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The man is odd. He is unfamiliar, skin patterned in runes and eyes dark with exhaustion, but smelling of embers and whiskey burn and strangely, so strangely of the wood-scent of pack. Peter hates it. Hates the way that he wants to jerk forward every time the man’s scent stales, whiskey and flame replaced with something wet and heavy and cloying on his nose. Hates the look in the man’s eyes, always unsurprised, like he knows something. Hates the smell of sweet dripping off the man like slime every time he meets Peter’s eyes, like he’s supposed to mean something to him, and Peter can’t remember what.
Talia does not take Stiles’ accusations of Deaton well. At first. But after some investigation, the things Stiles’ says cannot be denied. And oh, that is a bitter pill to swallow, to have failed so severely as the left hand, even when he is already mistrusted for his blue ice eyes. But now the pack has a different problem, dangerous in its own way, not because of betrayal lingering on the horizon but because they are woefully unprepared, undoubtedly defenseless without an emissary.
It is a problem that leaves the pack gathered in the main room, Talia standing at the head of the table brow creased into a frown, Peter hovering near the door, the rest of the pack perched on couches or slumped against walls. Talia clears her throat.
“Deaton is dead.”
It’s old news to most of the pack, only surprising to a few second cousins far separated from the Hale name, family that had married out of the pack but never truly left, family that lent their strength in truly dire times. And this was a dire time. Peter believed that. Despite their reputation, without an emissary the Hale pack could be challenged, and without the knowledge an emissary brought, the Hale pack had little to defend with against the terrors that constantly threatened Beacon Hills.
There is a clamoring from Maria, one of the second cousins who married into a different pack in Nevada. She, like Talia, is all hard lines and stubborn posturing. Yet unlike Talia, she is soft around the edges, smoothed down by her children in a way that Talia never was, more concerned with safety than superiority and protection than prestige. She is asking if they can find another emissary, if Talia wouldn’t mind sharing the emissary of the pack they’ve joined, at least for a while. Peter watches his sister’s hands curl into fists, nails morphing to claws that prick at the meat of her palm. Red flickers like film reel in her eyes.
Peter smells it first—the ember and the whiskey burn, wood crackling in a fire, pine trees lancing the sky. The smell seeps into the room like smoke, slight at first until it is so overbearing it becomes hard to breathe. The pack is glancing wildly trying to find the source, slipping from their slumps into defensive positions, a few growing claws and fangs.
Stiles laughs.
And it is Stiles, Peter knows, could pick his smell out in a crowd of thousands if he needed to, can feel the pack bond thrumming in his chest, strong and thick and less dangerous feeling than Peter knows it is.
Talia snarls, hackles rising even as Peter can smell the fear on her, eyes burning red as she floods the room with power. “Show yourself.”
The laugh comes again, this time close to Peter’s ear, the barest puff of breath glancing past his cheek. “Can’t you find me, Alpha Hale?” His tone is lilting, a singsong taunt that Peter would appreciate were Talia feeling a little less murderous. She growls, spinning around to face the wall, glaring at the wood-lined bookcase as if Stiles stood there.
“Whatever trick you’re pulling, I command you to stop. You’ve already caused enough harm.”
Her accusation has Stiles shimmering into existence, standing beside Peter in a way that suggests he’d been there awhile. The sound of his heartbeat floods the room even as his scent recedes back to normal levels. His mouth is twisted into a frown, and Peter finds himself wondering if whatever spell Stiles had used to conceal himself could be replicated in a way that Peter could use it. Stiles spares him a glance, eyes dancing with mischief as if he can read Peter’s thoughts—and maybe he can, though that is a terrifying thought, but really they know nothing of Stiles—before he turns his gaze to Talia, eyes hardening into something blank and cold, his scent adopting that sweet, cloying overtone that Peter is beginning to hate.
“Alpha Hale,” Stiles begins, his voice flat like a lake before a storm, thunder coiling in the distance, “with all due respect, I do not see how I have caused you harm. Deaton may be dead, true, but you’re a smart wolf. You’ve done your research. You know what he would have done to you and yours. One could argue that leaving him alive would have instead been causing harm. As to your emissary concerns,” the statement has Stiles lifting his hand to wave, as if he were waving the concerns themselves away, “you already have another emissary. An emissary who would kill for your pack, unlike the good doctor, and beyond that, and emissary who is much more powerful than that druid ever was. So really, I would say that your pack has benefitted from my presence.”
Talia scoffs, claws retracted and eyes no longer flashing, though Peter knows that she is still dangerous this way—perhaps even more dangerous now that the rush of anger is passed. She sits down, settling into her place at the head of the table like someone with all the time in the world and nothing to spend it on. The pack shifts side to side and even Peter is nervous. Stiles taps his fingers against the chair armrest, the only one in the room aside from Talia who appears unaffected by the sudden crushing tension. His heartbeat—still audible in the room, no doubt by Stiles’ own design—beats steady, strong, and true.
“And where exactly would this so-called emissary be?”
Stiles scoffs, gesturing carelessly at himself. “I don’t know if you noticed Alpha Hale, but I do magic. A lot of magic.”
Talia laughs, and Peter grimaces. Magic or not, Stiles will never be emissary—and what? Emissary? Stiles wants to be their emissary? —if he keeps intentionally aggravating Talia. She might not be the most tactful alpha out there, but she is still the alpha. “Doing magic,” Talia air-quotes, “does not mean you are qualified emissary. There’s much more to it.”
And at this, Stiles straightens, smirk slipping off his face for a much more serious expression, eyes shifting to something determined and flint sharp. “You’re right, Alpha Hale.” This time his voice is steady, confident but not mocking, more sincere than Peter has ever heard from the enigmatic man. “An emissary is more than magic. An emissary is a diplomat, a protector, the go-between for packs, a mediator, an advisor, a resource, an ally. I know all those things. I’ve been an emissary before. Trust me,” The honey-gold of Stiles’ eyes is roiling, his gaze open in a way that has even Talia nodding slowly, his heart beating thump thump, thump thump metronome-steady in the room, “I am qualified to be your pack’s emissary.”
Talia shifts in her seat, a tell Peter recognizes from back in their childhood days when she was in trouble and John, the alpha of the time, confronted her. For her to be so uncomfortable now—Peter looks at Stiles again, taking in the pale face, purple bags beneath the eyes, the moles dappling his cheekbones. Talia coughs.
“If you are such a capable emissary, then where is your pack now?”
Something sour, like rotten milk, flashes through Stiles’ scent, gone as quick as it comes but strong enough to leave Peter’s stomach queasy even after. “I left.”
Talia leans forward, resting her elbows on the table in front of her. “Then why are you here Stiles? Why did you leave them?”
“Because,” Stiles says, his eyes inexplicably shifting to Peter, burrowing into his soul, “I’m trying to save them.”
Stiles becomes emissary. It’s unexpected but at the same time not, not after his little exchange with Talia. More unexpected is the sudden peace that Stiles and Talia seem to have reached, a tactic understanding that none of the rest of the pack has been invited to, outlined by short nods and the sudden inclusion of what do you think about this Stiles? in pack meetings. The fact that Stiles is at pack meetings at all is a surprise in itself, and it grates against Peter’s wolf in a way Peter doesn’t understand, making him almost aggressive to Talia and standoffish to the rest of the pack. The scent of Stiles lingering on Derek or Laura’s clothes is enough to make Peter see blue, and the sudden absence of the spark—because apparently Stiles is a spark—sets Peter’s teeth on edge.
It's not that Peter doesn’t trust Stiles. If anything, it’s the way that Stiles looks at him that gets under his skin, like Peter is missing something obvious, has been stumped by a riddle on a popsicle stick that even a child could uncover.
It’s partly the scent, partly the pack bond, partly the way that Peter’s wolf surges forward whenever Stiles is in the room, as if Stiles is something precious to him, had been something precious to him once. Once Stiles calls Peter Zombiewolf. Just once, not including the first time they met, when Stiles looked at Peter like he was something precious and exposed his neck in the way that only family would—to a wolf he had never met and shouldn’t have trusted. The slip makes Stiles freeze, scent shifting from woodsmoke and whiskey to cloying sweet so fast it gives Peter whiplash, the smell of grief so strong that it makes Derek—little Derek—peek his head into the room to ask, “Are you okay ‘Tiles? You smell funny.”
Stiles responds by concealing himself, the scent of him sucked out of the room leaving Peter feeling oddly bereft, his wolf howling at the loss, Stiles’ heartbeat disappearing even as the man still stands at his side. He grins at Derek, reaching forward to ruffle his hair. Peter watches his nephew grimace, reaching up to flatten what Stiles mused. “I’m fine Der-Bear, just thought about something silly.”
Derek lifts an eyebrow, still so young but already scarily proficient at silent warfare. Peter feels a dumb rush of pride, knowing it’s something that Derek learned from him. “If you say so,” he replies, arms crossed and looking decidedly skeptical.
Stiles pats his head again. “I’m sure. Now what are you doing in here? I thought Laura wanted to spar with you?”
Derek scrambles off. Peter glances at Stiles, watching the way that the grin slips off his lips to be replaced by a flat, subdued line. He is still concealing his scent and heartbeat, and it makes Peter’s wolf whimper. “You sure you’re okay?” he asks, tracing moles dotted across pale skin with his eyes.
Stiles turns to him, eyes dull, more like a dirty penny than the bright honey-gold Peter is used to. “I haven’t been okay for a long time Peter.”
In the end, it’s because of the witches that Peter figures it out, and really, if they weren’t all dead Peter would probably send them a fruit basket.
It begins on a Tuesday, the sun barely beginning to rise. Peter is the one of the few early risers in the pack. Talia is another, and Laura as she ages is starting to become one. But this morning Peter wakes up to clanging in the kitchen and Talia slumped over paperwork across from him, clearly still exhausted from the late night they’d pulled trying to smooth over an issue caused by an omega separated from it’s pack in Tahoe. Laura is at a friend’s house, apparently for a sleepover party, though how sleeping is considered a party Peter still isn’t sure. Either way, there’s someone in the kitchen, and the two obvious suspects are clearly not, so with a grunt Peter gets up from his chair, cracking his neck as he goes, and wanders downstairs to investigate.
Of course, it's Stiles. He’s standing on the counter next to the sink, poking about in the back of the top cupboard. He smells of whiskey and spice and Peter is struck by a sudden urge to wrap his hand around the back of Stiles’ leg and run it up his thigh. The thought is gone as quickly as it comes, Peter shoving it ruthlessly to the corner of his mind to think about later. He steps closer.
“You’re up early.”
The statement makes Stiles jump, the man just about falling off the counter in his surprise before whirling about as quick as his precarious position allows to hiss, “Would it kill you to give me a little warning? I can literally explode you.” At that his fingers spark, flooding the room with the scent of electricity.
Peter puts up his hands in surrender, one-part mocking and two-parts serious. “House of werewolves, Stiles. We can probably take a few explosions. Besides, what are you doing up? It’s,” Peter glances at his watch, “four fifty-two in the morning. You aren’t usually up before nine.”
Stiles’ nose crinkles and he huffs, breathing out through his teeth. “Yeah usually, but that’s generally when there isn’t an entire coven about to descend on Beacon Hills to commit murder and questionable sacrifice.”
“Coven?” Peter puts his hands down, already cataloging what he would need to take down witches in his mind. “Wait, murder? Sacrifice?”
“Yes,” Stiles sighs, “and I can see you plotting Peter. Stay out of this one. I can handle it and besides, it’s not your business.”
His tone is sharp, and part of Peter withdraws, oddly repelled by the thought that anything that is Stiles business is not also Peter’s business, especially not business like murder and revenge. The idea of Stiles handling a coven of witches alone makes Peter’s wolf pace.
Peter stares at Stiles—his clenched jaw dotted with moles, the hard set of his eyes. His heartbeat is still muffled but no doubt beating steady. “How is it not my business?”
Stiles quirks his head. “They aren’t trying to kill you, Peter.”
“Yes,” Peter hisses back. “They’re trying to kill you.”
Stiles looks at Peter like he’s an idiot, that same pitying look he gives Peter when he thinks Peter isn’t looking, that look like Peter is missing something obvious. “I know. Hence why it’s not your business.”
“You’re pack,” Peter growls, intentionally keeping his voice low, trying not to wake the rest of the house.
Something dark and longing flickers across Stiles’ expression, his smell dampening too sweet. Peter hates it, hates the way that Stiles has suddenly gone quiet and sad and purposeful. He pulls a glass mixing bowl from the back of the cupboard—it must be what he’d been looking for earlier—and gets off the counter. He crowds into Peter’s space, smelling of embers and electricity and cloying syrup-sweet. Peter drowns in it, wolf frantic to reach out and calm, to help—somehow. Stiles notices his hand twitch and smiles, a half-hearted lonely thing. “I’m pack.” He offers a shaky laugh, “That’s all I am, isn’t it. I’m barely your emissary, and none of you trust me, and I am going to handle this myself, because it’s not your business.” He slides past Peter, patting him on the back as he goes. “Don’t worry too much Zombiewolf.”
And there it is again. The nickname. It rolls off Stile’s tongue with a familiarity that betrays itself and makes the back of Peter’s neck prickle. Stiles knew Peter, somehow, in the future from his past. It’s the only explanation for the pack bond Peter feels, for the way Stiles’ distress makes Peter want to comfort him, for the way Peter’s wolf whimpers whenever Stiles hides his scent.
Of course, Stiles is gone, presence hidden in a way that only he was able to achieve. Peter slumps into a chair, willing himself not to worry. Stiles can handle himself—will handle himself—has proved himself many times over. There is no cause to worry.
Peter is still worrying when Talia comes into the kitchen. She jumps when she sees him, before her eyes soften and she starts the coffeemaker. “How long have you been up Peter? You didn’t fall asleep until after me last night.”
“Four fifty-two.”
Talia raises an eyebrow. “That’s barely two hours of sleep.”
Peter nods, staring blankly in front of him. There’s a spot on the wall that must’ve been scratched. They forgot to paint over it. “Stiles is going to fight a coven today.”
Talia freezes. “Alone?”
Peter nods again, wondering if there’s any paint stored in the basement still from the time that they did that remodel. “He said it was his problem.”
“Oh little brother.” There’s pity in Talia’s voice. It strikes Peter as odd. After all, he wasn’t the one fighting witches alone. “It’s okay to like him you know.”
That breaks through the fog. “What?”
Talia is watching him sympathetically, her eyebrows furrowed in that way that they do when she’s explaining to Derek that no, he isn’t going to be alpha, Laura is, because Laura was born first, even if first is only two minutes. “It’s okay to like him,” she repeats.
“But I don’t-”
“Peter,” Talia frowns, a little bit of alpha bleeding into her voice, “you do. And it’s okay. Good even. He’s our emissary, and clearly powerful, and he clearly cares about you. You could do worse.”
And that has Peter spinning, puzzle pieces falling into place, the popsicle stick riddle solving itself, because how did he miss that? How did he miss the pauses, the looks, the way his wolf keened when Stile’s scent dampened, the iron thick bond between them—a bond that Peter now recognized for what it was? A mate bond. They were mates. It was uncommon, but not impossible. Unlikely, but not unheard of. Stiles and his future self, somehow, were mated. Holy shit.
“Peter,” Talia says again, Peter barely listening even though she’s standing in front of him. Alpha spikes in her tone. “Peter.” And then Peter feels it, flooding through the bond he shares with Stiles—rage and spite and so much fear. “It’s Stiles,” Talia hisses, “he’s in trouble.”
What happens next is blurry, passing by through the haze of the shift, world tinged brown and air dripping with iron, claws glistening and bloody, the forest crackling with electricity and panic and Stiles. The witches are mostly dead when Peter gets there, and definitely dead when he leaves, and Stiles is lying crumpled against a tree, a gash on his head and his left arm mangled and dyeing the roots with red. Peter gathers him up, lifting him gently to avoid catching skin with his claws, nuzzling at the crook of Stiles’ neck and shoulder in a way that he would probably describe as feral, were Peter more lucid and the urge to protect not pounding in his bones.
Stiles shifts, eyes barely fluttering open. “Zombiewolf,” he murmurs, “my problem.”
Peter bites out a barely restrained growl. “Your problems are my problems.”
Stiles lets out a weak snort. “Stubborn.”
“You didn’t give me any other option,” Peter snarls. “When were you going to tell me we were mated? Or was I just supposed to find out after the witches killed you?”
Stiles’ eyes widen briefly, a noticeable up-tick in his heartbeat, before he settles again, eyes slipping to half-mast and a smile blooming on his face, his teeth dyed red with blood. “You know,” he whispers. He says it again, quieter, barely a breath, even as his scent grows thick with woodsmoke and whiskey burn. “You know.” He turns his face into Peter’s chest, nuzzling there. “Missed you.”