#kyla writes

Scott and Stiles became Scott, Stiles, and Isaac after that. Isaac became a Stilinski a year later. Stiles soon had four buffers against the emotions of the world, Isaac giving him a soft type of content that he usually only felt on rainy days surrounded by his parents. The problem with relying on buffers was that one day they’d all eventually change so much that they no longer offered the haven they once had and Stiles would be left bereft in a chaotic world of other peoples’ emotions. 

The first to change was his mom. He started to feel emotions from her that didn’t make sense, but the most common one was confusion. His mom would suddenly stop in the middle of doing something and a burst of it would engulf the room so strongly he’d scrunch his face up in a mirror image of hers. Stiles was scared to tell his dad something was wrong, until Isaac had ran up from behind him and hugged him tightly trepidation, worry, fear fill Stiles’ senses instead of the warm  love that usually enveloped him when Isaac hugged him. He turned to ask the boy what was wrong, but a wave of confusion hit him as he locked eyes with his mother. She smiled and rubbed a hand down his arm, pleasant surprise this time filling him as she asked who the boy behind him was. She told Stiles he needed permission before bringing a new friend over, despite the fact that Isaac had been living with them for six months at that point. After that things had progressed too quickly. His mother was a less powerful empath than him, but at the height of her illness Stiles couldn’t be in the hospital wing she stayed in due to the emotions she couldn’t control, only project at full volume. Nurses quit or requested a different patient every few weeks, not understanding why they were so upset all the time, but knowing it had something to do with the screaming woman in 203. 

It was on one of those days that his mother’s unending terror had been too much, that Stiles had stumbled into a room and immediately screamed a feral, angry thing as pain, hatred, loss, wrath slammed into him without warning. Isaac and Scott hadn’t been far behind him as he ran away from his mother’s screams and pain, but at the sound of his anguished scream they’d burst through the door and did the only thing they knew would calm their friend. They hugged him with every ounce of strength they shared in their small bodies, unaware that the love, fondness, sympathy surrounding him was what actually calmed him down. It also helped that the wall of emotion had receded at the sound of his scream, and even muted itself. Curiosity, hope, and wariness flowed between the dark emotions as Stiles took in the bleak room around him. A man was laying on the hospital bed in the corner of the room, his body eerily still for the emotions Stiles could still feel coming off him. He wanted to ask if the man was okay, but that was a stupid question. Better questions flooded his mind, but his friends were feeling more and more worry by the minute in that dark, barren room. He blanketed the room in calm and peace, the boys on either side of him relaxed instantly, and the emotions filling the room eased instead of the muted feeling they had been after his scream. He asked Scott and Isaac to get him an apple juice, the boys reluctant to leave Stiles in a room alone with a comatose stranger, but ultimately giving in to his puppy eyes. 

Stiles approached the man in the bed, noting the burn scars traveling up his neck and face. 

“Something horrible happened to you. I’m sorry for the pain you have felt. The screams that fill this wing are my mom’s. She doesn’t remember me anymore and it hurts, it hurts like you hurt. I’m not ready to lose my momma, but neither is daddy. I’ve got to look out for Scott and Isaac so I can’t let them see me cry. I’m gonna cry now. I’m sorry.” Stiles apologized.

He truly was deeply sorry in his very being that anyone had to go through something that made them feel the way this man did. He was sorry that the man didn’t ask for three grieving boys to stumble into his room and couldn’t even tell them to leave. He was sorry that the man had to hear his mother’s screams. He was sorry that the man had to feel his mother’s fear when she had an episode and couldn’t stop herself from projecting. But mostly he was sorry all he could do for the man was fill the room with peace and cry at his bedside. He let himself cry for just a moment before grabbing the man’s hand and covering him head to toe in calm, content, peace. He hoped it lingered on the man for as long as possible. Scott and Isaac returned with his apple juice and more hugs as they left the room with the comatose man. 

In the wake of his mother’s death Stiles also lost his father. Not in the literal sense, but something was broken inside the man. He didn’t see the boys anymore. Didn’t greet them with smiles and hugs like he once had. Didn’t smile or hug at all. Isaac backed away, fear rising in him each day the newly appointed sheriff got closer and closer to the man he’d once saved Isaac from. His grip harshed on the back of Stiles’ neck, no longer the warm comfort it’d once been. Now a means to bodily move his son or reprimand him. It was in those moments that Stiles was struck still and silent by the overwhelming grief, pain, loss, hopelessness, devastation that was consuming his father. His father’s pain was not an excuse to treat his sons like the were ghosts in his home, one of whom looked too much like the woman he loved to stomach even looking at. He hurt Stiles sometimes on accident, but he didn’t even acknowledge Isaac’s presence in their home. The boys formed a bond in those months that would never break. 

Stiles spent his days sneaking out of the house while Isaac and Scott played video games and Melissa slept. He would sneak down to the police station and project love, hope, forgiveness, peace in alternating patterns and at varying degrees. In the end he wasn’t sure if his projecting helped his father or if the breaking point had finally changed things. The breaking point had been Isaac flinching away from Stiles’ father when the man had tried to ruffle his curls like the past few months he hadn’t been leaving bruises on his other son’s neck. Isaac had flinched, a whimper escaping him and fear bursting out of him so strong Stiles had pushed his father away from his brother and snarled at him. Melissa had come running down the stairs, sleep mussed hair and bleary eyed, Scott peeking out from behind her legs. She’d shouted his father’s name just as the man had wrenched Stiles away from Isaac by the neck. She gathered the three boys behind her and released a torrent of angry, scornful words that had hit his father like a train. Stiles had focused on his father’s emotions, reading them as they came to him in a flurry: anger, indignation, shock, pain, grief, fear, self-loathing, regret, remorse, devastation, guilt. 

“I know you’re in pain. I know you miss momma. I miss her too, but I don’t like you right now dad. And you scare Isaac, and that makes me mad. You’re not allowed to scare him anymore, okay?” Stiles stared at his father, the secret of how adeptly Stiles actually did know his father’s pain bare and raw between them. 

“And you can’t be mean to Stiles anymore!” Isaac demanded, though it came out much weaker than he had probably intended. 

“Yeah! No more hurting him!” Scott yelled, his twelve year old fists clenched by his sides. 

Stiles’ father dropped to his knees and sobbed. The sound earth shattering in Stiles’ ears when accompanied by the tidal wave of sorrow, grief, guilt, regret. 

“I’m going to keep the boys at my house until you get sober and get counseling.” Melissa said, her resolve strong in the face of his tears. 

While they stayed with the McCalls Stiles still sneaked out to project positive feelings to his father. 

The boys moved back in with their father after his three month stint in rehab with a grief counselor. Isaac was more wary than Stiles to return, but Stiles could feel the cleanse his father’s emotional state went through. They had bunk beds, but Isaac slept with Stiles most nights when they first returned. Stiles would wake up every time the other boy had a nightmare and he would project safe emotions to his brother until he settled. He would check in on his father’s emotions through the night too. Melissa called every night before bed for the first month to make sure the boys were truly settled back home and safe. Stiles was happy to be home and happy to see his father healing and healthy again, he would never be the safe haven he’d once been. Stiles still thought that one day, maybe even one day soon, they’d be a family again. 

Three years later, Stiles had his family whole again, but lost his last two buffers, Scott and Isaac. Together. All at once Stiles was alone in the ocean of emotions around him. The problem with both of your adopted brothers being werewolves when you’re an empath is that they get more tactile when you can no longer handle the emotions whirling through their minds at any given time. Supernatural creatures were louder than humans. Stiles had grown stronger over the years, but there was nothing he could do to stop the events of their sophomore year. Well perhaps he could’ve stopped the events if he hadn’t been the one to drag his sweet loyal brothers out of their beds in the middle of the night to go find the source of the overwhelming emotions coming from the preserve. They’d been heading towards the area Stiles had felt the spike of sorrow so sharp it’d brought tears to his eyes when he’d picked up on more emotions. 

Pain, hatred, loss, wrath, grief was approaching fast. Too fast to even warn his brothers to run before a massive angry alpha werewolf had tackled Scott, biting his side immediately. Stiles vomited as Scott’s pain and fear throbbed through him at the same time Isaac’s horror slammed into him from behind, all mixed with the creatures emotions. It was too much. He couldn’t shut out Isaac and Scott’s emotions like he could strangers’ emotions, they were as apart of him as his own. He couldn’t fight against the strength of the alpha’s emotions either. 

Stiles tried to breathe, tried to shake off everyone else’s emotions so he could focus. But the alpha reared back and snatched Isaac off the ground, its teeth sinking into his ribs. Isaac screamed. Scott cried out, too weak to scream. The alpha howled. And Stiles gathered every ounce of terror filling his brothers and himself and ROARED. 

The alpha dropped Isaac, his body bounced once on the ground before laying too still for Stiles’ heart, and passed out. Stiles took a moment to breathe and gather his strength again. He blanketed his brothers in safe, love, calm, peace before calling his father. 

“Stiles? Why are you calling me? We’re both home?” His father listened to his panicked, exhausted breaths for a moment before finishing, “Unless we’re not. Okay. Where are you? Why aren’t Isaac and Scott there to calm you? I’m putting on pants and coming to you kiddo, but I need you to find a way to tell me what happened and where I’m going.” 

“Alpha. Bit. Boys. Preserve. Hale House close?” Stiles was hyperventilating, the adrenaline morphing into panic as he realized the ramifications of the night. 

Stiles heard his father stop shuffling and gasp and was glad he couldn’t feel his father’s emotions from this far unless he tuned into them on purpose. 

“Okay. Okay kiddo. We’ll deal with it. I’m coming. I need you to put pressure on the wounds and tell me if you see any black goo seeping out of them. You don’t have to speak other than that so try to focus on your breathing and on stopping the bleeding.” His father was much better in a crisis than he ever would be. 

Stiles forced his wooden legs to carry him to his brothers. Isaac had rolled relatively close to Scott, which made checking them both over much easier. He dropped to his knees between their limp bodies and, putting his father on speaker first, shined his phone’s flashlight onto Isaac’s unconscious body. 

“Oh god dad. His body bounced. It fucking bounced off the ground like a ball. What if he’s bleeding internally? How do I fix that? How do I save him?” He shined the light onto Scott and almost vomited again. 

He whimpered his oldest and closest friend’s name as he took in the sight of his torn side. 

“It bit them so violently dad. There’s more wound area than I have hand area. I can’t do anything. I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t protect them. I can’t save them. Daddy please hurry. I can’t do this alone and I can’t lose them. I can’t.” Stiles muted his end of the phone and let out a sob so violent his entire body shook. 

He had long ago stopped letting anyone see him cry for fear that he’d project it and make someone else sad. He couldn’t stop the torrent of tears spilling out of him. He threw his head back and screamed through his grief and sorrow. He’d always felt better after being able to release the emotions inside him that way, even if it was a rather violent coping mechanism. 

He could hear his father saying his name and asking him to turn off the mute, and mechanically did so, the last of his scream still echoing around them. Then he heard a sound, a whimper he hadn’t expected to hear. His head whipped to the limp bodies of his brothers but neither stirred, and it was then that Stiles remembered he had turned his back on an unconscious alpha werewolf. The same alpha that had just violently attacked his family unprovoked. He stood as he spun around to face the creature, but there was nothing in the spot it had collapsed in. The alpha got away. 

-

High school was hell after that night. His brothers didn’t understand why he flinched when nothing was happening, why he would dodge their touch when he used to run headlong into it, why he no longer wanted to share a room with Isaac. Stiles could’ve told them about being an empath, but things were so complicated and he didn’t want them looking guilty every time they had a strong emotion. It wasn’t their fault supernatural creatures were loud, and it wasn’t their fault Kate Argent lured Laura Hale into the preserve that night and killed her. Peter Hale had been comatose until the moment the alpha spark slammed into him full force. He followed the scent of blood to the sight of his nieces’ murder and attacked the first foreign thing he came across. It was Peter’s grief Stiles had felt so sharply he’d bolted out of bed and raced to Scott’s house, Isaac in tow, so that they could go hiking through the woods to find the source. 

Scott and Isaac were the least to blame for their new found werewolf status, and the only thing Stiles felt as they had to deal with Peter Hale’s rampage and Derek Hale trying to force them under his rule was guilt. 

Peter had asked him if he wanted the bite that night in the garage, but Stiles had been too busy being relaxed by his muted emotions to be properly scared of his threats. Stiles could feel the fondness, intrigue, humor rolling off the man when they interacted, but every time he saw anger flash in those sapphire eyes he didn’t feel it as strongly as he suspected. Something about Peter seemed familiar and despite everything Stiles found himself fond of the man as well. Then he tried to attack Scott, Isaac, and Allison and Stiles had to stop him. No matter how much Stiles found the man curious and charismatic he had to pay for what he did to Scott and Isaac, and Stiles would not let him lay a single claw on an innocent again. He would overwhelm the man with whatever emotion it would take to stop him. As Jackson threw the molotov cocktail Stiles felt a blast of terror so strong he stumbled, but knew it had come from the man that had already burned once. Stiles granted him the only mercy he could in that moment. Numb. Sleep. Peace. Each emotion as strong as he could project them, and Peter’s eyes snapped to his just before the cocktail exploded and Peter’s eyes closed as he passed out. Peter would not live through this sleep, but he would not have to be aware of burning alive again. 

After Peter’s death, Derek became alpha and bit Erica Reyes and Vernon Boyd. Gerard Argent became principal and made sure he threatened the fledgeling pack at every opportunity. Jackson somehow became a kanima just from Derek’s nail stuck in his neck, which: ew. The whole time Scott and Isaac were caught up in running and fighting, Stiles was distancing himself so that he could learn to mute their emotions. He could mute human emotions unless they were touching him, but supernatural emotions were more projected and harder to mute. 

Stiles found himself going on runs through the preserve more than was probably safe, but it was the only place in Beacon Hills that there was rarely people. And he’d sense a supernatural creature before it got close enough to attack, he’d grown in power since the night Peter had bitten his brothers. He had never thought he’d have to use his empathy as a weapon, but here he was with a blunt sword he had to sharpen as fast and as safely as possible. Out in the preserve he could practise putting animals to sleep or easing their fear of him enough to pet them without worrying about anyone seeing. 

He’d went for a run after Scott and Isaac’s lacrosse game, which was probably a bad idea since Jackson may or may not have died that night. There’d been so much fear and worry in the stands that Stiles had to escape to the peace of the preserve. Which is how he found himself surrounded by fifteen grown men armed to the teeth. 

“Woah! What do you need all those for? Mr.Jones killed the mountain lion a while back now, so there’s nothing out here nearly dangerous enough for you to need all that for!” 

They only stepped closer, silent in their menacing, and Stiles could feel the violence in their emotions. 

“Right? Cause if you guys think there is something dangerous out here I need to get the hell out of here!” Stiles was trying to keep his panic at bay. 

They were here for him, but none of them had the right combination of emotions to make him feel like they were going to kill him here. They were going to take him. Probably to Gerard. 

Why would Gerard want him? He was just a human as far as anyone knew. It didn’t matter at that moment, what did matter was soothing the itch for violence in these men. 

Stiles started projecting little tendrils of friendly at each man as they closed in on him. He was knocked unconscious, not by a pistol whip to the top of his head, but a punch to his temple. The last thing he thought was ‘At least my empathy softened the blow somewhat.’

Stiles didn’t stay unconscious long, the amount of hands on him as they carried him into a house and down the stairs into a basement torture chamber was enough to jolt him awake the moment they lifted him. They threw him down in a way that sent his body skidding across the harsh concrete ground and landing under two sets of bare feet. Stiles groaned as he felt not only his pain, but also the two above him’s pain and fear. 

He lifted his gaze away from the men assembled in front of him and to the teenagers hanging from the ceiling above him. Erica cried out when she saw him, Boyd thrashed against his restraints in an attempt to free himself. Stiles had to mute their emotions as best he could, though it was incredibly hard when those emotions were about him. Their fear was for him. He had felt the resignation on them when he’d been thrown at them. They were ready to die, but wanted to fight for Stiles to live. Stiles hadn’t even truly considered them friends until that revelation. He’d be damned if they were going to die on his watch. 

Gerard finally made his appearance, spouting racist bullshit and throwing surprisingly strong punches. Stiles could take it, would take it. He had to if he was going to get the ‘wolves behind him out of here. There was too many people and he didn’t even know where they were, but Stiles would figure it out. As Gerard picked him up by the collar of his track jersey and punched him back down onto the ground Stiles sent tendrils of wariness into the men behind Gerard. As the geriatric bastard stomped on Stiles’ ribs, Stiles sent a wave of guilt into the men. He noticed one slip out the back while Gerard was distracted by Stiles hacking up blood. 

Moments later Chris Argent came striding in and Stiles felt guilt, regret, worry as he looked at the brutalized teenagers. Good. Stiles couldn’t hear what son said to father, but Gerard spit on Stiles and followed his son upstairs. Stiles had leaned so heavily into Erica and Boyd’s emotions so as to avoid feeling even an ounce of Gerard’s that he gasped when he could pull his senses off of them. Stiles sent tired at the men watching them wearily and all but one left. Stiles simply projected sleep at the three other people in the basement and waited for them to sag. Once he knew everyone in his vicinity was sleeping he cast his awareness through the house, relieved to feel nothing. They’d trusted one man to watch a beat up human and two restrained werewolves, but they didn’t know who Stiles was. 

Getting Erica and Boyd down and into the car was the most physically painful hour of his life. When they woke Stiles told them the hunter left to guard them told him to take the other two and get out before he changed his mind. It was a lie, but they didn’t need to know that. What they needed at that moment was somewhere safe and somewhere comforting. Stiles could do that for them. He blanketed the car in safe, calm, peace, contentment, love and soon he could hear Erica singing along to the radio quietly from the back seat. Sometimes he really wished he could project onto himself. 

After that Stiles had more people’s touch to dodge. Erica and Boyd claimed Stiles with the brand of fierce loyalty he’d claimed them. With every dodge Stiles sent love back to make sure they didn’t feel rejected, his four puppies always smiled back at him like it was a game. Perhaps it was a game, one that Stiles wouldn’t handle losing very well. 

A plan was hatched to dispose of Gerard Argent, Stiles knew what Scott was like when he was planning something. After a little bit of snooping Stiles decided he needed to step in and help Scott with Not Doing That. 

“But I think it’s clever.” Scott defended, his brows furrowed. 

“It is clever. I’m honestly shocked you thought of something this devious, I’m usually the devious one.” Stiles laughed, his hand casually coming up to rest on Scott’s arm despite the overwhelming  flow of his emotions. 

Sometimes he really missed touching and being touched. Scott was his first buffer against the outside world, maybe Stiles could just take an aspirin after they touched and it’d be okay. Even if he did want to smile like an idiot and scrunch up his face in confusion, offended and cry from heartbreak and fight something. 

Werewolves were a tsunami of emotions and Stiles only had a raft made of touch starvation and devotion. 

Scott had to repeat his question twice before Stiles could focus on it, “So why cant I do it?” 

“Well buddy the thing is you don’t know a lot about werewolf culture yet, right?” 

Scott nodded. 

“And you know I’ve been researching the hell out of it at lightning speed? Well something I learned was that an alpha’s bite is precious and a gift. You and Isaac are different because Peter was drowning in lost pack bonds and need new ones immediately. But think about Erica and Boyd.” 

“Derek scouted them.” 

“Okay meat head. I would’ve said looked for them, but sure.” 

“Shut up, man. I’m telling you I understand.” 

“Fuck yeah! Okay so now that we’re on the same page of ‘Operation: Force Derek to Bite Gerard to Kill Him’ being not good, let’s brainstorm what to do next.” Stiles fist bumped Scott and they fell back onto his bed together. 

Isaac joined them soon after offering his own insights. Stiles called Erica and Boyd when the three of them came to another impasse about what to do. 

Soon Stiles’ bedroom was full of teenage werewolves, and he was starting to freak out. He opened the window for fresh air, but Derek launched himself onto his roof at the exact moment it opened. 

“Sweet Baby Yoda, you scared the hell out of me!” Stiles gasped, clutching his chest while Erica snickered. 

Derek frowned at him, “Why are you having a pack meeting without me?”

“We aren’t voting you off the island, alpha mine!” Erica chirped. 

“Yet.” Boyd followed gravely. 

“Well that’s reassuring.” Derek deadpanned back as he approached his four betas. He scent marked each of them before reaching out and placing his hand on Stiles’ head. 

Grief, self-loathing, guilt, worry, fear, pain 

It slammed threw him so hard Stiles could only stumble backwards as tears welled up in his eyes. Derek’s emotions were always muted unless they were strong, but this was the first time they’d touched when Stiles was too sensitive by everyone else to dilute what he took in. 

He hit the ground and dropped his head, Derek following suit to check on him.

“Stiles? What just-” 

“Stiles darling, come now. Up you get.” He didn’t know where Peter came from or how he was able to lift him by his shoulders without sending a single emotion to Stiles, but Stiles didn’t care. 

He let Peter guide him out of the room. He hadn’t felt anything from Peter except content, humor, interest, curiosity since the man had returned to the world of the living, but now he truly felt nothing from the man. He tried to slump back into Peter’s chest, but the man stopped him. 

“Not yet, pet. I haven’t perfected the full body charms yet.” 

Stiles hummed an inquisitive sound as Peter sat him on the couch. 

Peter sat beside him, close but not touching more than the hand on his leg. 

“It took me longer than I would’ve liked, but yes I did indeed say charm. I’m going to make full body mute charms and you’re going to gift them to the pack and your father, so that they will actually wear them. You don’t have to tell them what you are, love, but if you keep up like this you’re going to burn yourself out. I am not quite ready to say goodbye to the little boy that screamed when I could not.” Peter caressed Stiles’ cheek as he spoke, his thumb wiping away dried tears. 

“You know? How? They make mute charms? Will you show me how to make them?” Stiles’ mind was starting to whirl with the possibilities, “If there are mute charms, could I make singular emotion charms? So does that mean you only have a hand mute charm on? Is it the ring? That’s new right? I don’t want to tell them what I am. They’ll feel guilty for every emotion they have if they know it impacts me. Can the charm be any material or does it have to be silver? That is silver right? I wouldn’t burn myself out. I totally got this. But the charms are so cool!” Stiles took a big breath as his rapid fire inquires petered out. 

He smiled sheepishly at Peter’s calm, but amused expression. 

“Sorry they got excited and I was already excited, so a feedback loop kicked up. Add in the ADHD and it’s rough. You said I screamed when you couldn’t? When?” 

Peter brought his hand around and placed it on the back of Stiles’ neck, a warm comforting weight, before answering, “We’ll unpack all your charm questions later, okay? As for how I know and when you were able to express my emotions when I couldn’t, the answers are the same but slightly different.”

Stiles nodded, leaning back into Peter’s palm.

“You stumbled into my hospital room and screamed the minute the door was shut, I didn’t understand why this eleven year old was in my room or why his scream sounded like he felt every single thing I was feeling. I wasn’t very aware at that point, but the visceral emotion in that scream sounded like my own. And then you filled my room with such nice feelings I thought for a long time it was a dream.”

Stiles’ eyes are wet again as the memory of that day finally floods back in. 

“And then I felt Laura die and the spark pass to me. I was blind in my fury and grief. I found her body and howled with every ounce of grief within my tattered soul. I was searching the area to figure out who did it when you three stumbled into my path. I felt your sorrow for your brothers as if it were my own and I ran.”

Stiles remembers the whimper and squeezes the hand on his thigh with his own. 

“And then, my sweet sweet boy, I died. I was burned alive for the second time, but you saved me the trauma of experiencing it. I don’t know how I knew it was you who granted me the numbness that took over my body, but when I looked at you trying not to show anyone the emotion I saw in your eyes, I knew. I knew you were the little boy. I knew that once again you were here to save me from pain.” 

Stiles wiped his watery eyes viciously, mad at himself for tearing up in front of Peter. 

“I vowed that if I could make it back I’d repay you. And these charms are how I plan to do that, pet.” Peter moved Stiles hand away from his eyes before slowly moving in and kissing each sensitive eyelid. 

“Where do we go from here, Peter?” Stiles whispered, his throat too full of emotion, for once it was his own. 

The students and professor of the Golden Deer House barely got a moment of reprieve before their lives were thrust back into the chaos of war.

The Flame Emperor, or in actuality, Edelgard, managed to escape their grasp in their last battle, and now?

“The Imperial Army is marching on Garreg Mach.”

That’s what Shamir had stated in her report, and now both Professor and House Leader rushed through the winding halls of the monastery and spreading the word to all of those they came across. Lady Rhea had already mobilized the knights who prepared for an all-out attack from the Empire.

How could Edelgard do this?

Byleth couldn't say she was all too close with the leader of House Black Eagles, being the professor for a different class, but for her to be plotting an entire uprising against the church? She never could have seen it coming. 

---

The afternoon sun stung her eyes as they emerged from the ornately carved wooden doors into an all-out war.

The Knights of Seiros clashed with Imperial soldiers in a bloody massacre in the field before Fódlan’s most sacred location. Battle cries amalgamated with the dying screams of friend and foe alike into a chorus of absolute despair and anarchy.

“Teach?” The usual strong and flamboyant voice of House Leader Claude suddenly sounded subdued and worried, but when Byleth turned to face him she found nothing but bravery in those emerald green eyes.

“We’re ready.”

The members of the Golden Deer house stood before her with weapons at the ready, not showing any signs of fatigue or injury from the earlier battle. Byleth’s heart swelled with pride at the sight. This group of rather bratty teenagers she had been roped into teaching had by now felt like a family to her. The only family she had left.

“Hey, Byleth.” Claude grabbed her wrist as the others marched down the long stairs to the battle below. The use of her actual name was an uncommon occurrence with Claude, who preferred to call her “Teach” rather than “Professor” but never really broke the formality completely but using her name. The only other time she could recall him saying it was the day they met and when he came to console her after her father’s murder.

“I’ve got your back, just like always.”

“Try not to die out there.” She tried to jest, hoping to see him crack a smile as is might be the last time she gets to see it.

“No promises.”

Byleth gave him a steely glare as he shrugged, flashing her a small smile as they charged onward to join the fight.

---

The young woman shouted orders across the battlefield to her comrades as they clashed with Imperial forces. Swords were swung and spells flung as crimson blood stained the thick green grass. 

Byleth ducked just in time to avoid a javelin, the flying metal spear grazing past her shoulder, missing her throat by an inch and slicing her already ragged hair. 

The pale green locks that drifted to the ground were still of foreign sight to her, unused to the light pigment instead of the dark blue she had inherited from her mother. The thought of it made her feel like a part of her had been erased. The blue of her hair and eyes had matched that of the deep sea, a stark contrast to her father’s blond hair and reddish-brown eyes. The sight of her reflection was the only thing she had of the mother she had never known, but since completely merging with Sothis, her own reflection of green eyes and hair seemed like a stranger was staring back at her.

Would father even recognize me like this?

Just thinking about him was too much of a distraction for her current situation. Byleth plunged her sword through the chest of an archer who had been taking aim at Marianne, the man let out a gurgled cry as he fell limp on her blade. 

A deep and guttural battle cry came from her left before she had the chance to dislodge her weapon.  

An arrow sunk into the temple of the oncoming soldier sending him crumpling to the ground before he had a chance to bring his axe down upon her.

“And to think, you were the one telling me not to die!” Claude chimed as he retrieved his arrow from the man’s head.

“Check it out, over there.”

Byleth turned to see what the brunet was pointing at. 

Across the field, a familiar platinum-blonde stood staring them down as the chaos ensured around them. Her violet eyes held no sign of mercy as she gripped her axe tightly as if beckoning them forward for a battle.

Edelgard.

“Call off your army!” Byleth shouted to the young Emperor in what she knew was a futile attempt at stopping the continuation of this tragedy.

“This is an act of war!”

“Then it is war I declare.” The woman stood her ground.

“War against the Church of Seiros and your false goddess.”

“What happened to you, Edelgard?” Claude begged his former friend, those emerald eyes full of betrayal and disbelief.

“What do you hope to obtain by plunging all of Fódlan into anarchy?”

“The same thing you wanted, Claude, though perhaps a more realistic version.” The ice in her eyes clearly spread all the way to her heart.

“I want to unite Fódlan into one nation as it was before, under the rule of the Empire.”

She’s gone mad!

Byleth could hardly believe what she was hearing. Edelgard, The Flame Emperor, had been plotting against the Archbishop this entire year. 

Professor Jeritza… Tomas… Monica… All of her accomplices who had been a part of the horrible occurrences across Fódlan as of late.

Monica.

Byleth felt a rage grow within the wound in her heart as she wondered how much Edelgard had to do with the murder of her father. Whether or not it was by the new Emperor’s design, Byleth would make her pay.

Before Byleth had a chance to test her blade’s sharpness against her foe’s throat an enraged voice roared across the battlefield with a strength that shook the earth beneath them. A dragon larger than any of the demonic beasts soared from the monastery’s cliff, unleashing a powerful blast of energy of its jaws that levelled any foe in its path.

“Get down!” Claude tackled his professor into the dirt as the massive beast’s fury missed them by mere meters.

What the hell was that thing?

“You alright?” He asked as they both picked themselves up.

“Wait, where’s Edelgard?”

The Emperor was nowhere to be seen among the fray, whether she got away or was eviscerated, it was impossible to tell, but Byleth coped for the latter.

The professor frantically looked around for the rest of her students. The beast didn’t seem to care who it exactly took out in its rage, hundreds of soldiers scattered around all burnt to a crisp or incinerated entirely. 

A familiar yelp sounded not too far off as she saw the pink pigtails of Hilda swirl around as she swung her axe down on any soldier who dared come her way. As strong as she was, she was vastly outnumbered.

“Claude, go help Hilda, I have to go after Edelgard.” She didn’t want to split from him, but ensuring Edelgard’s demise would end the war here and now.

“I’ll be fine, just go.”

Claude grabbed her hand and squeezed it tight, eyeing the Golden Deer bracelet clasped around her wrist. A good luck charm. He had called it when he gifted it to her on her birthday during the last Horsebow Moon.

“You’ll be fine as long as you’ve got this thing with you.” He smirked before pulling an arrow from his quiver and racing to assist his classmate.

Although she figured having The Sword of the Creator at her side would give her the best odds of winning, but luck was definitely needed here.

As the winged beast swooped in for another attack, the wails of demonic beast pierced the air as they pounced on it, knocking it from the sky.

She gripped her sword tightly and began to charge just as time suddenly froze.

It was a reflex she had developed that had saved her life a few times in recent battles, letting out a Divine Pulse at the first sign of critical injury. Her ears rung with the searing pain of the axe lodged a few inches into her back. She hated using her power on herself. Such an invaluable but limited ability was best used to save lives other than her own. Though Byleth kicked herself for her carelessness, she felt this axe belonged to the one she had been searching for. Byleth reached somewhere within her soul, willing the hands of time to tick backwards as she found herself just a few moments into the past.

A few moments was all she needed to see the great dragon fall again as she whipped around, using her blade to knock away the axe thrown in her direction. Byleth’s pale green eyes stared down Edelgard as she smirked at her own failed attack.

“How are you just impossible to sneak up on?” Frustration crept into the young Emperor’s voice.

“Who do you fight for the church? Join me and we can rid Fódlan of that evil witch.”

It was hard for Byleth to completely say she was fighting for the Church of Seiros. Religion had nothing to do with simply doing the right thing. The monastery was the first real home she had ever known. Her mother and father both rested there. Not to mention the bonds she’d made with the kids she taught were irreplaceable. The Archbishop be damned Byleth had her own reasons to fight. There wasn’t a chance that Byleth would give this up for a megalomaniacal warlord.

“I’d die before I’d join your cause.” Byleth hissed as she felt the power in her sword grow with her own anticipation.

“Then I guess you must perish.” Edelgard’s tone may have sounded defeated but her army was far from it. 

More soldiers poured onto the field, the continuous march of red-painted metal seemed endless. Endlessness outweighing hope as the look on Edelgard’s face told her she knew this victory belonged to the empire.

This couldn’t be how it ends. She had fought through too much to lose now based on sheer numbers.

Sothis...

Sothis told her once their souls had been merged, they would no longer be able to speak to one another, but Byleth hoped the goddess would still be able to hear her.

Sothis, I need your power.

Her desperate plea was met with a sudden feeling she had heard many people describe, but never experienced.

Byleth felt a pounding in her chest.

“The baby that never cried, or laughed, or even had a heartbeat.”

That is what her father’s journal said. Her heart did not beat. Yet this pounding was unmistakable. 

The hole in the hilt of her sword glowed a bright red as she felt the power flow through her as if her veins were filled with magma. Byleth shook with the energy, burning flames swirled around her, searing the Crest of Flames into the field around her as she held the Sword of the Creator high into the air.

“What the hell is-” Edelgard didn’t get the chance to finish that thought before Byleth plunged her sword deep into the ground.

The resulting blast incinerated all enemies in its wake. Swirling blasts of fire dancing around the battlefield to the music of Byleth’s will. The ground began to crack around her, forever marking it with her Crest. 

Though she could not see every life taken, she could feel them. Every body that came into contact with the flames of her wrath was felt in her very core. She felt their agony, their pain, but none of it mattered. Sothis may have been The Beginning, but for the Imperial Army, Byleth would be The End.

However, The End seemed to have come for more than just her enemies as the power within her began to fade. The yellowish colour of her divine blade began to fade into a dull grey that grew past the sword and began to coat her fingers. The heat of the flames turned into chilling numbness crawling up her arms, encapsulating even her golden bracelet in its colourlessness. The only colour added was the blood dripping onto the hilt from where it gushed from her nose.

Byleth felt her entire body growing stiff and tired. Oh, by the goddess she was tired. Every last fragment of energy was drained, but both her body and mind refused to cooperate enough to even allow her to collapse. As the stone crept across her chest she found herself nearly suffocating.

I’m dying.

Sothis warned her many times about using her powers in excess, but as long as they were safe, Byleth felt she could go in peace.

What happens to someone like her when she dies? Would she be able to see her father again? Would she be able to meet her mother? Sothis would die along with her, so what happens when a goddess dies?

Part of her was afraid to find out.

“Teach!” Through her blurred vision, she could see Claude sprinting towards her with a limp in his right leg and a look of abject horror painted across his features. Injured, but alive. That was good enough.

By the time he approached Byleth could barely feel anything at all. Not the tears running down her face. Not his grip on her shoulders. Hell, when he yells for someone in the distance, she can hardly make out the words. 

I’m sorry, Claude.

She wished she could say it out loud, but by the time she finishes the thought, everything she knew had become cold and dark.

---

Claude’shit the soft dirt with a dull thud as he dismounted his wyvern, rubbing his gloved hand across her hard, pearl white scales. The beast let out a mournful trill as if sensing her master’s troubled heart. He paid his mount little mind in that moment, more occupied with the field before him. 

It was hard to imagine that five years earlier, this plain was the site of a great battle, unlike anything the monastery had seen in hundreds of years, and at the epicentre of that battle, stood strong an immovable statue. 

The surrounding area had been turned into a memorial for the hero of Garreg Mach, Byleth Eisner, who stood in her stony form, the Sword of the Creator still plunged into the soil where she had ended Edelgard’s war as soon as it began. 

The final rays of the sunset cast a golden light on the bouquets of violets that laid at her feet and scattered all around. The flowers offered to the Enlightened One for her bravery, loyalty, and sacrifice to the people of the monastery and all of Fódlan for that matter.

Hopefully, she can find some peace among the petals.

Claude’s heart felt as if it would cave in at the sight of his old professor in such a state. The young woman he remembered seemed undefeatable by any enemy, charging headfirst into battle with her signature unnervingly blank expression and quick to throw herself between her students and any foe.

Although she was a professor, the lacking age gap between them always made her feel more like a friend to him. 

No.

Friend seemed like the word that should be used to describe her, but it left an odd feeling in his chest like something unfulfilled. Before he wouldn’t have known how to describe how he felt about her, he just knew the agony he felt when she was taken away. 

Time was supposed to heal all wounds, but that never really occurred in him. Becoming the leader of the Leicester Alliance proved a decent enough distraction, but it was a lonely role. It was hard for Claude to continue along the path of his ambitions for a unified world when it was a path he walked alone. There was an empty space by his side that only one could ever fill.

That person had no more steps to take, no more words to speak, not even one final smile to bear. Just cold stone and a heavy reminder of what happens when you cross the Church of Seiros.

"Hey, Teach." Claude spoke to the unmoving figure.

“I kept my promise, I came back for the Millenium Festival.”

To think Garreg Mach would never have seen it’s thousandth year without her.

“Sorry I got here so late, the other nobles of the Roundtable just love to debate me over every little thing.” He frowned at the expected absence of a response.

What he wouldn’t give to hear her voice just one more time.

He placed his hand on her wrist, the stone was cold as ice that chilled him down to his bones. His fingers traced the beads of the bracelet he had crafted just for her, now dull in colour and forever fused to her body.

Not so lucky after all.

“I’m sorry.” The young ruler bit his lip as he also bit back tears. 

All war is unpredictable from start to finish. You never know which goodbye will be the last. Not that they even got the chance for a proper goodbye.

He couldn’t get over how she looked exactly the same as she did five years ago. Standing in this field, completely untouched by time. While Claude himself had changed quite a bit in the same amount of time. 

He was only twenty-three but felt far older. Perhaps that’s what leadership does to someone. Byleth couldn’t have been more than one or two years off of him, but her maturity as both professor and commander was astonishing.

He knew the past would never stop haunting him. From eating together in the dining hall to fighting alongside each other on the battlefield and every day in the library indulging in their shared thirst for knowledge that came in between.

She was the only one who he ever truly confided in. The only one he discussed his ambitions with. A plan for a unified world. She believed it was possible. The woman who could seemingly make anything happen shared his dream to break down Fódlan’s walls and let the outsiders in.

With her gone, it no longer seemed as possible as he originally believed.

As the sun finally set, blanketing them in darkness with only the light of the moon and the stars to light their way in a gleam of silver. 

The others were expecting him inside the monastery. He wondered how many of the Golden Deer kept their promises to return on the day of the festival. He tried to turn away but he couldn't pry his eyes from her. He leaned forward, giving her a small peck on her cheek.

“Rest well, By, you’ve earned it.”

The man forced himself to turn away from her, taking a deep lungful of the crisp night air. Over the racket of the crickets, another noise catches his attention. It was quick and small, but something about it made him both curious and anxious.

He turned back to the statue, at first, seeing nothing amiss. Although when Claude took another look at her face, there was something new.

A crack.

Small little cracks spidered out from a point on her cheekbone. Thin and small, but Claude was certain they had not been there just moments earlier. Claude squinted in the dim moonlight, lightly running his thumb over the mysterious cracks. 

As if more fragile than the thinnest glass, the feather-light touch caused more cracks to strike out across her face. Claude jerked his hand back in horror, as the cracks continued to spread across her body as if she was about to crumble to pieces.

The original crack in her cheek began to glow with a golden light that quickly spread throughout her body as fragments of stone began to break away, revealing the almost forgotten colours of the past. 

And then she moved.

Byleth’s torso dipped forward, still gripping the sword as if using it to keep herself standing. 

“Byleth?” Claude reached out to her in disbelief.

She grabbed hold of one of his puffy sleeves, her nails digging into his arm through the fabric. When she finally looked up at him, her eyes were half-lidded and the circles underneath were dark and heavy. Tears began to gather in those eyes as she wordlessly reached up to touch his face. Her thumbs traced his cheekbones as she seemed to both recognize him and not at the same time.

“...Claude?” Her voice was hoarse and quiet.

“Y-Yeah I’m here I’m sorry I just-” Claude couldn’t help but laugh at himself as tears began to spill over.

“God I missed you so much.”

Claude couldn’t stop himself. He leaned forward, pressing his lips to hers. A few seconds passed before he pulled away, finding her green eyes wide open in shock. He expected to be slapped, to be yelled at. Any reaction from her was welcome after her being motionless for the last half of the decade. None of that came though, those eyes of her’s did not hold any anger whatsoever. Byleths eyes once grey and lifeless but once again the colour of the summer grass held only wonder with a touch of confusion.

“You… came back…” The Sword of the Creator fell with a thud just as Byleth’s legs betrayed her, causing her to fall forward into Claude’s arms.

He knelt to the ground, practically cradling her as she rested her head on his shoulder.

“A promise is a promise.” Claude chimes as his tears dripped onto her cheeks.

“You came back too, back from the dead. That’s way more impressive than me riding a wyvern for a few hours.”

“Heh...heh…” Her laugh was weak and her skin was pale, it was clear that no rest was had for her these past years.

“My students?”

Always worried about everyone but herself.

“Either up there enjoying the festivities or out there somewhere living their best lives.” Claude saw a small smile form on her lips.

“All thanks to you.”

“I’m glad.” Byleth’s smile grew wider as her eyes fluttered shut. 

A shot of fear rushed through Claude for a moment before the steady and strong rise and fall of her chest signified she was finally getting her rest. Gently, he picked her up in his arms, carrying her bridal-style up to the monastery. Hopefully, Professor Manuela wouldn’t be too drunk to accept a surprise patient. Though maybe the shock would be enough to sober her up.

Byleth began to stir in his arms as she hummed a little tune he did not recognize. He glanced down to find her fiddling with the gold and black beads of her “lucky” bracelet.

“I don’t think it’s the bracelet that’s lucky.” She whispered, nuzzling her head into his shoulder as her eyes closed again.

“I think you’re where my luck comes from.”

“Then I shall stay by your side and make sure luck stays with you.” Claude smiled as he held her tighter, his heart still beating as fast as ever.

"Yes! Scarves are back, but in a fashionable way instead of the functional way they're worn in winter. And apples! I love apples! And cinnamon brown sugar candles! And bonfires!" Stiles gripped Peter forearm with an earnest expression as they exited the park. 

"I'm more of a pumpkin man myself." Peter opened Stiles' door for him, the younger man pausing his tirade long enough for Peter to walk around and get in the car. 

"You prefer pumpkin because you're a culinary heathen. I just get so frustrated by how fast everyone moves through fall as if this whole season doesn't make them want to just slow down and cuddle by the fire." Stiles sighed out, slumping in his seat. 

"We can't certainly do that any time you wish, pet." Peter gripped his husband's hand, giving it a squeeze to let him know he understood. 

They drove back from their date in companionable silence, occasionally singing along to the songs on the radio. Stiles still smelled of frustration, but it was old and disappearing more and more by the minute. 

"Thank you for today." The younger man smiled at Peter as he stepped out of the car and into Peter's arms. 

"Anything for you, my love." Peter hummed, pulling Stiles in closer for a moment before turning to unlock the door. 

Instead of returning to his study to finish up his work for the day, Peter took a detour to the spare bedroom and grabbed the old comforter he'd bought when they'd first moved in. He slid his hand into his husband's and pulled the man with him back into the living room. Stiles sat on the couch patiently with a pleased smile as Peter pulled the pillows off the couches and made a little nest in front of the fireplace. 

"I could put a movie on the TV, but we'd have to crane our necks to see it properly. Do you mind watching it on a laptop with me?" Peter offered, pulling Stiles down into the floor beside him. 

"I don't mind anything if it's with you." Stiles replied with a kiss. 

-

Stiles had forgotten about his tangent on holidays stealing the best time of the year away from people by the morning Peter woke him up with soft kisses and a gentle command to wake up and pack a bag. 

"Wwwaa??" Was all Stiles could say for a long time as Peter fluttered around the room, packing both of them a bag. 

"Darling come now, you need to shower and get ready or we'll be late." Peter kissed his forehead before pulling him to his feet and guiding him into the bathroom. 

"Late?" His question fell on deaf ears as Peter shut the door, trapping him in the bathroom to get ready. 

After a wonderful shower Stiles opened the bathroom door to see clothes laid out on the bed for him already. He smiled as he pulled on the warm sweater and left his bedroom. Following the sounds of Peter cooking breakfast, Stiles was greeted by the sight of his beautiful husband making his favorite breakfast. 

"I don't deserve you sometimes." 

Peter looked at him with a soft smile before replying, "You deserve the world and everything in it, darling." 

"And you deserve more." Stiles assured him, the exchange routine and still full of love. 

"I packed your bag and after we eat we'll hit the road." Peter set his plate down in front of him and kissed his head once before seating himself. 

"Where are we going?"

"The cabin. I've never gotten the chance to take you there around this time of the year, but I think you'll like it much more than you do in the summer." Peter smiled, his eyes crinkling in the corners. 

Stiles gasped thinking of the sights he was about to see, "Oh Peter! It's going to be gorgeous out there in the woods. Nothing but beautiful Autumn leaves!"

"And the evergreens contrast it quite nicely." 

-

The cabin was amazing as always, but there was something magical about the way the wind rustles the trees. Leaves were falling all around them as they enjoyed their picnic in the crisp air. Stiles found himself relaxing even further onto Peter’s shoulder, the werewolf gladly accepting his weight. 

“Can we stay here forever?” 

“Darling, if we stay here forever all the good apples will be picked.” 

Stiles jolted upright, his eyes widening and his heart racing. 

“We’re going to an orchard?” 

Peter nodded, a smile pulling at his lips. 

Stiles lunged at him, throwing his entire body onto his husband, “I’ve never been apple picking!” 

Peter fake groaned before letting out a faux-strained, “I know.” 

Stiles wiggled until he was comfortably sitting in Peter’s lap. 

“You’re so good to me.”

“Only the best for my sweet husband, don’t you agree?” Peter’s eyes were shining in the afternoon sun as he gently ran his fingers up and down Stiles’ back. 

Until he wasn't running anymore, he was falling. He was crashing down into a pitfall trap at a dangerously fast speed. He had a moment to remember his training on how to safely land and send a prayer to anyone listening that there wasn't spikes or sharp things at the bottom, before he grunted with pain as he smacked the ground and rolled. He felt his wrist wrench too far to the right, and his knee crack the ground beneath him as he tumbled through the dimly lit room. That was sure as shit going to hurt like hell when the adrenaline faded. 

Stiles coughed roughly past the dust he’d kicked up. Where on Earth could he even be at? 

“I guess this means I’ll have to share.” 

Peter Hale’s, faux amused voice was the last thing Stiles expected to hear down in the darkness of what seemed to be a crypt of some kind. Stiles stood gingerly and took in his surroundings as he tried to catch him breath. He had to take a minute to come to grips with the fact that he was trapped in a crypt with Peter. His life was a regular dramatic horror movie, that had to be why these things only happened to him. If it was Scott trapped he would be in a fully furnished basement with a butler, but no, Stiles was the one with the bad luck of always being a target. 

He took a careful step towards the direction of Peter’s voice, “Creeperwolf? Why the hell are you here?”  

Blue eyes flared to life from a dark corner of the room as Peter chuckled, “Scared of being alone with the feral alpha, Little Rabbit Heart?” 

“You wish I was scared of you.” Stiles bared his teeth at the slowly appearing silhouette.

Stiles’ eyes were beginning to adjust and he could make out Peter’s disheveled appearance and the lumpy bed the man was currently sitting on, one leg arched to support the weight of his outstretched arm. 

“You should be scared of me. Aren’t I just another bad guy trying to kill your little friend?” Peter sneered, obviously offended by the generic label. 

Stiles finally reached the edge of the mattress and bent to ease himself down onto the edge, hissing quietly at the pain in his shoulder, hip, wrist, and well really his everywhere. 

He gritted his teeth through the pain and hissed, “You aren’t here to kill Scott.” 

Peter hummed, whether it was a sound of contemplation or agreement Stiles wasn’t sure. 

“What am I here for, Stiles?” 

“Apparently exactly what I’m here for too. Sacrifice for a stupid Darach that doesn’t even realize our Nemeton will chew them up and spit them out once they charge it up.” Stiles frowned, unhappy with the certainty he felt when saying that statement. 

He was most likely not going to make it out of this one alive. He would panic about that later. 

“Why us? And where’s the third?” Peter’s head was canted slightly as if trying to read Stiles’ erratic heartbeat more clearly. 

“Stop looking at me like an idiotic puppy.” Stiles swung with his bad hand too quick to realize his mistake until the back of his hand and subsequently his probably broken wrist smacked into Peter’s head. 

He yelped in pain, quickly pulling his wrist protectively back to his chest, “You could’ve stopped me, dick.” 

“How are you supposed to learn if I stop you from making mistakes?” Peter was smirking at him now.

“Fuck you. Anyways, unless you’re a virgin too, my guess is we are supposed to be warriors.” Stiles bit out, scooting himself back to rest against the wall beside Peter. 

“Tut-Tut, Rabbit. We-” his finger motioned between them, “are not warriors. I am a warrior, and your inappropriate assumption is correct. I am indeed not a virgin.” 

Stiles hurt his shoulder against the wall as he spluttered at the accusation.

“Inappropriate! I have nev-” 

“Hush now, darling. I am right beside you, there is no need to yell.” 

Stiles stared at him open mouthed, “That is so much more inappropriate than me assuming a grown man wasn’t a virgin!” 

“Volume please Stiles. The echos are not kind to my ears. And is it inappropriate to call someone you find dear and precious, darling? I think not.” Peter’s chin lift indignantly at the returned accusation. 

“Oh, eat me. You don’t think I’m either of those things.” 

“Maybe so, but I do think we are the Guardians. Don’t look at me like that. I was the guardian of my pack as sure as you are of yours. You know that while Scott is the alpha and protector, you are the one that takes care of the pack.” Peter huffed, crossing his arms. 

It made sense in hindsight, but Stiles was not going to agree with Peter Hale. 

-

Hours passed and Stiles was surprised to find himself shoulder to shoulder with Peter instead of down the length of the mattress where he had started. Peter was charming as usual, but something about his charm seemed unintentional down there in the dark. He seemed more real, less bolstering and mysterious. Was this the man Peter really was? Stiles could like this man. Could love this man if he tried. He’d always thought Peter was sex on legs, but in the dangerous, ‘Might Murder Me’ way. Talking to the man about anything he could discuss to take their minds off their current location had shifted something fundamental in the way Stiles viewed Peter. 

Peter was funny. Now that had been a revelation Stiles was not prepared for. He never thought he would be laying shoulder to shoulder with Peter Hale laughing. When had they laid down? 

Stiles’ body ached with every movement, which meant Peter had to have shifted them while draining his pain. An oddly caring act. 

“Hey Peter?” 

The werewolf turned his head to face Stiles as he hummed inquisitively. 

“Why did you come back to Beacon Hills? You were free.” Stiles didn’t think he could ever leave Beacon Hills behind, leave the humans defenseless, but if he did; he would never come back. 

Peter’s eyes looked sad as he released a pained breath, “Beacon Hills was my home long before it was my family’s and my grave. It will be my home long after I am buried again. I cannot truly leave it.” 

And Stiles? He could understand that too. Could understand the way the preserve became apart of their soul, the way the foggy air became the only air they could ever breathe. He rolled on his good shoulder and hip to rest his head on Peter’s sternum, finding comfort in someone so strong and so similar to himself.

“I think I would like it if you stayed this time.” Stiles’ words were muffled into Peter’s chest. 

“Hush now and sleep, Little Rabbit Heart. You’re not thinking straight. I’m the bad guy remember?” 

Stiles nodded, that did make sense. He knew Peter was bad. He wasn’t supposed to trust Peter, so why did he want to kiss the frown away from his beautiful mouth? 

Stiles nursed his vodka cranberry and pointedly did not look at his phone. If he couldn’t get Peter out of the house then Stiles would content himself to a life indoors. He’d been in love with Peter since he was seventeen. Stilinski’s fall in love fast and they stay there. They had both endured lives so dark, and Stiles had found a light, soothing solace in Peter long before the man had even looked at him twice. Peter did not deny himself simple pleasures, but he did deny himself the pleasures necessary to be healthy. Stiles had noticed it quickly, seeing past all the pompousness and sarcasm. 

Stiles followed the thought process of ‘If I’m miserable all the time, why would I deny myself any happiness I found?” and lived his life accordingly. When he discovered he was falling in love with an older man, who had enough baggage and psychological land mines to bury them both, he didn’t hesitate for a moment. Contentment was so rare in Beacon Hills already and Stiles feel peaceful next to Peter. That’s all that mattered to him in the end. In those moments of peace with Peter, Stiles was able to learn more about the man’s life than he ever thought Peter would give up willingly. 

Peter was a Scorpio, his favorite ice cream flavor was mint moose tracks, and he used to spend his days watching the pack’s children. He was the only teenager in a pack full of adults and babies, and looking at him in the light of Derek’s desk lamp Stiles could see the young man he’d been. Peter had loved taking care of his nephews, nieces, and cousins. He spoke fondly of his aunt Ruby who’d teach him about magic and the world around them while the younger kids slept. Peter had smiled then, the memory still brought butterflies to Stiles’ stomach six years later.

He was starting to get drunk on his nostalgia of a man he thought would love him back one day, and the alcohol burning his throat. 

Happiness is a butterfly

Try to catch it like every night

It escapes from my hands into moonlight

Every day is a lullaby

I hum it on the phone like every night

And sing it for my babies on the tour life

Ah ah

His phone chimed, and Stiles couldn’t resist checking it. 

Not very smart to send a murderer your location, Bambi.

Peter made jokes about being a villain, but he was no longer the half-mad man he once was. He’d more than paid for his crimes by now. 

What could you possibly do to me that hasn’t already been done? Come drink with me.

Stiles sent the message off before he could rethink it. If Peter was the villain of this story, then Stiles would gladly get caught in his traps. Stiles has had his heart, mind, and body broken and come out the other side stronger. There’s nothing left for Peter to break, not that the werewolf would even try. 

Peter had been alone for at least two years now, wrestling with his guilt and shame on his own. The man that Stiles found waiting at the Hale House was not the same man he’d left there four years ago. His trips back had been so brief the first two years, always full of fighting and fear. He hadn’t even questioned why they called him back less and less the last two years of his degree. Now, he knows though, knows that Peter sacrificed any chance at having a life outside the horrors and traumas he endured here to bring peace to his home land. Now, he knows that he isn’t going anywhere either. Stiles will stay with Peter no matter what. 

The door chime made Stiles glance up, already telling himself there was no way it was Peter, and directly into a pair of sad blue eyes that spoke of grief and fear. 

Peter had actually come to the bar. 

For a moment they stared at each other, both surprised the werewolf was there, before Stiles smiled at Peter and patted the seat beside him. 

If he's a serial killer, then what's the worst

That could happen to a girl who's already hurt?

I'm already hurt

If he's as bad as they say, then I guess I'm cursed

Looking into his eyes, I think he's already hurt

He's already hurt

The bar around them was once loud, now a quiet buzz as all of Stiles’ focus zoomed in on Peter and the wary look he had in that moment. Stiles doesn’t know what to do with the melancholy that clings to Peter, so he does the only thing he knows will work: distracting. Stiles is able to needle Peter until he relaxes and they converse as easily as they would’ve  before Peter had been left in solitude with only his inner thoughts as company. Stiles talks of his dad, and Peter informs him that Derek is currently helping an associate of Deaton’s that recently took down a puppy mill. 

They share a smile over a picture of Derek covered in fur and smiling with a freshly shaved poodle in his hands. They share a laugh over a picture of Cora hanging out the window of a jeep, her tongue out and her hair whipping wildly around head, in a jungle somewhere without consistent service. They share a kiss over a vodka cranberry. 

Stiles hadn’t meant to do it, but Peter looked so handsome in the colored fluorescents he couldn’t stop himself. He leaned fully into the kiss, his arm going up onto the bar to support his weight.

He didn’t understand why Peter had jumped back so fast, breaking their kiss abruptly, until he looked down at his now sticky arm. Of course a complete klutz like Stiles would ruin his first kiss with Peter by spilling his drink. At least it didn’t get on either of their clothes. 

When Stiles’ eyes found Peter’s again, the older man wasn’t making eye contact and seemed to be disappointed. Stiles hurriedly apologized for being an idiot and knocking over his drink, but Peter just admonished him for calling himself an idiot. 

The werewolf decided it was time to go, no word of their kiss. Stiles was four vodka cranberries in and more than a little drunk, which meant a tantrum when they got outside. 

Peter really started it by wrapping Stiles in his cardigan before ushering him into a taxi. He refused to let the other man shut the door and part ways. He demanded to know why he couldn’t ride home with Peter. When Peter pointed out that he drove his motorcycle, which Stiles hadn’t even known the man owned, Stiles protested that he wasn’t too drunk to ride on the back. 

“What’s the real problem, Stiles? You’re not like this, even when you are drunk.” Peter’s worry was clear in his breathtaking eyes. 

“I’m not that drunk.” He muttered petulantly, getting out of the taxi. 

When Peter only stared at him, he sighed, “I just wanted to spend more time with you. We could go dancing if you won’t let me ride your motorcycle?” 

Peter smiled sadly at him and shook his head before motioning for Stiles to follow him to Stiles’ Jeep. 

I said, "Don't be a jerk, don't call me a taxi"

Sitting in your sweatshirt, crying in the backseat

Ooh

I just wanna dance with you

Hollywood and Vine, Black Rabbit in the alley

I just wanna hold you tight down the avenue

I just wanna dance with you

I just wanna dance with you

Baby, I just wanna dance (dance)

With you (dance)

Baby, I just wanna dance (dance)

With you

Peter took them to downtown and parked across from Jungle, apprehension noticeable in his movements. A war was being fought in Peter’s mind, and Stiles could only hope things would come out in his favor. They entered the club hand in hand and made their way to the bar, one more shot before show time. Stiles nodded to himself before slipping his fingers between Peter’s and gently pulling the man onto the dance floor. Something in Peter had changed the minute he realized he wasn’t going to back out of this night with Stiles and the events unfolding between them. Gone was the soft, melancholy of a man twice abandoned and left to live with ghost, and in his place was the predator Stiles had first fallen in love with. 

Peter smirked at him before he spun Stiles around and roughly pulled him against the werewolf’s chest. 

“Dance for me, Stiles.” 

The words went straight to Stiles groin, but also to the part of his brain that reveled in Peter’s aggressive behavior. The part of his brain that held tightly onto the memories of Peter’s aggression saving his life more than once. 

The two of them danced until last call and lights up, shuffling out with the other stragglers, the embarrassed grins of new lovers on their faces. 

They drove down the boulevard with their windows down and their hands intertwined. 

Left the canyon, drove to the club

I was one thing, now I'm being another

Go down to Sunset in the truck

I'll pick you up if you're in town on the corner

Ah ah

They made it back to the Hale House and Stiles could see the doubt creeping back into Peter’s eyes. He left the werewolf to over think alone in the Jeep and made his way inside the restored pack house. When Peter finally came inside it seemed like he was about to apologize or something equally unwarranted, so Stiles rushed to inform him that he was indeed allowed to be happy. 

Peter’s shoulders sagged as a breath whooshed out of him in defeat. He made his way over to the couch and sat heavily down next to Stiles. The older man tried to say that Stiles didn’t understand,  but the human was more than equipped to understand and handle Peter’s grief. 

“Peter look at me.” Stiles had to repeat himself twice before Peter finally made eye contact. 

“You deserve to be happy. You have paid for your crimes tenfold. Do you honestly believe your family would want you to punish yourself this way?” 

Peter could only choke out his niece’s name before sinking to his knees at Stiles’ feet. The human ran his finger slowly through the werewolf’s hair as he spoke with absolute certainty, “You made a mistake. You regret that night, and you weren’t in control. No, it doesn’t bring her back and it won’t take away your guilt. But Peter that doesn’t mean you should live with the ghosts of your mistakes. Laura wouldn’t want that.” 

Peter’s breathing hitched as Stiles spoke. 

He let the other man grieve in silence for a while before grasping his hand and standing. 

“I think that’s enough for tonight. The Peter Hale I love would never kneel at anyone’s feet.” Peter’s head whipped up to face him, his eyes flashing supernaturally blue, “One last dance before we go to bed, zombiewolf.” 

Stiles smiled at him before pulling out his phone and putting on the first classic slow song he saw. 

He hummed along with Patsy Cline as he placed his hands on Peter’s shoulders and swayed them around the room gently. 

Happiness is a butterfly

We should catch it while dancing

I lose myself in the music, baby

Every day is a lullaby

Try to catch it like lightning

I sing it into my music, I'm crazy

Things aren’t better in one day, but they’re starting the journey to ‘better’ together. And in the end that’s what matters right?

If he's a serial killer, then what's the worst

That could happen to a girl who's already hurt?

I'm already hurt

If he's as bad as they say, then I guess I'm cursed

Looking into his eyes, I think he's already hurt

“Let go of him!” Stiles’ scream of fury and rage echoed in the clearing, forcing its way passed the sounds of battle all around him, as he charged the giant holding Isaac by the ankle. 

The giant stopped swinging Isaac around as if he was a fly swatter and his pack flies at the sound of that rage. Peter was moving before he even registered that Stiles had moved passed him, his body automatically racing to catch up and protect the human. 

“Interesting. You’re only human.” The giant laughed after a sniff. 

“And you’re an asshole!” Stiles shouted in response, but his eyes weren’t on the giant, they were on Peter. 

Peter would give him hell about this later, he always did, but right now he knew exactly what Stiles wanted and he was helpless to deny him. He planted his feet and readied himself just in time for Stile turn and approach him at a dead run. His foot landed squarely in Peter’s waiting palms and Peter threw his fragile human with every ounce of strength he had. Stiles shot him a smile before twisting in the air, his body long, lean, and beautiful in the light of the moon, and flying directly at the face of the giant. As he rushed quickly towards certain death he smoothly slid his bat in the strap on his back and pulled his gun from its holster. Three shots later and the giant fell, with Stiles holding on by its hair as they both crashed to the ground. 

Later when they were safe and healing Peter pulled Stiles aside and looked him over further, the human always tried to hide his wounds from the pack. This time he was laughing at the ‘wolf’s protectiveness. 

“If you really hate when we do that then tell me ‘no’ next time.” Were his parting words as he ran his hand down Peter’s arm and smiled at him. 

Peter was never a religious man, but in that smile he found divinity and a warmth he’d never felt before. He would never tell Stiles ‘No’. 

You are a call to motion

There, all of you a verb in perfect view

Like Jonah on the ocean

When you move, I'm moved

“You guys!” Stiles’ whine brought Peter’s attention away from the discussion he had been having with his nephew. 

Stiles was trying to make dinner and the pups were buzzing around him, eating anything they could snatch while he was distracted. It reminded Peter so achingly strong of his little sister. 

Cherri had been a light in Peter’s life since the moment she was born. He had once heard that little siblings were born to be the person their older sibling needed, and he believed that sometimes when he watched his life. Peter did anything and everything for Talia, but it was Cherri would would seek him out to spend time with not Talia. Soon he realized that the reality is that younger siblings just want to be around their older siblings as much as possible. 

He supposed this was true with the pups and Stiles too. Stiles, though younger than most of them, was the first one of the bitten ‘wolves and other supernaturals to know about their world. He was the one that taught Scott control, and he still taught most of them something new every day. In many ways Stiles was the first beta, and it seemed the others viewed him as an older brother they could push around because he loved them too much to punish them. 

It reminded him so much of the boy he once was, who yearned to be a man. A man who others needed, who others loved, who others wanted. Stiles was a testament to what Peter could’ve become, what he still can become. 

Peter watched on with a twist of nostalgia, regret, and hope in his stomach as Stiles interacted with the pack. A long fingered hand gently pushing a beta away even as he cursed them, a smile pulling at his lips as he hip checked another beta into the refrigerator, an eyebrow raised at the beta watching him from across the room. 

When you move

I'm put to mind of all that I wanna be

When you move

I could never define all that you are to me

So move me, baby

Shake like the bough of a willow tree

You do it naturally

Move me, baby

It should be a sin the way Stiles captivated Peter every moment of every day. Peter felt like he was observing a long forgotten god not meant to be seen by the likes of him. He wasn’t worthy. Sitles was light and love and Peter was so full of darkness and hatred, he would only taint him. 

“You’re gloomy today.” Peter blinked, his head slowly rising from the feet of the man walking in front of him to his face. 

“What makes you say that?” 

Stiles shrugged, his thumb coming up to his lips so he could chew his nail, “Normally you’re more talkative. We’ve barely spoken in the half hour we’ve been on patrol.” 

“I will taint you.” Peter breathed out in a moment of vulnerability he’d never admit to later. 

His eyes snapped back up to Stiles’ face as the human laughed, his head thrown back and his shoulders shaking. Even when he’s laughing at Peter he is beautiful. Stiles was created to be in motion, he radiated an erratic aura that usually unsettled people, but Peter was drawn to every twitch and fidget. He was drawn to everything about Stiles and now that he’d shown some of his feelings Stiles could only laugh at him. 

“I am a serial killer and an insane one if you remember correctly, Little Red. I could gobble you up right here and no one would know.” Peter threatened with a leer, the only way he saw out of this embarrassment was to turn the tables.

Stiles blushed and stopped laughing after that. 

“You haven’t been insane in a long time, Peter, and frankly I would’ve killed them too.” Stiles shrugged again before turning back to the path they were on. 

“So don’t be so gloomy and get up here. I’m lonely.” Was all Stiles had to say to summon Peter to his side.

They chatted about various things like movies and songs, until Stiles tripped on an exposed root. Peter caught his arm and had him back on his feet before anything dire could happen, but it still pulled a chuckle out of him. 

“You go dancing every weekend, you glide through the air to kill monsters, and you maneuver through the pack with a tray full of hot food, but you can’t watch where you step.” The words seemed like a criticizement, but the crow’s feet that crinkled at the corners of Peter’s eyes as he laughed showed something softer underneath them. 

“Oh hush. I normally pay attention to everything, but with you here I know it’s okay to lower my guard. The root snuck up on me is all.” Stiles huffed indignantly. 

With Peter there Stiles could lower his guard. What a wondrous piece of information. Peter had always known Stiles carried too much by himself when it came to both the pack and his father. He always tried to fix everything by himself. He hid his wounds, and cared for everyone else. Stiles never lowered his guard. 

Except apparently with Peter.

You are the rite of movement

Its reasonin' made lucid and cool

I know it's no improvement

When you move, I move

You're less Polunin leapin'

Or Fred Astaire in sequins

Honey, you, you're Atlas in his sleepin'

And when you move, I'm moved

Peter wasn’t sure how he got here. There were hands on his chest, long elegant fingers pushing against him. His hips swayed to the music and the rest of his body followed suit, all of him focused on worshipping the lithe body in front of him. Stiles had dragged him out to the dance floor and Peter was drunk on the feeling of Stiles moving against him alone. 

They danced until Stiles was panting and covered in sweat. Peter thought once again of the boy he’d been, the life he’d had. 

“My mother would’ve loved you.” Peter whispered the words like a prayer. 

Stiles heard that prayer, ever proving to Peter worthy of his worship and devotion, and smiled at him so sweetly he thought he might cry. 

“Mamo would’ve said you were divine.” Stiles gifted him with those words. 

The next song was an old punk pop hit that had Stiles flashing a grin so bright Peter felt something in him snap back into place. 

Once again Peter found himself observing the destructive, all consuming power of Stiles dancing. It was erratic and uncontrolled, often leaving him apologizing to nearby dancers, but Peter and never seen something so enchanting. 

That night they crashed together in a collision of limbs and teeth. Hands roaming skin and tongues darting out to taste what their hands felt. Eyes burning into the night as they created a crescendo of movement and devotion between them.

When you move

I can recall somethin' that's gone from me

When you move

Honey, I'm put in awe of somethin' so flawed and free

So move me, baby

Shake like the bough of a willow tree

You do it naturally