Chapter Text
Peter wakes hours before his alarm. He stares at the ceiling and flexes the fingers of his left hand, palm up, wrist bent. The sliver of moonlight is enough to illuminate the familiar mark, a narrow, inky scrawl just under the skin: Mieczysław Stilinski. It's been there for fourteen years, and today—technically, as of the stroke of midnight wherever your body happens to be on your birthdate, but he'll allow the boy to sleep—today the name's mate will burn itself onto Stiles's body in reciprocal script.
He shies away from the idea that it's burned in, for obvious reasons, but there's really no better way to describe the phenomenon. It's a stinging, hot, bruised feeling. A brand, without the blister. He'd been relieved beyond measure when it came back with his resurrected body, as much a part of him as his eye color.
He's heard stories of people fainting, vomiting with pain, howling with joy, dousing themselves in cold water when it appears. Peter felt the pain, but took it stoically, staying awake to blink at a wrist that was bare one moment, indelibly marked the next.
Fourteen years ago.
His story is unusual, but not unheard of. His soulmate was a toddler when Peter first received his mark. Most people don't have to wait more than a year or two. The longest recorded time he could verify was a twenty-eight year age difference. He shudders. He'd wait longer for the happiness it promises, but he's glad he won't have to.
He considers sleeping in, but knows his brain won't let him so he showers, dresses. The house is silent, save the intermittent creak of settling wood, and the background hum of nature. He spends far too long making himself a latte, tamping the freshly-ground beans and pulling the shot with the efficiency of a seasoned barista. His hands are steady. He's prides himself on controlling any external signs of his impatience.
By seven, he's pacing. By eight thirty, he drives into town at a reasonable speed, obeying all traffic laws. It wouldn't do to be pulled over by the Sheriff today of all days. He's done his best to ingratiate himself with John, but despite his best efforts, the man hasn't warmed to him. There's no accounting for taste, honestly. He dawdles in the coffee shop, killing time. He's not meeting Stiles at the Archives until ten.
He finishes his coffee and orders a second, mostly for something to hold. He hears every second as it ticks by on the wall clock, the second hand climbing, falling, climbing, falling.
At quarter to, he orders a double raspberry mocha, extra raspberry, no foam, extra whip—the raspberry syrup is the primary reason he came to this coffee shop, because he knows it's Stiles's favorite, and most places don't have it. His glare dares the barista to smirk at the resulting monstrosity. He carries it out into the bright shimmer of early autumn, and heads for the Archives. Holding the cardboard cup and walking quickly, he almost doesn't notice Derek coming in the other direction, but ducks into the nearest open doorway until his nephew passes. He doesn't want to know what sort of spectacle his pulse is making of itself right now, but no sense in giving away the game before he has a chance to gauge Stiles's reaction to the news.
The study corral is tucked away in a corner, away from the main rooms. Not much more than a glorified cubby, really, but a nice wooden desk with enough room for two people to sit shoulder to shoulder to review texts. Most importantly, the rooms are soundproof, so they can speak without being overheard. He lines up the cup's cardboard sleeve so the logo points the same direction as the one on the cup, and sets it at Stiles's place. Technically they're not allowed coffee inside, but it's not the first or worst rule Peter's broken.
He hears Stiles before he sees him. The squeak of Converse on the floor in the lobby, the pitter-pat of his heartbeat, elevated. Either he's rushing, or he's nervous. When he barrels around the corner and Peter notices the still-damp hair, he considers it could be both.
Stiles sees the mocha first, and his face lights up before affecting a scandalized glare. "Peter. They'll ban me from the building if I get caught with that."
"Then don't get caught," Peter says, smirking. "And happy birthday."
Peter expects Stiles to start chattering immediately, because that's what Stiles does. He fills every silence, jams every moment with an onslaught of words, theories, obscure pop culture trivia. He doesn't expect Stiles to go abruptly silent, nose deep in the lid of the cup, inhaling sugar and espresso and managing to get whipped cream on his ear. Peter reaches over to wipe it off, holding out his finger and rolling his eyes. Stiles shrugs and grins, unaffected and charming.
Now's the time for the other shoe to drop, for the nervous chatter to catch up, but Stiles just sets the cup down and pulls over the books Peter had reserved. Peter tries not to stare. It's difficult. A silent Stiles is just… unnatural. Pages flip, pens scratch, chairs creak. Stiles's leg bounces at a furious tempo, so at least he's relatively certain he hasn't been possessed. Stiles's gaze keeps flicking to his own wrist, but he doesn't bring it up. Maybe he's hoping Peter will broach it first? Peter watches him, feigning interest in a survey of local folk magic, not taking in any of the words.
"Do you know," Stiles says, "that you're like the only one who didn't jump on me about my birthday? Everyone else I've run into is, like, are you excited? Did you check yet? Do you feel any different? As if I've sprouted wings instead of gotten the same mark everyone else does on their eighteenth birthday."
Peter glances over his shoulder. "Have you checked yet?"
A faint flush crosses Stiles's cheekbones, visible even in the dim light. "Okay, so. Not to be weird, but can I show you?" He looks shy, and Peter tries not to find it adorable. He sets his book aside, shifting his chair so they're parallel, knees nearly touching.
"I assumed you would. You're not exactly subtle, Stiles."
Stiles blinks at him, then laughs. "Okay, fair."
Peter waits. The air between them fizzes, silver and sharp.
"Okay," Stiles says, exhaling. "So I was half afraid that nothing would happen, and then I woke up at midnight and my wrist felt like I'd smacked it on the edge of the bathroom sink. And then—"
He holds out his left arm, pushing the sleeve up.
Peter stares. The world narrows, everything fading out except the two words on Stiles's wrist. It's not in Peter's nature to be rendered speechless. He doesn't chatter the way Stiles does, but his mind is usually two steps ahead. Never at a loss for words, not even when he was feral. So the pause he finds himself trapped in is something new. It feels like there's no air in the room, and he has to force himself consciously to exhale and inhale again.
There, across the pale skin, is a name in handwriting surprisingly elegant for anyone who knows the man. Impossible to misread.
Jackson Whittemore.