#misc tw

He doesn't know how much time has passed when he hears a response to his howl. At first, he thinks one of his pack might've woken from the wolfsbane gas bomb that had erupted in their home, but it's coming from outside, not within. Movement comes from ahead of him and a coyote emerges from the forest. Two more follow it, then three. There's something hard and horrible caught in Peter's throat as he meets the dark gaze of what seems to be the pack's leader.

"Help me, please," he whispers, delirious and lost. There's no help from that corner of course--not from animals who won't understand a word he says--but Peter's words aren't only to them. They're to anyone, man, God, devil, anyone who could possibly help him.

The coyote watches him for a moment that seems to last forever, then turns around and vanishes from his view. Its pack follows. Peter closes his eyes and tries yet again to just get up. Just move his legs, just a little, just enough to save someone instead of being trapped in his body. He thinks he may have been able to save Cora, pushing her still form when their wing collapsed in hopes of her landing on the other side of the mountain ash line, but it's more likely that he only hastened her death. His pack's heartbeats are so weak in his ears, flickering out while Peter battles with his own useless body. He barely notices a few of the coyotes returning to watch the slaughter. Entertainment for animals, this is how the legacy of the Hale family ends. The only scrap of comfort he has is that Derek and Laura hadn't been at home. It's possible they'll escape the night unscathed; it's also possible that they're already dead with a wolfsbane bullet to the head. At least it's a kinder fate than this.

Between one beat of his heart and the next, a heartbeat Peter's known his entire life flickers out, their pack bond crumbling to nothingness, unable to hold onto someone who's no longer in this world. Peter howls, pinpricks in his eyes, because he hadn't always liked his sister, hadn't always gotten along with her, had rebelled against her time and again, but Talia was never meant to go like this. With the alpha's death, even his remaining pack bonds grow unstable and faint. In the span of a moment, his howl grows loud and sure as a burst of pure energy fills his body. It's pure, wild, and red, and Peter almost chokes on it as it flushes his body with adrenaline.

His body trembles, but under the will of an alpha, it moves. He scrambles up and rushes back into the house, straining to find the sources of the few hearts that still beat, however sluggishly. Peter doesn't allow himself even a moment to linger on the bodies whose hearts will never beat again. Not on his sister, clawmarks against her throat as she tried to force her throat to allow air in. Not on his brother in law, collapsed as he tried to make his way to a window. Not his wife, not her, please not her-- Flames bite at his skin faster than it can heal, but Peter moves forward past every member of his pack. Three bodies in the living room, two in the kitchen, four upstairs. Nearly five when Peter nearly gets crushed as he makes his way to the bathroom door. The burning hot metal doorknob takes a layer from his skin, but it's worth it to see his two nephews and niece clutching at each other, the window wide open as they try to breathe. Soren, Matthew, and Amelia rush into his arms, too woozy and terrified to speak, but it doesn't matter. They're alive.

Peter half pushes, half carries them from the burning house, stopping only at the mountain ash barrier. The air is clearer here, but they'll choke to death on the wolfsbane in the air and the smoke flooding their senses. Peter beats at the barrier, helpless in the face of its power. What use are the red eyes he's wanted for so long if he dies here now?

The sound of footsteps gets louder and louder in his ears. Peter waits to see if they're friend or foe, knowing there is nothing he can defend himself with against a bullet. Not now, not when alpha power or not, it's only panic and adrenaline keeping him upright. When the figure finally emerges, it's neither friend nor foe. It's a child, young and gangly, perhaps ten years old. The oddest thing is that the child is following behind a coyote, perhaps the same one that heard his pleas. It's baffling. It's freedom.

"Why are you just standing there?" the boy yells as he approaches the house.

"Break the line," Peter orders, barely able to keep the snarl out of his voice. It's no use to think of secrecy, not when he's in his beta shift, but he can't afford to frighten the boy. "On the ground, do you see it?"

The boy's eyes are wide and bright, face lit by the fires behind them, but he drops to a crouch and pushes the mountain ash aside. With the barrier gone, Peter stumbles out, pulling the kids with him. The boy helps, his hand reaching for Amelia's hand when she doesn't move, her gaze on the fire.

"Is-- is there anyone inside?" the boy asks.

"Mom's inside," Amelia says, but she doesn't move.

The kids would've heard just as easily as Peter, the way their pack's heartbeats flickered out. Fuck, his heart burns along with the still-growing flames, but Peter can't allow himself to mourn when there's small hands clutching at his own. He holds Amelia close, hands reaching for Matthew and Soren as they huddle and shake and survive. Four alive, nine dead.

Ten. Cora's heartbeat is nowhere to be found.

A hand touches Peter's shoulder, hesitant but firm. The boy says, "I'm going to get help. You'll be okay when they get here?"

Peter nods, the gesture tiny and tired. He's almost amused to realize that the boy doesn't only mean alive. He means normal, human, not likely to terrify the good people of Beacon Hills. It won't be hard; Peter will reserve his rage for the ones who brought death on a pack who has done nothing but protect this town for over a hundred years. He lets his beta shift fade, but his wolf is still close to his skin, their anger burning cold.

"What is your name?"

"I'm Stiles. Stilinski."

"The sheriff's son," Peter gathers. But it's not important who Stiles is. What's important is the way he stands tall for his short height and young age, the way he hasn't asked the questions Peter knows he must have, the way he's only helped when he could have run away screaming. "Thank you, Stiles."

They meet the paramedics halfway out of the forest. By the time Peter is examined, his third degree burns and serious wounds have healed enough to look less drastic. The four of them are still taken to the hospital, but there is little that needs to be done. They're all suffering from smoke inhalation, but their bodies will flush it out within hours. Peter's skin is red and raw, but it will heal. Their minds are another story. The kids have started crying under the bright lights of the hospital, seeking comfort from him. Peter doesn't know how to do comfort; not on a regular day, not now, when it's desperately needed. He'd never been the family member to turn to for comfort. It’s easier to give his statement to the sheriff—I don’t know, dead, dead, dead, no sign of Laura or Derek—than to console the kids.

He brings the kids to his apartment, his king-sized bed large enough for all three of them while Peter sets himself up on the couch. He thinks of figuring out funeral arrangements and refilling his fridge with something that isn’t takeout and skewering nameless faceless hunters and— Grief creeps up on him, and then it’s an avalanche and Peter is only one man.