, still buried in his clenching ass.

"Knots aren't a thing are they?" Stiles babbles tiredly, smiling in pleasure when Peter chuckles against his cheek and slowly runs his hand up and down his trembling chest.

"No, I just like staying put as long as I can."

"I don't mind." Turning his head, Stiles kisses him softly. "We all mated now?"

Peter nods and kisses him again. "Yeah."

"Good. It's all...good. I...thought I'd feel weird, that I would be making a sacrifice or something, but I don't' feel like that. I...this feels right, Peter," he murmurs, a bit confused, but really okay with everything.

"I'm glad." Peter sounds relieved, and his arm tightens around his chest. "I'm really glad, Stiles."

"Still going to piss each other off a lot."

There's another warm chuckle against his cheek. "Inevitable."

"Lydia threatened to cut off your dick if you hurt me."

"Understandable."

"I'd stop her, y'know. I'm already addicted to your dick."

Laughing, Peter reaches over and turns out the light, sadly slipping out of Stiles as he does, but then cuddles him close again. "Go to sleep, Stiles. We have mutual blowjobs to experience in the morning."

"I"m in the wet spot," he complains, but, not really, because, while he's tired again and warm and a bit achy, he mostly feels really good.

Snorting, Peter tugs them both backwards onto the dryer part of the mattress before pulling the sheet and duvet over them. His pleased murmur of 'mate' is the last thing Stiles here before he slips into a deep and dreamless sleep.

End