XXI

Stiles remembers the thrill of his first ride, the way clouds burst like droplets of water against his cheeks and wind howled in his ears like wolves. He isn't even scared of the specters surrounding him, green and translucent and wicked. He isn't scared because he has his mother right behind him, arms around him with nimble fingers clutching at the reigns. His blood sings in his veins as they gallop through the stars, searching for any lost souls for the Hunt to claim as theirs.

The horses turn as one when a dazzling silver light shoots up into the sky, like a group of embers after a piece of wood collapses. Stiles can't hold back his laugh when they dive, hoofs connecting with a dirt path that leads into dense woods. He knows without having to look that this is Beacon Hills, the information zipping into his head straight from his mother. This is Hale property and there's a man lying half-dead near a ravine.

It doesn't take long to reach the man with a soul like silver, the Hunt surrounding him in a tight circle of Fae horses. Stiles slips down off his mother's horse and moves closer to the ravine, looking down to try and make out the tiny river at its bottom while his family claims the soul.

He never notices the first of the hunters until he's got a hand at the back of his neck that's wrenching him to his feet with enough speed to make him dizzy. "Mama," he cries out, instinctive. Claudia's head snaps up, the rest of the Hunt following suit with low rumbles that make Stiles's bones vibrate.

"Have the Fair Folk learned nothing," the hunter asks, voice rough and too loud. "You should never bring your young out before they can defend themselves."

"Your code doesn't let you kill children." Claudia's voice is firm as she takes a step forward, commanding like she talks to her riders.

"No, I suppose not." Other hunters are coming out now, and Stiles can't help the way he's shaking when he realizes his family is outnumbered. Even the Wild Hunt know better than to underestimate humans when they're all riled up like this. Hunters are cold the way most humans aren't, Stiles is almost convinced that they're bred that way. "Adults, however, are free game."

"We haven't killed any innocents." And Stiles knows that tone, is intimately familiar with it; it covers her happy kill-you-with-kisses voice with a layer of ice so thick Stiles is half-convinced the words should be visible.

"And what about poor Alec there?" The hunter uses his free hand to gesture at the corpse, its skin waxy in the moonlight, eyes glazed like marbles. There's bruising over his heart where hands had reached in and taken his soul, above that is a gash where his throat had been savagely torn open. "Was he not innocent?"

"He was already well past saving, Gerard. You and your men saw to that."

"Oh no, that wasn't my work."

"It was mine." It's a small voice, feminine, as two children appear from the greenery. The one that spoke is a little girl that looks around nine, harsher than the older boy that keeps a protective hand on her shoulder. The boy doesn't fit in with the other hunters, Stiles can see the faint wisps of his soul behind his heart, silver-gold and vibrant instead of dull. It's not a pure thing even at twelve, but it's not the soul of a true sinner yet.

"My Katie is a natural, isn't she?" Stiles can hear the pride in the old man's voice, sees the way the girl puffs her chest out while her brother stiffens. "Christopher, would you like to make the first kill?" There's a bow in his hand and a full quiver strapped to his back, but the blond boy gives a jerky shake of his head.

"I'll do it, Daddy." And she does, there's no hesitation as she raises her own bow and fires a silver-tipped arrow into the ghostly crowd. The rider makes a choked noise and drops to their knees, grasping at the shaft only to have their fingers sizzle when they make contact. "Rowan wood, silly. So beasts like you can't heal around it."

The Hunt is riled up just as much as the hunters now, growls and hisses filling the air only to be cut short as more arrows fly. Everything seems to happen too fast for Stiles to comprehend, a blur of greens and silvers until the Hunt is bolting into the sky with three dead left behind on the ground.

"Remember this lesson if nothing else, boy," Gerard says, breath sour as he bends down to hiss into Stiles's ear. "You are a monster, a foul thing that belongs in hell, and I'll let Kate hunt you down the next time you come within a mile of Beacon Hills." He shoves Stiles away from him and urges his children back through the woods, Christopher sending one last glance over his shoulder before the bright Autumn leaves hide him.

Stiles is left alone with only the corpses for company, his mother lying limp on the ground with green smoke slowly curling from her body. She did well with her human guise, but it falls away now and glassy eyes stare up at the full moon.

And Stiles howls.

XXII

Stiles is raised solely by his father after that, a Reaper that's dedicated to his job and doesn't spend nearly enough time with his son. Stiles is loved, though, he knows it in his bones that his father would die for him if need be.

Stiles doesn't ever plan on watching someone he loves be murdered again.

XXIII

Gerard Argent is hard to track down considering he's human, but Stiles finds him when he's gone gray and sickness is eating at his body. He's lying in bed as Stiles comes into his room, out of his mind on laudanum and God only knows what else. It doesn't matter to Stiles, only the fear that lights up the old man's eyes does.

"Remember me, Hunter," he asks, low and even. It's cold in a way his mother couldn't manage, hard enough to make the old man's body jerk violently in an attempt to get off the bed. Stiles is faster and he's on Gerard in a single leap, pinning the human to the bed with ease.

"Faerie," he growls, teeth bared in a wolfish display of hatred.

"Not quite." Stiles lets his eyes flare golden and blue ones go wide in fear and realization. Stiles hates blue eyes, they make his stomach roil and anger burn in his veins like fire. "I'm a Demon, a half-breed of powerful parents." He sits up, straddling the old man's thighs so he can pull up his shirt and reveal his Mark. It's simple compared to others he's seen, crossed scythes inside a golden circle that glows faintly.

"It's not possible. The Fair Folk can't breed with other species."

"Reapers are technically part of that species, Gerard. That's what my dad is, a Reaper." Stiles laughs low in his throat, almost sub-vocal as he grins down at the hunter. Too many teeth, too feral and unhinged to be considered gleeful. "He was pretty angry when he found out you made me watch my mother being killed."

"I imagine he'll be furious when I kill you then." Stiles's grin falls away as he grabs up one of the bottles on the nightstand. He knows what's in there, that it's becoming more and more popular with the rich and poor alike. Opium, the humans call it, deadly if too much is used.

"How much of this do you take? I know it can kill humans, but that's about it." Faeries liked opium as much as any other species, they use it for the young ones when they can't sleep or get sick. It doesn't kill them, just numbs them to the world and allows them peace for a few blessed days.

"Get off of me. Christopher!" Stiles uncorks the vial and pours out a dab of murky brown liquid on his finger, studying it in candlelight. It smells disgusting to his oversensitive nose, but it looks red in the light, almost like blood. "Christopher!"

"Did you know one of my little powers is to grant wishes? Not like the Djinn do, I mostly deal with anyone who has a grudge against hunters. I wonder why that is." It's sarcastic and Gerard sneers at it despite the pain that makes him shake. "Want a taste?" He holds out his finger, rubbing it over Gerard's lips.

"You little bastard! I'm going to take my time with you, you'll stay alive just long enough for me to cut your father's throat." And that? That's not going to happen. Stiles grabs Gerard's jaw and forces his mouth to stay open, dumping the vial's contents straight down his throat. His eyes flare again and Gerard swallows on instinct, then grunts when he realizes his mistake.

It's almost funny watching it happen; pupils contract to pinpricks, vomit bubbling up in his throat and going back down as he swallows convulsively. It takes longer than Stiles originally thought, it's messy and smells awful.

Stiles stands up and goes over to the window, opening it enough to get a breeze inside so the smell doesn't make him sick. It's a sweet scent, like old candy left out in sunlight for too long. Gerard is gurgling on the bed, trying to roll onto his side and not quite succeeding. Christopher comes in just seconds later, dressed in his night clothes with his blond hair mussed and gaze hazy.

In the bed, Gerard's breathing goes ragged and then stops entirely.

"You didn't actively participate so I won't kill you," Stiles tells the younger hunter. He's a man now, probably in his late twenties and married if the gold band on his finger means anything. Handsome too, with a stubbled jaw and muscles that would make a lesser man swoon. "You didn't try to stop your father either." Christopher's jaw clenches and Stiles can almost hear his teeth grinding. "You can clean up his last mess as repentance."

XXIV

Stiles gets used to being summoned and he even accepts some contracts once every few years, but none of them are truly interesting. Gold, love, and drugs are what most summoners want and Stiles finds himself wishing for the old days when people summoned the Fair Folk for good harvests and the life of a loved one near death. His mother lived for those requests.

(always demand a price, my little mischief. otherwise these humans will get too greedy.
but what about others, mama? the supernatural ones?
everything comes with a price. don't do anything for free even if they're unhuman)

XXV

Stiles is a fox when he encounters Werewolves for the first time; an adult and his pup out in the woods to observe the wildlife. The young one is crouched low, brown eyes wide as he takes in the small colony of rabbits not far from where Stiles is hiding. The adult is the one that spots him and Stiles darts away, tail flicking back and forth lazily.

He has blue eyes, that 'wolf, and Stiles feels sick.

XXVI

Stiles is growing bored in his long life when he's summoned again, the darkness of his realm a comforting thing that lets him hide in his other skin. There's a Werewolf waiting for him there, burned and angry and wishing hard enough to make Stiles's head spin. Calmness spreads through him slowly, though, this realm suiting his rage and easing the pain of loss if only a little.

He's pretty in the way that most Weres are, no delicate façade on this one even before he was ravaged by fire. Stiles moves closer, just a couple of feet, and he studies the fresh scars and the Alpha spark that turns the man's soul a bright, pulsing crimson. Stiles wants to see those eyes opened, the power that drives him.

"Who are you," Stiles asks, curious. The 'wolf's head snaps in Stiles's direction, not expecting for his call to be answered. His eyes are closed, but Stiles is kind enough to project the images of what he would see. Only Stiles can open his eyes here, only he truly belongs in this realm of frigid cold and void. "Why does a 'wolf summon me?"

"Revenge." His voice is hoarse, throat still healing after breathing in acrid smoke for almost an hour. The scent clings to him, like a second skin he can't quite shed.

"That's all anyone ever wants." Stiles moves closer to him, letting his fur caress blistered flesh to give it some relief. No one should hurt here, not with unimaginable loss like this man is. This is a place for healing, a place for wishes. "What makes you so special?"

"Nothing, I'm sure. But I'll pay whatever price you demand. I'll give you anything."

"What if I want the soul of your firstborn?" The man goes rigid and it's agony that etches its way into the lines of his face, claws raking through the air as they shoot out from previously blunt nails. Stiles knows that reaction well, the anger singing in the man's heart, but he laughs all the same to break up the pain clouding the air. "Relax, 'wolf, the souls of children are hardly interesting. Besides, you have that particular scent of loss that means your firstborn has already passed. What was its name?"

"Jackson." The name passes his lips on a broken sob, the sound of a man that's lost everything that he's ever cared about. It makes Stiles think of twenty-four years ago when the same sound made his throat raw, brown eyes stuck on the rowan wood shaft sticking out of his mother's chest until his father showed up and carried him away. "His name was Jackson and he was just murdered by hunters along with the rest of my pack." Stiles's tail flicks before he can stop it, anger flooding him and leaving a sour taste in his mouth.

"You want revenge on those hunters?" Stiles doesn't mean to phrase it as a question since he already knows the answer, knows the outcome. Hunter blood is something Stiles loves to watch flow in the streets and he's heard of a particular hunter that enjoys setting fires. "I'll help you."

"What's your price in return?" Stiles lets a claw run along the thin skin beneath the man's eye on the unburnt side of his face, watching in fascination as the red line heals just as quickly as Stiles makes it.

"This I'll do for free. Hunters killed my mother and I take a special sort of glee in watching the life leave their eyes."

He uses his magic now, feeling it flow through his body like water as it douses the phantom flames that licks up the 'wolf's side. The darkness of his realm is slowly replaced with starlight, tiny pinpricks of light against an endless sky that's nothing compared to how moonlight makes this man's face look a marble carving from ancient times.

"You need to wake up, 'wolf. Open those pretty red eyes for me." The man's eyes open with a flutter of curled lashes, the vivid red of an Alpha that slowly fades to a blue that almost makes Stiles regret this contract. Eye color doesn't determine loyalty, though, and Stiles knows he has his own issues to work out. "What's your name? I can't exactly call you 'wolf for however long this takes."

"Peter Hale."

XXVII

"Can you heal my scars?"

"No."

"You can't or you won't?"

"I can only give you your revenge, 'wolf, not physical perfection."

XVIII

Peter Hale craves touch that Stiles can't freely give. He notices the way Peter's fingers twitch as though to reach out and pull Stiles closer, the way he leans closer into whatever gesture of kindness the Demon allows. Stiles gets it, Peter is touch-starved and 'wolves are tactile, but Stiles just…. Isn't.

Foxes are mostly solitary by nature, it's literally ingrained into Stiles's instincts to shy away from pack behavior, but he's trying. He'll touch when Peter looks like he's about to fall to pieces, remembers the little touches his dad would give him when Stiles was still a child that helped to ground him back in reality. Little things, but not often and not lingering.

Peter seems like he has an understanding of that, he doesn't try to force any touches which Stiles is thankful for. There are nights, though, that Stiles wonders what Peter's stubble will feel like against his fingers. He even goes so far as to perch on the edge of the hotel bed and stretches out his fingers, but then Peter's eyes will open and the blue of them always makes Stiles think of bad things.

(you are a monster, a foul thing that belongs in hell, and i'll let kate hunt you down the next time you come within a mile of beacon hills)

Stiles shakes his head and goes back to the window, looking out over the deserted streets of the town and the lone figure that prowls over rooftops with the curved metal of his scythe flashing under the starlight.

"Are you okay," Peter asks, sitting up with the heavy blankets pooling around his waist. His chest is bare to Stiles's gaze, a faint smattering of hair that's the same dark blond on Peter's head. "Stiles?" His eyes can't quite meet the blue ones, but he nods an affirmation and goes back to watching his dad protect the territory the Stilinskis claimed before the Argents were ever conceived.

There's a rustle of cloth and then snores that are just loud enough to keep Stiles from being lost in his past. If nothing else, he can appreciate that.

XXIX

Stiles is pretty sure that his father is worried. He's pretty sure because the Reaper is currently pacing around the sitting room and ranting about how a certain Werewolf needs to work on controlling his temper on occasion. Peter, for his part, is lounging in a chair near the window, turned so that his left side is facing the others.

"You're lucky the Viscount is too scared to retaliate," John snarls, spinning on his heel and wagging a finger at Peter. "You can't just hang men over a balcony by their feet! What the hell were you thinking?"

"That he shouldn't press up against young ladies without their consent." The tirade dries right up and Stiles has to bite his tongue to keep from laughing. Peter sees that he's gotten the upper hand and straightens in his seat. "I'll bet Raeken will remember what I did to him every time he looks at the Tate girl."

"He'll also remember that she goes for the eyes," Stiles adds, grinning. Malia Tate was a sight to behold, all wild energy and bared teeth as she launched herself at Viscount Raeken as soon as Peter had the leach back on his feet.

John sighs and drops into a chair of his own, raking fingers through his short-shorn hair. Stiles used to keep his hair short like that, but he likes to fiddle with it when he's stressed and that works better when it's long.

"Alright," John sighs after a long while, blue eyes wary. "Alright, fine, Raeken deserved all the threats and he's lucky that Malia didn't tear his throat out with her teeth. Can the two of you at least promise me not to go around looking for trouble?" Peter and Stiles share a look, gazes meeting from across the room and a silent conversation passing between them. It's a new thing, this exchange of looks and eyebrow signals, but it makes something inside of Stiles start to thaw.

From the way that John slumps in his chair, it's pretty clear that he understands the trouble won't end until Kate's blood is staining the ground.

XXX

The newly rebuilt Hale House is a sight to behold, reminding Stiles of the old human fairy tales his mother would tell him on cold nights. There are no turrets or moats, but it's refined like he always imagined castles to be, silence laying harshly against stone and wood alike. It's too big, too quiet, and Stiles thinks of the boy that freed him from a trap in the woods.

(i'll take care of you until you can walk again, don't worry. my father says we shouldn't name wild animals, but i think you look like a travesura)

He walks through the halls and doesn't even realize he has a destination in mind until he stops outside of a closed door and his fingers are grazing the cold wood. His claws itch to come out, but he stamps down on the urge to wrench the door from its hinges and throw it with a raw cry of pain.

"That was Scott's room." Stiles nearly jumps out of his skin, too absorbed in his thoughts to hear the 'wolf approaching. "He was my second-born." Stiles meets Peter's gaze over his shoulder but can't quite meet his stare. It doesn't matter anyway since Peter's gaze is focused on the door with something like desperation making his lips twitch.

"But he wasn't your baby, was he? Not your youngest."

"No." Peter's eyes flick to the room directly across the hall and Stiles can recall a little girl's laughter as she dances around her room with an older boy that had some serious eyebrows. "Don't ever go in there. It's not for you."

"Of course."

(my name is scott, but everyone here calls me scotty. aunt talia says i might get to be alpha when i grow up because i carry an ember in my chest right behind my heart)

"Do you want to talk about him? My father says that's supposed to help you process your grief." Peter's shoulders go rigid and his claws shoot out to rip through a leg of his trousers. "It didn't do me much good, but I just wanted the offer on the table. Free of charge, as always." Stiles moves past Peter and heads out to the plot of land on the east side of the house where a garden will be created. Stiles remembers a dark-haired woman working out here for hours, cheeks red in a sunburn that heals over and over again, smile bright as she calls for her baby girl to stop terrorizing Cora.

Stiles remembers.

XXXI

W płatkach herbacianej róży
Calineczka śpi
Nawet przemęczony świerszczyk
Zasnął w trakcie gry.

XXXII

There's a day between hunter deaths when Stiles meets a young 'were named Brett, beautiful and lazy and everything that Stiles isn't. His movements are graceful and his muscles ripple beneath his tailored clothes and Stiles wants to study him for hours. Brett catches his gaze and smiles, predatory or promising, Stiles can't decide which.

Stiles smiles back.

XXXIII

Chimeras, Stiles decides after a decidedly ungraceful face-plant, are cheating assholes. Mason Hewitt, despite the big brown eyes and innocent smile, is chief among them. Evil. Pain in the ass. Rude. Stiles will think of some more adjectives when Kira stops her cackling and his broken nose finishes healing.

"It was Kate," said asshole is currently shouting. "Kate set the fire!" Stiles remembers hard blue eyes filled with hate and glee in equal measures, remembers the rowan wood shaft sticking out of his mother's chest as she fades to vapor and drifts away on the breeze.

"You're sure," Peter asks, voice hitching in his throat for just a moment.

"Positive, Alpha." There's a pleased rumble and then Peter's coming down the stairs, sending the Demon sprawled on the floor an amused look.

"Is there something you'd like to tell Stiles, Mason?"

Mason glances over at Stiles, looks him dead in the eye, and smirks. "I thought Demons were supposed to be graceful, Stiles. Falling over the second-floor railing is something a human might do." He tsks and walks over to where his mate is currently howling with laughter, Liam's grin bright as he leans on Kira for support.

Assholes, the lot of them.

XXXIV

Stiles wakes to the sound of Latin being chanted, an old summoning ritual that forces him away from the window seat where he'd been watching the Hunt circle through the sky on phantom horses. He's not even fully aware that he's moving until he's in the entrance hall and kneeling in front of a human. The man is tall and lanky, not particularly attractive even by human standards with pale green eyes and a sheen of sweat making his forehead glisten in the moonlight.

"That amulet doesn't belong to you," Stiles rasps out, brown eyes glued to the amethyst stone swinging in a shaky hand. It belonged to his mother, taken when she was nearly killed by a group of hunters when Stiles was too small to ride with her and the others. She got away with her life, but the necklace had been ripped from her throat. Stiles has an idea of who that hunter was.

"It does for tonight," the man says, then continues to chant. Stiles feels the magic weaving around him tightly, compressing his chest until he can only manage weak pants and pained whimpers. This isn't going to kill him, that's not the point of this new spell, it's a banishment; back to his realm, to the cold and the void where no one can find him unless their wishes are meaningful.

A growl sounds behind him, making his bones vibrate and something in his belly unfurl in warmth. The man, for his part, just straightens his shoulders and chants faster, the sudden burst of pain making Stiles's back arch with a wheezed cry.

"Come any closer and I'll banish him back to hell."

"Do him anymore harm and I'll feed you your own heart," Peter says, a promise delivered calmly. Stiles can imagine the way Peter's eyes have bled to crimson, the violence hiding just under the surface behind his human face. "Who are you?"

"That's none of your business."

"Why are you here?"

"Clearing a debt." His sweat is soaking into his clothes now, permeating the room with a foul stench of unwashed skin and withdrawal. He's an addict, but a smart addict since he keeps chanting just enough that Stiles can't lash out. He wants to tear the man apart for this pain, for holding Claudia's necklace like he has any right.

"You don't have to do this."

"Yes, I do! She said I'd stay alive if I got rid of your pet Demon!" The man swallows hard enough that Stiles can hear his throat click, like some awful confession had just rolled off his tongue when they all knew who sent him this entire time. Who else would send an addict to do their dirty work? Kate fucking Argent is going to pay.

"You don't have to do this, Adrian. She can't get you here." Peter's voice is all soft and sweet, reasonable in a way that Stiles has never heard it. It reminds him of the Leprechauns that can talk people out of taking their gold, talk them into deals that hold no benefit for the humans and grim amusement for the Fair Folk.

"That's not…. I can't—"

"Just stop the spell, Adrian. We can all walk away from this." Adrian's eyes begin to cloud over and his shoulders relax, the amulet falling to the ground with the soft sound of crystal against wood. "No one ever need know."

Stiles is sucking in deep gulps of air the second the spell is broken, too weak to hold himself upright and falling to the side. Strong arms catch him before he can hit the ground, though, cradling him against a broad, warm chest. The touch isn't something that Stiles can cherish, but he understands the 'wolf's need to check over a packmate. And Stiles files that word away to examine later on, the instinctual use of it troubling him far more than the comfort of Peter's hold.

"Are you okay?"

"Why did you do that," Stiles demands, the shock making his words sound harsh even to his own ears. No one ever saves him, not since his mother was killed. Even his father doesn't step in anymore, just stands off to the side and watches Stiles fight his own battles and come out victorious if a little ragged around the edges.

"Do what?"

"Save me." Peter looks like he wants to answer, like the response is dancing on the very tip of his tongue, but he swallows it down and offers up a shrug in response. He helps the Demon up the stairs to Peter's room, dressed him in Peter's sleep pants, and tucks him safely away in Peter's bed. It's a way to scent mark, Stiles realizes, and he most certainly doesn't preen under the attention before healing sleep forces him under.

Peter's the one that sits by the window tonight, listening to a howling wind that doesn't make the browning leaves shake on their branches.

XXXV

Tormenting Kate Argent probably shouldn't be this much fun, but it's certainly not the worst thing Stiles has ever done. Watching her chase her own tail as Stiles manipulates the shadows will keep him entertained for months.

XXXVI

"This is my mom," Scott says, hefting the little black fox closer to his chest. "Mama, say hi to Travesura." The woman turns and Stiles is met with an amused quirk of the lips as brown eyes examine him.

"Hello, Travesura, it's nice to see you again." Stiles makes a sound that's as close to purring as he can get, letting Melissa rakes her fingers through the fur on his back. All the 'wolves have been doing that lately and it makes Stiles want to bolt away, back to the forest where he can be left alone. His paw is healed by now, but he can't quite bring himself to leave Scott's side.

"Father says I have to release him soon. I guess foxes don't have packs like we do."

"That's right, sweetie. He'll be better off in the woods." Stiles wants to argue about that, but he doesn't give himself away and curls his head beneath Scotty's chin. It's completely ridiculous, Stiles is aware of that, but he's come to think of the child as one of his. A kit in need of constant supervision so that Laura doesn't try to shove him again. It makes Stiles's hackles rise even if he knows it's all in good fun.

"Fine, but I won't be happy about it."

XXXVII

Peter should be asleep, they have along day ahead of them in the morning, but instead the 'wolf is lying in bed and staring up at his canopy. He's interesting to watch, but Stiles prefers him deep in slumber when all the hard lines go soft and his lips part in rumbling snores.

Stiles gets up from the window seat and comes to stand next to the bed, reaching out slender fingers to offer a comforting touch but drawing them back to his palm before they can graze Peter's stubble. He can't make himself do this, can't touch the way that Peter needs him to.

"Can't sleep," he asks instead.

"Too many thoughts in my head." Stiles frowns at that, settling onto the bed carefully to avoid jostling the 'wolf. He knows all about thoughts that swarm like bees, buzzing away in his head and keeping him from peace. He tried drugs once, drunk enough wine to put a human in the grave, but nothing helped. Mom used to kiss me on those nights, a kiss to take away the pain. And it's instinct that takes over despite the way he doesn't like the feeling of stubble or that blue eyes still make his belly squirm like it's full of snakes.

His lips are nearly touching Peter's when the bedroom door flies open to permit the Betas, Stiles jerking in surprise hard enough that he falls to the ground with a shriek. Stiles frowns as he stands, brushing off his clothes and meeting Peter's gaze again, feeling a little sick. He's almost glad that they were interrupted now, even if part of him remembers how he felt so safe in Peter's arms a week ago. And when he moves back to the window seat rather than accepting Peter's outstretched hand, he only feels the slightest bit of remorse.

Overhead, the Wild Hunt sweeps over Beacon Hills and a Reaper patrols on the ground.

XXXVIII

"What the fuck is that?"

"A family of mice, Stiles."

"But why are they in the house?"

"For my Scotty."

XXXIX

Stiles cooks up a large breakfast that morning, starting with scrambled eggs and ending with a medium rare venison steak that's still got some blood pooling under it on the plates as he sets them out. Liam is the first one in the kitchen, bruises smudged under his eyes. Mason and Kira shuffle in after him, still half asleep as they pile up around the table and begin fixing their plates.

"Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more," Stiles quotes, the Betas all groaning in disgust. Early morning Shakespeare, according to Kira, is cruel and should be punishable by death. Peter joins them ten minutes later, dressed in funeral blacks that make him look washed out.

"Or close the wall up with our English dead," he finishes, grim.

XL

Stiles is burning with his anger, but it doesn't burn nearly as bright as Peter and Kate do in the middle of the forest.

XLI

Peter waits until he can't hear his Betas before he turns to where Stiles is scrubbing at a stubborn spot on one of the plates, soap bubbles clinging to his arms all the way up to his elbows. It's going to be a serious talk, he knows, can scent the desperate ache coming off Peter. His fox wants to hiss at it, run away into the woods or retreat into the bedroom upstairs where not even Peter goes.

"I need to ask you a favor, Stiles."

"Then ask, but I won't promise I'll grant this wish to you."

"It's not a wish, it's a request." Stiles arches a brow, but he doesn't stop scrubbing or meet blue eyes that are just a pale shade away from being awful. Peter steps close to him, making sure their arms don't brush as he begins rinsing the clean dishes and setting them aside to be dried later on.

"My answer remains the same, 'wolf."

"I want you to kill me again." And it takes all of Stiles's restraint not to break the plate clean in half at those words and the stab of panic that lances through him like a hot knife in his chest.
(or a rowan wood shaft with a silver tipped arrowhead and a malicious hand that sends it flying)

"What?" The word is choked out, barely comprehensible and all he can manage as he actually turns to look at Peter. "Are you fucking kidding me? After all this planning, all this blood, you want me to fucking kill you?" Peter nods and looks genuinely surprised when he has to drop to the floor as the plate goes soaring over his head and collides with the wall.

(anger flaring in blue eyes as a glass hits a hunter's wall, slivers and shards glinting like diamonds on a carpeted floor that soaked through with meyers's blood)

"Let me explain—"

"You don't get to do this now, Peter! Those kids depend on you to keep them sane, you're their Alpha! You don't just get to roll over and bare your neck right now!" And his eyes, he knows, are burning gold and there's a faint green shimmer outlining him after all those years he spent around the Hunt.

"Listen to me!" The growled command actually makes Stiles shudder and tilt his head back, a 'wolf's instincts rather than his own. To his credit, Peter doesn't scent mark him afterwards, though his fingers curl into his palm with the effort. "Just…." His voice falters now, fading away like mist in sunlight. "I want Kate to burn like my family did and the only way that's going to happen is if I keep her pinned down."

"Forget it, I'm not doing that to you."

"Then do it for Claudia. Why should that Argent bitch get to live when our loved ones have been decimated by her family for the simple reason of being born something other than human?" Stiles flinches away from the words, rubbing at his chest where the shaft of wood stuck out of his mother all those years ago. He feels all fight rush out of him in that moment, leaving him an aching and confused kit again.

"How will I explain it to the pups?"

"You're clever, Stiles. I'm sure you'll figure something out."

XLII

"Why here," Kira asks, eyes still orange in her anger. It's aimed at Stiles, the question and roiling emotions, and the Demon gives a languid shrug. The beach is quiet and out of the way, hidden by Fae magic so that only a select few can find it. Peter's been searching for it, wishing for it, and Stiles can give him this if nothing else.

"Because this is where Peter feels the most at home."

"But Peter's dead."

"Yes, and you and your pack chased me for three entire days until Liam became so exhausted that he ran into a tree. Can we move on now?" She scowls but doesn't offer a protest as she clears debris from the moon-bleached sand. Liam and Mason are playing in the water a few feet away, the Werewolf's broken nose slowly healing and the blood getting washed away from his face with each splash.

"Someone's here, Stiles. Someone who isn't human or Were." Stiles turns his head and smiles when he spots his father, the older man looking haggard and bone tired.

"I found him," John says. "I put him in your little realm and he's sleeping until you get there."

XLIII

Stiles remembers the thrill of his first ride, the way clouds burst like droplets of water against his cheeks and wind howled in his ears like wolves. It's nothing compared to the feeling of fingers scratching through his fur or his 'wolf gazing over at him with eyes bright and smile soft, tender. Peter reaches out and Stiles leans into the touch, nuzzling into the warm palm in spite of himself. His mate needs touch, Stiles will oblige every now and then since Peter's been so good at respecting his boundaries. And when he looks into those blue eyes, Stiles doesn't feel sick anymore.

"Welcome home, 'wolf."

Travesura means "mischief" in Spanish.