Chapter Text
The radio reports an earthquake. The rumbles are tiny, infinitesimal. Beacon Hills continues with its day. No one notices.
The radio emits the whine of an amber alert. Local news anchors say that police are looking for a boy, almost a man really, but they call him a child. 147 pounds. 5’10”. Brown hair and eyes. Last seen on foot. Have you seen him?
The next day, there is no update on the story. There is no boy. Nobody remembers his name.
Peter is burning and dying. He is falling and flying. He likes it best when he’s killing in the name, the name of family and vengeance and simple satisfaction.
He wakes up with red in his eyes and a countdown in his mind.
There’s a boy on a field, kneeling and desperate, beside Peter’s contingency plan. Don’t kill her, please. Here is one who acknowledges Peter as an alpha, as a god, one with power over life and death.
Peter can be a generous god. He was then, and he can be one now—now when Stiles is another of the forgotten, callously erased from reality by the Wild Hunt.
“What do you think I can do for you, Stiles? We don’t exist.”
Come closer. Get angry. Take what you want, and in taking give me everything. Stiles stinks of fear and sweat and old blood. When the boy grabs him by the collar with filthy hands, Peter hides his triumph.
“Because you’re Peter Hale. You and your stupid plans. Your backup plans have backup plans, and you’re going to help me now.” Stiles’ teeth gleam in the dim light of Peter’s stolen living room.
“Why should I help, Stiles? I’ve done well for myself in this brave new world. Of course you want your friends to remember. You want daddy dearest to take you back into his bosom. I’m sure it’ll be a touching reunion. But me? I help you, and they remember all of my past indiscretions. And that’s a problem. That ruins my cozy new life where no one knows who I was. So what do I get out of this?”
Peter smiles. He basks in the sharp ebb and flow of despair, the rage that rushes back in, lighting up every part of Stiles. He knows what Stiles will choose as, once more, Peter plays the serpent and the fruit, tempter and temptation. He waits, patient through the jittering and shaking, the way clenching hands grind dirt into cotton fiber.
Stiles glares down, into Peter’s eyes. It’s thrilling to watch him tamp down disgust and rebellion into acquiescence, but it’s nothing less than Peter expects from one so like him.
“I’ll owe you one,” he grates out, a hint of the Gabriel Ratchets in his voice. “Just one, so you’d better make it good.”
And what has Stiles been doing to carry an echo of the Wild Hunt in his voice?
“I always make it worth my while.” Always. Even burning, even dying, even Valack. Peter takes whatever portion he can cheat his way into. He finds a way back to the top and damns anyone who stands in his way.
“And that’s it?” Stiles asks, plainly suspicious. “I’ll owe you a favor, and you’ll help me find a way for them to remember, to stop the Wild Hunt?”
“That’s it,” Peter confirms.
“Fine. Good.”
Stiles lets go of Peter’s collar. He straightens his back in small, jerky movements and stomps to the master bedroom. A few minutes later, all Peter can hear is the groan of pipes and the rush of water.
Peter picks up his laptop and returns to his research.
Stiles is right about one thing. Peter always has a plan with contingency upon contingency, and this one is playing out exactly as Peter wants. He’ll collect one favor in exchange for this first step onto the slope. Such a small price for Stiles to pay to have the world at his feet.
Peter Hale would choose to squat in a monochromatic hellscape. Each room is all in whites or blacks like a checkerboard explosion. Stiles spends most of his time in the kitchen, so he can avoid Peter’s constant scrutiny. The pristine white and chrome reminds him of being trapped in his own head.
When is a door not a door?
The steadily dripping faucet is the only thing marring the modern masterpiece that is the kitchen. Easily fixable with the right tools, but the sound helps him focus.
Each night, he lies down on the couch because he won’t share the one bed with Peter. The leather is soft with age, but it still creaks when he shifts. He counts the cracks in the ceiling whenever he thinks about stretching his legs.
Stiles can probably fix those too. He won’t yet. Not until he doesn’t need them to fall asleep.
It’s been three days, but the most surprising thing about living with Peter is the silence. He sits on the couch with his laptop or with a book. He slips out, in the mornings, jacket reversed and iron in his pockets, to return with a pint of fresh strawberries and several newspapers. He rarely speaks with Stiles except to to share information about the huntsmen.
For once, Peter deigns to sit with Stiles at the table.
“You smell like you’re detoxing,” Peter comments idly. He doesn’t look up from the paper. “Do I need to visit a pharmacy?”
Stiles shivers as Peter bites into a strawberry. Red juice runs from the corner of his mouth before he licks it away.
“No. I’m fine. I’ve been spacing out my pills. You know, winter is coming and all that.”
“Right,” Peter drawls. “Let me know if you change your mind.”
Peter drags another one through his saucer full of sugar. His teeth slice neatly through the flesh, under the leafy tops. Stiles is captivated. The fruit is the dark red of strawberries at the pinnacle of ripeness, a breath away from tumbling into fermentation. The juice splashes on the white granules. It spreads in irregular blobs, vivid and bright. The white lights reflect on the liquid. It shifts into darkest red. The crimson of blood in the moonlight. Killing Donovan. His friends dying or hurt. Blood on his hands. Blood everywhere—Stiles blinks.
Reality snaps back into place. The sticky droplets are dark pink once more. He’s sitting with Peter, close enough to smell the waft of his expensive cologne.
If Peter puts his stained lips on Stiles, will he taste like summer or blood?
“Would you like one, Stiles?” Peter holds out a perfect strawberry, the color dulled by its coating of sugar.
Stiles loves strawberries. They’re one of his favorite fruits. He treasures the memories of his parents taking him to farms to pick their own, back before the drought. Now the farms are dust. The dying countryside is full of signs, all of them begging: Pray for rain.
In this moment, he’s sure that even those farm strawberries can’t compare to the one in Peter’s hand.
“Take it, Stiles,” Peter offers again. “You look hungry.”
Without thinking, Stiles reaches for it. His fingers brush the wet grains. They feel like sand at the beach. The spell breaks.
“No, uh. I—I don’t like strawberries,” Stiles stammers. “Sorry. We’ll talk later. About the Wild Hunt.”
Stiles flees to the living room. He licks sugar from his fingers and counts the ceiling cracks.
On silent feet, Peter slips into the living room. He delights in discovering the dark and the furtive, so he watches—eager to see what his new project will reveal.
Even unconscious, Stiles can’t be quiet. The leather sofa creaks when he twitches and turns, chasing rabbits. And just like the pup he brings to mind, he will whine, cringing away from invisible blows.
He kicks and slides. Slips off the couch more nights than not.
Tomorrow, Peter decides. Tomorrow I won’t take no for an answer.
Sumida’s Fine Books is still in business. It will take more than a Wild Hunt or the apocalypse for it to shut down. The shabby facade keeps away anyone who doesn’t know the secret. If anyone looks through the grimy windows, all they would see is a squalid one-room shop. A few battered shelves sag under the weight of damaged hardbacks. The air of sad decay permeates the building, keeping away curiosity-seekers and the uninitiated.
More than one person has fled the premises—driven to unexplained tears.
The owner has known Peter since he was a small boy. Every time Peter steps inside, Taka calls him to the register. Taka asks about his health, shows Peter the special books he’s kept back for him, offers hot tea or one of the small sweet bean cakes hidden with the unsorted stock.
Today, when the bell rings, Taka looks up and nods. In the gruff voice intended for strangers, he says, “Irasshaimase.”
He ignores Peter and Stiles.
While Stiles investigates the Law and Philosophy sections, Peter stands between Gardening and European History. A prickle of unease slides up his spine an instant before Taka tugs his jacket seams.
Peter hears the scowl in Taka’s voice when he says, “The fae are looking for you. What have I done that you bring them to my door?”
“They won’t notice. How did you?” Peter smiles, frosty and polite. Remember me, damn you.
“I’m old, not stupid.” He laughs, dry as dust. “You and the boy wear your coats backwards and look for answers in my shop. I can’t help you, invisible man.”
“Can’t or won’t?” Peter’s blood heats. He wants to throttle his old friend, this new stranger. He wants to walk in the sun and be seen. He wants freedom and power and Stiles. He wants. He wants. He wants. So much more than his mother and sister had approved.
Rheumy eyes gaze back without pity. “I think we were friends before, so this you may have for free. Take the books. Take your friend. Leave Beacon Hills before you draw their eyes again.”
“You could help me, Taka.” Peter steps closer, drops his pride, and pleads. “You’ve known me since I was a child. You taught me my first magic. Please, Taka-san.”
Taka draws himself up to his full height, level with Peter’s shoulder. A bony finger pokes Peter in the chest. His face set with righteous anger. “You say you know me. So hear me when I say this. You are nameless, forgotten.” Taka shoves him down the narrow aisle, towards the door. “I don’t know you. I don’t see you. I can’t help you. No one can.”
All around them, lamps swing. The lights dim. Mirage-like, the furniture wavers and shimmers. Vanillin and old ink melt into moldy leather and mouse droppings.
Peter takes his time. He gathers the last of the books he can see and takes the ones that appear on the counter. A last gift from a not-friend to a doomed man.
Taka Sumida is nowhere to be seen.
He meets Stiles outside, on the broken sidewalk. Together they blink under the relentless sun and watch the building flicker and fade. They get in the car and drive.
In the rearview mirror, Sumida’s Fine Books stands, derelict and empty. A faded sign rattles on the door, declaring For Sale By Owner.
Son, are you okay?
Stiles runs. He runs until he can’t breathe. He can’t feel the stitch in his side.
Slow down. Slow down.
He can’t slow down. He has to get back home. But not the one he shares with his dad, the one filled with memories of their life. Does it still count as their life when Stiles is the only one who’s lived it?
Now why don’t you tell me your name?
Stiles staggers against the door. He fumbles with the key, scraping at the lock. He wonders why it won’t fit until the teeth dig into his skin. He knows that pattern like he knows his house, his dad, the rumble of the sheriff’s patrol car. This isn’t the key to Peter’s house. It’s the key to his dad’s house—Stiles’ house.
No, not his house. It can’t be his house anymore because he doesn’t exist. The only place Stiles exists is here: with Peter, the last person who knows him.
“Shh. Come here, Stiles.” Warm hands pull him inside. They’re familiar. Since the bookstore debacle, Peter’s always pressing short, casual touches on him.
He’s crying. He can’t breathe. Everything is so mixed-up and wrong. The hands pull at his clothes and shoes, removing fabric as they go. He wears more than this when they sleep, but Peter leaves him in his boxers, a short slip of the hands away from naked. Is this when Peter takes his favor? When Stiles is a hairsbreadth from panic and covered in snot?
Whatever. Maybe it doesn’t matter anymore. His body for his life back. It’s not a huge price to pay.
Behind him, Peter sighs. He holds him carefully, so delicately, like Stiles will break under too much pressure. “That’s not what I want from you, Stiles.”
Stiles sobs and chokes on his mucus. “Okay.”
“I have grander plans for my favor than this.”
“Right. Of course.” Stiles dissolves into hysterical laughter. Of course, Peter wants something else. Something better. Stiles is just a sad, empty boy that no one can keep in their heads. It doesn’t even take magic to forget him.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?” Peter asks the back of Stiles’ neck.
Stiles tenses. Something in him has always been so aware of Peter. His fear and defiance of Peter, the alpha. Peter’s claws under his chin. Peter’s breath on his wrist. On and on, it goes. Every interaction with Peter expands. He takes over every memory, turns into a being larger than life.
When he looks back on this, Stiles doesn’t know what he’ll see, so he closes his eyes. He covers his face and explains, “I woke up, and everything felt so normal. I don’t know. I walked outside, and it was so fucking normal. The sun was shining. I know. It’s always shining, but it felt like a sign. Like I could go home and everything would be okay.”
“And then what?” Peter pets his hair. He doesn’t say anything more. Not about Stiles being stupid and thoughtless. Not the fact that Stiles had promised not to go to his old haunts or see his dad. Or even how the unwashed product is oily and crunchy and disgusting. Peter just pets him. It’s comforting. It’s nothing like his mom or dad or Melissa.
“And then I used my key and stood in my empty room until I couldn’t take it. This time I got a chance to check the attic. But I stayed out too long. Went to the school after hours, looking for… something. I don’t know.” Stiles shrugs. “My dad saw me. It was the first time we talked. Since everything happened.”
Peter doesn’t break the silence when it goes too long. He can probably fill in the blanks, but Stiles continues, twists the knife again, feels it break off in his chest.
Now why don’t you tell me your name?
“He really didn’t know me. He looked right through me. I was just another kid in trouble to Sheriff Stilinski.” Just another kid in trouble. Just a ghost. But no, Stiles is less than a ghost. John has chased the dead and forgotten the living, has fallen so far down a bottle that the only thing he can touch is the ghost of his wife. What is Stiles to ever compare with that?
“And then you came here?” Stiles hears to me.
“Yeah,” Stiles mutters, numbness giving way to exhaustion. “I came straight home after that.”
“Did you find what you were looking for?”
“Nothing we didn’t know. They’re thorough. They take everything. I’m not even in pictures from years ago. My dad. Everyone just looks straight through me now. Everyone except you.”
“We’ll find something, Stiles. I feel like we’re close to a breakthrough.”
Stiles stays quiet after Peter’s news. He lies down with Peter and falls asleep to the man petting him like he knows just where to find the last tender places that Stiles has. Like he knows and won’t hurt him.
It doesn’t mean anything.
Soon he’ll be back home. The sun will shine, and everything will be fine. It’s only been ten days of being a ghost with Peter Hale. They’ll fix this, and it will be Stiles’ turn to forget.
Every night ends like this.
Peter completes his ablutions and reads on top of the turned down comforter. A model of modesty in matching pajamas.
After the bang and clatter of his hygiene rituals, Stiles slides between the sheets. At first, he wears long sleeves and pants. As days pass, he trades them in for t-shirts and pants, then t-shirts and boxers. Now, the only barrier between them is his boxers.
They turn off the light. Stiles falls asleep, their only point of contact his elbow on Peter’s arm.
Peter is acutely aware of the Promised Land resting beside him, trusting that Peter has no interest in the currency of his body. Stiles is not altogether wrong.
The snatch and grab is so easy, so simple. If he wills it, Peter can pluck him from the vine, warm and ripe. Instead of mere imagination, there will be the flesh and the blood. Bite down, swallow it whole. Let the juices gush and overflow—for Stiles is a font of sweetness, living waters ready to quench, and Peter thirsts.
Every night, Peter lies there. He wants, and he waits, and he wants. It is an ache in his marrow, but he knows worse pain. He endures.
Stolen fruit may taste sweeter, but what is more pleasing than joyful faith and willing sacrifice?
“You had no right to do that without me!” Stiles’ outburst serves no purpose but spiteful satisfaction. It’s all sound and fury like the useless punches he throws against the unmoving surface of Peter’s chest. He swings again.
Peter catches it, cradles it in his hand like someone else would hold a baby bird. He strokes the knuckles tenderly enough that Stiles’ eyes sting with unshed tears. “You’ll hurt yourself like that.”
“Maybe I want to! I can’t believe you tailed them without letting me know.”
“I knew you’d want to come, and you can’t. We agreed. It’s best to stay away from your friends and family until we know more about the huntsmen.” He pauses. “Unless you were hoping to spice things up by dying?”
Everything Peter says makes awful, hateful sense. Rage courses through him, and there’s no good target. The guilty are out of reach, and Peter… Peter’s his only help. Peter can listen in from a distance. He’s the perfect spy. He’s right. Stiles would have been a hindrance.
That Peter’s decisions are justified cuts deeper than waking up alone, knowing he’s been left behind again.
“Hey. Don’t give me that face.” Peter lifts an eyebrow. “I did the job that suits my talents. You’re just as necessary for the plan. Of the two of us, who was erased for getting too close to the Wild Hunt?”
Stiles’ mouth twitches into a half-hearted smirk. “I was.”
“You were. Don’t forget that, Stiles. They may have erased me as a kinslayer and an oathbreaker, but you. Oh Stiles. They were afraid of you. Rare is the man who can claim half that.”
“Damn right they were.”
“So we follow the plan.”
Torn, Stiles doesn’t answer. So they fear him, or he’s a nuisance. It’s a sop to his dignity, one he appreciates; but he needs to do something. They’ve been waiting for a month. He’s tired of letting creepy dudes on horses wreck his life and control his schedule.
“Stiles.”
“Fine.” He shrugs. “We’ll follow the plan. Let them come to us. Where we have the high ground.” He’ll let them come, and if he gives them a push, that’s not breaking his promise.
Much more time with Peter, and Stiles might start to think he cares.
A hero’s journey takes them from kingdom to desolation and back again. Every hero suffers trials and tribulations. Deprivation of the flesh and the spirit. If the hero’s quest is the hammer, then the wilderness serves as anvil. Thus, they are transformed, ready for their triumphant return.
Deep in the desert, there grows a flower of such virtue that men dare not speak its name.
For the power to break a curse, a boy and man traverse the burning expanse. They battle the dryness of sand, of wind, of arroyo. All around them, desert-dwellers scuttle and fly over cracked earth; they know nothing of the marvel that is their home.
Passing scorpions and spiders ignore the two, intent on their tasks. A rattlesnake fights a hawk encroaching on her nest. Vultures circle overhead, neutral observers in no rush for their next exploitative meal.
At moonrise, hidden flowers bloom. They draw down the light, suffusing their waxy petals with a soft glow. Whatever their virtue—it is not proof against the sickle or human need.
Hand in hand, the two heroes return to face a kingdom in peril.
“Fuckfuckfuck, Peter!” Stiles gasps and sobs when he comes. Fat tears run down his face unchecked. In sex and in life, Stiles remains untouched by inhibition, surrenders to raw sensation without artifice or false dignity.
He’s beautiful.
Peter pulls his mouth up, off of Stiles’ cockhead and smirks. He asks, “Was it good for you?”
Stiles rolls his eyes, heaves sweating limbs until he’s wrapped around Peter. “Uh, yeah. You were here. If you can’t tell, then maybe you’re getting too old for this kind of thing.”
Peter rolls his eyes but gathers him closer, flips them so he covers Stiles’ lanky frame. Unashamed to be leaking sweat, tears, or semen, Stiles clings. He smiles, drifting in a half-doze. Transfixed by the tears rolling slowly down Stiles’ face, Peter uncurls his arm, extends his hand to catch them on his fingers.
He hesitates, hand stopped in mid-air inches from its destination.
This is the moment when Peter should say I love you. You’re safe. He wants to say it. Weave a sweet illusion for Stiles. Those five words are a happy sentiment that pales in comparison to every other lie he’s spoken. The words should come out as easy as breathing, but they shrivel in his mouth.
Rendered mute, Peter treads warily around a new concept. What truth can he offer if he tries? Unbidden, the words rise up as noxious gases, bubbling to the surface of his mind. You’re mine. Nothing will take you. Not death. Not memory. Not time. Always mine.
Stiles raises his eyebrows, the question clear on his face.
Peter’s fingers close the gap, falling to rest on Stiles’ cheekbone. He shakes his head and hair falls across his eyes. “You looked so tired. I didn’t want to disturb you.”
Stiles snorts. “Of course you’re not tired. When do you even sleep?”
I sleep. And I’ve slept. I’ve wasted six years. “I’ll wake you up for your unbirthday cake. So close your eyes,” he murmurs. “Close your eyes and make a wish.”
Peter doesn’t believe in wishes. They’re for people who lack the power to exert their will on the world. And yet, pragmatism doesn’t trump human nature. Call it a dream or a goal, but one day Peter knows Stiles will tell him he loves their life together. He’s not miserable. He’s never been more alive.
One day, Peter will say I love you. Stiles will never hear the lie.
Sleeping in the same bed with Peter defies all of Stiles’ experiences and expectations.
His dad curls into a tight ball of dead weight, more immovable object or mountain to climb than comfort. Scott tosses and turns as much as Stiles. Malia clings and claws and bites.
Peter stays close but not too close. He turns on his side, wraps an arm around Stiles and sleeps. He lies beside Stiles, loose and easy and warm. The simple intimacy feels good. They’ve been sleeping together for thirty-four days, and Stiles is addicted.
Let me in, Stiles.
The thing is that Peter doesn’t ask to be let into the deepest recesses of Stiles’ mind. He hovers, just outside the boundaries, wielding his impossible arrogance as a shield for all the soft vulnerabilities in Stiles’ psyche. You’re the clever one aren’t you? We can do anything, Stiles. They’re afraid of you. Peter’s supreme confidence and need for ownership comforts him, props him up in ways he’s never known he wanted.
Soon this will be over. Everyone will remember. The spell or curse will end. He’ll have his own bed in his own house. And oh god. What even happens to all the pictures? The records? Their stuff? Will reality write itself over again and give it back? What if Stiles never gets to see a picture of himself with his mom again. His mom—
“Stiles.” Peter’s arm tightens around him. He turns them so Stiles can lay on his bare chest. “You were about to start hyperventilating.”
“I was just worried,” Stiles mumbles. “Tomorrow’s a big day.”
Tomorrow’s the day he gets his life back. It shouldn’t feel like losing.
Whatever their Riders are made of, the horses seem more flesh than spirit. Picking off the straggler and spooking it into the right direction is child’s play.
Stiles fulfills his role admirably, taunting the lone Rider, luring him to their leaf-covered circle. Clear Latin cuts through the sweltering night air. It should seal their prey inside the circle. It does seal him, but one arm remains outside the boundary. The huntsman whirls his wrist, gathering enough momentum to lash out at Stiles.
The first strike erases. How much worse is a second? Mind empty of thought, Peter leaps as the horse rears.
Blood spatters. Fae, eldritch, or human—it makes no difference. Bodies and their attendant parts are breakable, and the wrist is so terribly fragile.
Jagged, white bone gleams as hand and whip thud on the forest floor. Another precise slash and the horse shrieks in agony. Entrails slither and writhe in the dirt. The toppling horse rips several sections of intestines with its own weight, filling the air with the stench of offal. The Rider struggles, trapped under thrashing horse and steaming organs.
“My hand. My horse,” he gurgles, eyes wild with pain, with disbelief. Those of the Wild Hunt believe themselves invincible, untouchable by mere mortals, but Peter has shown this one the truth.
He is fire. He is vengeance. And this boy is his. Peter sneers down at the dead and dying; in the end, they prove to be a poor match for an alpha and his partner.
“You saved my life,” Stiles says. He shudders, shying away from Peter’s bloody hands. “You saved my life,” he repeats, eyes blank and unseeing. “Oh god, I fucked up.”
Peter stands still, offering his hand to Stiles’ prone figure. The clearing stinks of death and offal. The bravest of scavengers already lurk in the trees. None of that matters. His wait is almost over.
Blue-veined eyelids drop down. They cover Stiles’ dark eyes, shielding the emotions that chemosignals don’t lay bare to Peter’s senses. But he knows. It’s time.
“I’ll do better next time,” Stiles promises. He grips Peter’s hands. He rests his cheek against them, a holy pilgrim at the end of his journey, marking himself with the sacrifice and coming before the throne.
“I owe you one.” He lets out a shuddering breath and sags into Peter. “More than one.”
No, Peter thinks. You owe me everything, and I mean to collect.