Archive of Our Own

I’ll be your water,
Bathing you clean
With liquid peace

I’ll be your reefer
You’ll breathe me in
You won’t release

Well I’ve seen you suffer
I’ve seen you cry
The whole night through

So I’ll be your water
Bathing you clean
With liquid blue

Part of Stiles wanted to slam the receiver down and bang the phone against the wall until it shattered into a million pieces.

The other part of Stiles wanted to hug it closer to his ear, let himself be seduced by the velvet tones of the other man’s voice and throw things like law and order, reason, and caution to the wind as he begged Peter to come home.

Stiles did neither of those things.  He glanced at his father and the FBI agents surrounding him and tightened his grip on the telephone.  “It’s always nice to hear from you, Peter.”

“Reading from the script today, are we?  You disappoint me, Little Red.”

“Oh my, what tired old clichés you have,” Stiles fired back ignoring Derek’s hand squeezing his shoulder and the warning look in Agent Morrison’s eye.

Peter chuckled and the deep, throaty sound made goose bumps erupt on Stiles’ flesh.  “There he is.  There’s my boy.”

Stiles closed his eyes.  He didn’t have to look to know that his father had clenched his jaw so tightly he was in danger of shattering his teeth. He could also feel Derek vibrating behind him, fighting off the urge to shift.

“I’m not your anything, Peter.”

“Liar,” Peter purred. 

“I’m not—”

“Don’t take my word for it.  Ask my nephew, I’m sure he heard the same thing I did.”

“Derek’s not—”

“Oh but he is,” Peter cut in smoothly.  “It warms my heart to know that you’d put yourself in the line of fire if need be to protect him but I assure you I mean neither of you any harm.  And honestly Stiles, I know you both well enough to know Derek’s there with you, that he’s claimed you as his own and appointed himself your protector.”

“Do I need a protector?”

“Of course,” Peter answered.  “Special care needs to be taken with a boy like you. You are so very pretty, so incredibly clever, and stupidly brave.  You’re driven by reckless curiosity and shockingly unaware of your potential.  Protection is essential for someone like you, Stiles.  It’s a dangerous world we live in, my boy.  Some of us are the predators, and some are the prey.”

Stiles swallowed.  “And what am I in your little analogy?”

“It’s simple, Stiles.  You’re mine.  Or rather I should say ours.”

“Okay, see here’s the thing Jame Gumb, having a sociopathic serial killer tell you that you’re pretty and say you're his?  That's not as reassuring as you seem to think it is.  I’m getting definite ‘It puts the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again’ feels from this conversation so—”

“I’ve missed you, Stiles.”

“In between all the kidnapping, torture, and murder where did you find the time?”

“I’ve always been particularly adept at multitasking.”

“Well, that’ll look good on the old resume.  Assuming you find an employer willing to overlook the trail of vivisected bodies—”

“Now is not a time for jokes, Stiles.  I truly have missed the both of you.”

Derek stiffened and Stiles reached up with his free hand and gripped his wrist, squeezing until he felt Derek exhale.  “If you miss us all that much I’m sure I could get my dad and the rest of the department to throw you one hell of a welcome home party.”

Peter laughed again, and the sound rattled Stiles down to his bones.  “What makes you think I’m not home as we speak?”

Stiles ignored the flare of excitement Peter’s words caused.  “Because Derek and I aren’t dead or stuck in a hole being ordered to put the lotion in the basket.”

“I’d never harm either of you…permanently.”

“Yeah, again I gotta point out that’s not as reassuring as you think.”

“But it should be.  The two of you are precious to me.  I’d never cause you or Derek any permanent injury.  Why do —”

“Lydia was precious to me and that didn’t stop you from—”

“The lovely Ms. Martin was regrettable.  Necessary but regrettable.”

“Necessary?  How can you—”

“She was a distraction who gave you tunnel vision.  Removing her from the picture allowed you to expand your view, and see that you had other, more suitable options.”

“You son of a —”

“Tell me you aren’t happier.  Tell me you would have preferred to pine away like the loveable loser in a teenage romcom for ten more years rather than belong to us,” Peter challenged.

“I would have preferred that Lydia be alive,” Stiles mumbled, unwilling to admit to the kernel of truth in Peter’s words.

“Well, not even you can have everything you want, Stiles.”

“Come back and turn yourself in, Peter.”

Peter laughed again, and this time it sounded like a warning bell ringing.  “Oh Stiles,” Peter tsked.  “I think that, unlike your father and the woefully inept agents listening in on what should be a private conversation, you know how terribly ineffective that would be.”

“You could—”

“I could, but the three of us know that I won’t.  Time’s up, dear boy. Kiss Derek for me, sweetheart.  I’ll talk to you both again soon.”

Stiles let the dial tone ring in his ear for a moment before gently lowering the phone back into the cradle.  As the FBI agents surrounding them erupted into a controlled frenzy of activity Stiles rose on shaking legs and let Derek draw him into an embrace.  He buried his head between Derek’s neck and shoulder, letting his scent ground him. Derek wrapped his arms around Stiles and pulled him tighter, squeezing him so hard it was almost painful.

A few moments later, Agent Morrison’s frustrated, expletive-laden rant confirmed what they both already knew. 

“Happy Anniversary, Derek.  Did you and Stiles enjoy my gift?”

Derek felt an itch beneath his skin and his canines elongated.  Stiles threaded his fingers through Derek’s and squeezed.  Derek took a deep breath and got himself back under control.  It was their first anniversary and he’d had plans for the evening.  Those plans had not included being surrounded by most of the Beacon Hills Police Department and a good half dozen members of the FBI. 

“I don’t think enjoy is a word that applies here, Peter.”

“Perhaps not,” Peter hummed.  “But you appreciated it, didn’t you?  Or would you have preferred fava beans and a nice Chianti?”

Derek heard Stiles choke back a hysterical laugh next to him and he pressed a kiss to his boyfriend's temple.  “What were you thinking,” he demanded furiously. 

“I decided it was time for that family to settle their debts.  Tell me after what they did to you and yours, to ours, that you disagree.”

The words sparked something feral and instinctual in Derek but he shoved it aside.  “Stiles had a panic attack,” he said instead not answering Peter’s challenge.

“I do so worry about our boy’s anxiety.  I don’t believe Ms. Morrell is doing him a bit of good.  Perhaps you can convince Aleksander to find Stiles a competent therapist—”

“Perhaps he wouldn’t be so anxious if he weren’t being stalked by a serial killer and coming home from school to dead bodies in his bedroom,” Derek growled.

“Now is not the time to assign blame Derek,” Peter said airily.  “I asked you a question and you’ve yet to answer me.  Did you appreciate my gift?”

“I told you that Stiles—”

“But we aren’t talking about Stiles, nephew mine.  We’re talking about you,” Peter broke in.  “Did you appreciate my gift, Derek?”

Derek closed his eyes and allowed the scene upstairs in Stiles’ bedroom to play out beneath his lids.  Chris Argent, throat ripped out, disemboweled, and strung up by his entrails.  Allison, pinned to Stiles’ bedroom wall by her arrows, the unnatural angle of her head betraying her broken neck.

And the long-missing Gerard Argent, completely bisected with the very skin flayed from his bones.

Derek knew he should be outraged and sickened at Peter’s actions. Most of him was, especially when he remembered the fear-induced panic attack he’d found Stiles suffering from when he’d arrived at the house or how utterly broken Scott had looked when he’d been given the news that he’d lost Allison for good.

But then…

But then there was another part of him.  There was the part of him he kept under lock and key, hidden away even from Stiles.  That part of Derek looked at Allison’s lifeless body and remembered the way Boyd and Isaac would always shift away from her, taking care never to show her their backs and always smelling faintly of distrust and distress when she was around.  That part of Derek had taken in the mess that used to be Chris Argent and remembered sleepless nights spent on the couch with Erica pretending to watch television when she’d turn up on his doorstep, claiming to be bored but stinking of fear and steadfastly refusing to discuss it.  That part of Derek fought back a smile at the remains of Gerard because he remembered Stiles, beaten, bruised, and nearly broken all at the hands of a genocidal madman with a grudge who refused to accept his mortality.

That was the part of Derek that still heard the echoes of his father’s voice, felt the phantom touch of his mother’s hand, and recalled the image of a burnt-out husk that no amount of renovations and rebuilding could erase, the part of Derek that still woke in the middle of the night with the smell of ash in his nostrils and the burn of regret choking the air from his lungs.

That was the part of Derek that cried out not for justice but for vengeance, the part of him that demanded an eye for an eye and a pack for a pack.  There were bent and broken bits of Derek that he’d kept concealed from everyone else but had laid bare for Peter, first while gripping tight to his (supposed) comatose uncle’s hand and giving all his secrets away and then again after they collided in a tangle of claws and fangs, blood and broken limbs, exchanging demands for retribution and claims of redemption.

Derek had never, and he would never, forgive Peter for Laura.  That was a loss he would never fully recover from but as he raised his head and watched Chris Argent’s body being wheeled out Aleksander Stilinski’s front door he realized that he’d never again hear the heartbeats or smell the scent of an Argent in his territory, that the pack that had caused so much harm to his own was no more and he couldn’t help the sense of relief that flooded through him.

Derek recognized he’d let the silence go on for a beat too long and cleared his throat.  “Murder is never an appropriate gift, Peter.”

“But we both know that wasn’t murder, don’t we, Derek?”

“Peter-”

“Give Stiles a kiss for me and do take care of him,” Peter said softly.  “I can hear his heart racing.  You should take him back to the house, Derek.  I doubt he’ll be comfortable staying at Aleksander’s for the foreseeable future and the man can hardly claim it’s safer for Stiles to be under his roof now…can he?”

Derek swore softly as Stiles uttered a muted cry, and the color drained from the sheriff’s face.  They had been arguing for the past few weeks over the amount of time Stiles spent at the Hale House, particularly the overnight stays that neither Stiles nor Derek attempted to hide.  Aleksander had insisted that as long as Peter was at large, Derek’s family home was hardly a place Stiles needed to frequent. He'd maintained their house, with its state-of-the-art security system and an armed law enforcement officer in residence was the safest place for Stiles to be, going as far as reminding both Stiles and Derek that Stiles was not yet eighteen and that there was plenty of time to charge Derek with statutory rape if he continued to find an empty bed when he went to wake Stiles in the mornings.

Of course, that was before Peter had managed to break in, artfully arrange three corpses in Stiles’ bedroom, and disappear without a trace—all while Aleksander slept not twenty feet down the hall.

The gurney carrying Allison’s body passed by them, and Stiles curled further into Derek’s side.  Derek noted how the sheriff’s shoulders slumped forward and the look of defeat on his face. He realized the man had probably reached the same conclusion he had: Stiles would never want to sleep in his bedroom again. He also knew that the sheriff wouldn’t have the heart to try to make him.

If he took Stiles home with him tonight...the odds were that’s where Stiles would stay.

Derek couldn’t bring himself to be upset about that.

“You’re welcome,” Peter purred before disconnecting.

Stiles practically crawled into Derek’s lap as soon as he hung up. Aleksander met Derek’s eyes.  “I’ll pack his bag,” the older man said.

Derek nodded and ran a gentle hand down Stiles’ spine.  “It’s okay,” he whispered.

“It’s really, really not,” Stiles replied shakily.  “On a list of things that are not okay with one being someone coming to a sudden, complete stop in front of you when you’re trying to get off an escalator and ten being The Reichenback Fall the dead bodies of your best friend's girlfriend and her entire family displayed like holiday decorations is completely off the freaking scale!”

“Shh,” Derek soothed Stiles.  “You’re safe.”

“I know I’m safe,” Stiles whispered.  “It’s everyone around me that I’m worried about.”

“He’s not…it’s not like he’s being indiscriminate,” Derek said and winced.  He knew how much that sounded like rationalization and justification but it was the truth.  Peter wasn’t just grabbing people at random.  Peter’s victims had all been carefully chosen, with foresight and purpose, and most had been selected because, in Peter’s estimation, they had caused Derek or Stiles some measure of harm or represented a threat.  Jackson had been a loose cannon and relentlessly bullied Stiles, Gerard had beaten him, and Harris had harassed him.

Allison had harmed Derek’s pack, Chris had been a threat, Kali and Deucalion were enemies, and Lydia…

Lydia had been in the way.  Even when he’d been quietly longing for Stiles, Derek had never wished any harm on the girl who had been the object of Stiles’ affection.  When she and Jackson’s bodies had been discovered Stiles had fallen to pieces, shattered so beautifully that not even Scott knew how to put the pieces back together and it had been Peter who’d breached Stiles’ defenses, forced his way in, drew the boy out, and then brought him to Derek.  It had been Peter who had weaved the strings of longing and loss, lust and love into a Gordian knot that tied the three of them together so tightly it became impossible to discern where PeterandStiles ended and DerekandStiles began, when the ever-present refrain of “he took Laura away from me” that echoed in Derek’s head was replaced by “he brought me Stiles.”

Aleksander came back carrying Stiles’ overnight bag.  The older man swallowed harshly and held the duffel bag out to Derek.  As he rose and his fingers closed around the strap, the last of Gerard’s remains were carried out of the house.  Stiles stood and pressed himself against Derek, giving his father a smile that was both apologetic and thankful.

As he felt the weight of the bag settle into his hand, smelled Stiles tucked into his side, and heard the Medical Examiner’s van rumble out of the driveway, carrying the bodies of the three Argents inside, Derek realized that, in his twisted way, Peter had not only given him Stiles but had also given him peace.

Stiles had his wrists bound to the posts at the head of the bed, his arms stretched out taut, making the muscles strain just enough to be on the pleasurable side of pain, spread out as if he were a sacrifice to the gods.

Stiles kept his eyes closed, even though he didn’t need to.  He didn’t need to be able to physically see Derek to know the Alpha was stalking around the bed, naked and primal, surveying his handiwork, making Stiles wait and ache before they began.

Stiles shifted a little, testing the strength of the bindings securing him to the bedposts.  Stiles knew that if he really wanted to be free he could ask Derek to untie him and the other man would.  But Stiles knew, just as Derek did, that Stiles would never ask to be free.

“Derek,” Stiles moaned, opening his eyes, but as he looked into the red-eyed gaze of his mate he fell silent and closed them back, his body shivering from the spark of arousal that single look had unleashed within him.

Derek ran his hands down Stiles’ chest, lightly digging his nails into the skin, taking the tip of his tongue and tracing the resulting path of slightly reddened flesh.  Stiles arched into the sensation and moaned, pulling briefly against his ties before relaxing and letting his head drop back onto the pillow.

“Good boy,” Derek breathed into his ear before biting down on the lobe and gently licking away the pain.  He nibbled and licked his way down the side of Stiles’ neck until he reached the pale column of his throat.  Stiles bent his head back to offer Derek better access, and Derek bit a claiming mark into the tender skin.

Derek gently traced Stiles’ erection from the tip to the base as his lover whined softly underneath him.  Derek fondled his mate's balls, teasing, squeezing, and rolling them in his hand before sliding a slicked finger over Stiles' perineum and circling his entrance.

He felt Stiles’ body trembling beneath him pushed to its limits by his emotional and physical bonds as Derek added another finger and began to scissor and twist, stretching and preparing his lover.

“You’re mine, Stiles,” he declared darkly.  “Every inch of your body belongs to me,” he said before lapping his tongue over a hardened nipple and biting down hard, causing Stiles to cry out.  “You’re mine to bring pleasure or to bring pain.  You’re mine to love and be loved by.  Don’t you ever forget who you belong to,” Derek said as he withdrew his fingers and began to fill Stiles with his cock.

Stiles keened and arched once Derek had fully sheathed himself inside his lover.  “Shh, I’ve got you,” Derek soothed.  “I’ve got you and I won’t ever let you go,” Derek ground out as he began to thrust inside of Stiles.  “I promise I’ll never let you go,” he said claiming Stiles’ mouth in a kiss, his tongue mimicking the slide of his cock in and out of Stiles’ body.  Derek went as slowly as his control allowed, enjoying the pleasure-filled cries Stiles was making beneath him.

Stiles moaned as Derek changed the angle of his thrust so that he was directly hitting his prostrate.  Every subsequent thrust sent waves of pleasure crashing over him and Stiles struggled to hold back his orgasm.  He bucked and moaned, tossing his head from side to side as he frantically shoved himself back onto Derek’s cock, desperately seeking release.

“Derek, Derek, please, please,” Stiles begged.

“’S’kay,” Derek groaned as he pounded into Stiles, urging them both towards release.  He drove into Stiles and they moved together, each using their knowledge of the other's body to push them closer to the edge.  Derek’s hips rocketed back and forth, his grip leaving bruises as he held Stiles down.  Stiles took every inch, every rough thrust, and still begged for Derek to go harder, deeper, faster, please.  Derek wrapped one large hand around Stiles’ dick and began to fist him in time to his thrusts.  The twin sensations of Derek inside of him and his hand sliding up and down his cock sent Stiles spiraling over the edge.  Stiles’ entire body tensed and his muscles seized as his orgasm ripped through him, spilling out liquid heat.  Derek followed Stiles into oblivion, riding the wave of his orgasm buried deep inside his lover as he called out his name.

“I love you,” Derek whispered later as he unbound Stiles from the bedposts.

“I love you too,” Stiles murmured, gently rolling his shoulders to ease the tension out of them.  “Even if you do somehow interpret ‘help me research incubi’ to mean ‘tie me to the bed and ravish me’.  FYI for future reference, one of those things is not like the other.”

Derek grinned.  “I thought you could use a practical demonstration of their abilities,” he quipped. 

“Derek Hale that is a pack of lies, falsehoods, and untruths,” Stiles accused.  “You just wanted a piece of my candy and for the record Captain Caveman, this whole mine, mine, grr thing you’ve got going?  It goes both ways.”

“I know it does,” Derek replied, rolling his eyes and not bothering to deny the accusation.  “I’m gonna run us a bath.  Check your laptop.  I heard it beep so I think it's done running that search for…whatever it is you were searching for this time.”

“Your lack of appreciation for my awesome research skills is appalling,” Stiles yelled as Derek went into the bathroom and started filling the tub.

Derek exited the bathroom and crawled across the bed, kissing Stiles.  “There’s no such thing as incubi.”

Stiles glared at Derek.  “That’s what you said about fairies.”

“Let it go, Stiles.”

“I had glitter in places glitter should never be.  I was traumatized and shall never again be able to enjoy Peter Pan without thinking that Disney is a lying liar who lies.  I will not be letting it go anytime soon.”

“I hear the air quotes in that sentence and in Disney’s defense Tinker Belle did try to have Wendy killed so it was a somewhat accurate representation.”

“Tink was also an adorable blonde who was yea high.  Our fairies?  Over six feet tall and looked more like Gollum.  I expected Cinderella and got the ugliest of ugly stepsisters.  That was all kinds of false advertising, bro.  I’m seriously considering a lawsuit.”

Derek laughed.  “Come on, let’s go get cleaned up,” he said pulling Stiles up from the bed.

“Be there in a minute.  Just wanna check and see what my search found out about allegedly non-existent incubi,” Stiles explained.

As Derek slipped into the bathroom, Stiles walked over to his laptop and began idly reading the search results.  The buzzing of his phone interrupted him and he thought about letting it go to voicemail but got a strange tingle when he realized the call was from a private, unfamiliar number.

Twin tendrils of fear and anticipation snaked up his spine as Stiles answered.  “Y’llo?”

“Hello, Stiles.”

Stiles drew in a shuddering breath.  His free hand hovered over Derek’s cell phone as he contemplated using it to send an SOS text to his father or alert the agents assigned to his case that Peter had made contact but he didn’t even allow his fingers to brush the plastic before he withdrew it.

There was no need to call out for Derek; the other man had been a blur rushing from the bathroom to Stiles’ side at the first uptick of his heartbeat.

“Peter.”

“You sound troubled.  I thought you’d be more relaxed.”

“Yeah well, I thought you’d be less crazy so I guess we’re both a little disappointed.”

“Such a wicked little tongue.  I’ve missed it, you know.  Your mouth.”

Stiles felt an involuntary shiver course through him at the memories those words stirred up.

Peter smelled like earth and spice, slightly musky, and not at all like the combination of Axe and boy sweat that Stiles was used to from the locker room.  Stiles knelt in front of the older man and couldn’t take his eyes off the long, thick cock in front of him.

“It’s okay.  You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for,” Peter assured him, scratching his fingers along Stiles’ scalp.

“I know,” Stiles murmured.  “I know that you wouldn’t make me…I want to I’m just—”

“Are you sure?”  Peter asked, curling his hand around the back of Stiles’ neck and giving a slight squeeze.

“Yeah,” Stiles nodded, bending forward and opening his mouth.  He took an exploratory lick and was surprised that he didn’t find the taste of Peter’s slick completely offensive.  It didn’t taste good per se, but it didn’t taste bad either.

“I don’t want you to choke me,” Stiles warned Peter, glaring up at him through his lashes. 

“I would never do anything you didn’t want or that made you feel like you were anything less than cherished,” Peter replied.  At the reassurance Stiles gathered his courage and closed his lips around the crown of Peter’s cock, sucking tentatively. 

“So good,” Peter moaned.  Stiles, encouraged by the reaction took more of Peter into his mouth, flattening his tongue and running it along the vein. and lapped around underneath the cockhead.  Peter’s thighs trembled in response and more fluid dribbled out of his slit.

“That’s it, take just a little more,” Peter instructed.  Stiles attempted to suck Peter down further and his gag reflex kicked in, causing him to pull back.

“It’s okay,” Peter soothed.  “Tilt your chin up a bit, and open your mouth. There, just a little wider.  Just like that,” Peter groaned as Stiles took him back into his mouth.  “Now try to relax your throat.”  Peter took one of Stiles’ hands off of his thigh and closed it around his erection.  “Hold me just a little bit tighter, just like you would if you were touching yourself.”

Stiles followed Peter’s instructions to the letter, wrapping his long fingers around Peter’s cock and stroking him.  Peter groaned out his approval and Stiles swallowed more of Peter’s cock.

“Oh yesss,” Peter gasped as Stiles gained confidence and began bobbing his head, sliding his lips back and forth and using his hand to stroke what he couldn’t fit into his mouth.  Peter cradled Stiles’ head in his hands, his fingers threaded together, and held him there, not applying any pressure and letting Stiles control the movement.  He shook and panted as Stiles’ tongue laved over his slit and his throat relaxed, letting him take more and more of Peter with every pass.

Stiles called on his memory of every blowjob scene from every porn movie that he’d ever watched and reached out to take Peter’s balls into his hand, testing the weight and feel of them before fondling them gently.  On his knees in front of Peter with the taste of him on his tongue and the weight of him in his hand, silky soft and throbbing in time to his heartbeat Stiles had never felt more powerful or more wanted.  He felt every bit as cherished as Peter had promised to make him feel and he wanted to give that feeling to Peter so he redoubled his efforts, sucking and swallowing and licking Peter with abandon.  He knew it wasn’t perfect; he caught Peter with his teeth a couple of times and pushed himself too far and gagged once more but Peter kept saying he was good and beautiful and his and that was everything.  When Peter finally climaxed, shooting salty sweet down Stiles throat it didn’t matter that Stiles’ jaw was aching or that he had bruises on both his knees…all that mattered was Peter telling him that he was precious.  That he’d done well.

And then Derek was there, tipping his head back to suck the taste of Peter off his tongue and whispering that it was his turn to make Stiles feel good now.

Peter’s voice jerked Stiles back to the present.  “Have I lost you, my sweet boy?”

You’ll never lose me, Stiles thought.

“Still right here, waiting for you to get on with the entertainment portion of the evening,” Stiles snarked.

Peter chuckled darkly.  “Oh, but my dear boy, you and Derek are doing an admirable job entertaining yourselves.”

Stiles thought again about using Derek’s cell phone to call for help and once more decided against it.  Derek had known it was Peter on the phone from the moment he’d entered the room, and he hadn’t made a move to notify the authorities either, so Stiles decided he wouldn't rock the boat.  Instead, Stiles allowed himself to sink back into the heat and protection of his lover.

“Derek’s got Wi-Fi and lets me control the Netflix queue on pack movie night so we do alright,” Stiles answered.

“I think we both know that the type of entertainment I was referring to isn’t exactly family-friendly,” Peter drawled.

“What do you want Peter?” 

“I simply called to say hello.”

“Bullshit.”

Peter clucked his tongue.  “How many times have I told you that profanity is the last refuge of the ignorant?”

“How many times have I told you that I don’t give a flying fuckity fuck?”

“Don’t be insolent, Stiles.  It doesn’t suit you.”

Stiles choked back an apology.  “I’m not insolent, Peter.  I’m tired.  I’m tired of jumping at shadows and wondering when the next body is going to show up in my bedroom.”

“I would never—”

“You already did!”

“Do you really mean to tell me you’re upset about being permitted to live with Derek?”  Peter demanded.  “That you didn’t want to go to sleep curled around him every night and wake up draped over him every morning?  That you don’t smile whenever you catch sight of your toothbrush next to his or what’s the word-flail-whenever one of you mentions seeing the other at home?  And if I may be so bold, it’s been four months.  Does anyone really miss the Argents?”

“Scott—”

“Scott will get over the loss.  Tell me, when did you last shed a tear over Lydia?  Ten years from now Scott will have a pretty little wife, his firstborn, a dog, a nice house not too far from his mother, and Allison Argent will be little more than a memory.  He’s already starting to recover, isn’t he Stiles?  His smiles come easier, he’s laughing more, and his attitude has improved.  He’s a little more available and appreciative, finally giving you the attention you deserve.  He’s even accepted Derek as his Alpha and become pack. A pack, I might add, that is enjoying a blessed peace without the Argents and their hunter ilk skulking about the town.  Tell me Stiles, how is any of this a bad thing?”

Stiles’ mouth went dry.  He hadn’t forgotten about Lydia-would never forget about Lydia he just…had found a place for his grief and a way to live with his guilt.  It wasn’t that he was over it –he would never be over it-he just …he just wasn’t consumed by it.  Losing Lydia hadn’t been like losing his mom.  After the initial shock and crushing sense of loss, he pulled himself together and moved forward.  Lydia’s death, while by no means trivial, hadn’t become an ache that burrowed beneath his skin and lived inside his bones sometimes lessening but never leaving.  It wasn’t even remotely the same, mostly because the truth was that Stiles had never really had Lydia.  She’d been a presence in his life for years, but she hadn’t exactly been a part of it.  He had lost the potential and the idea and the hope of Lydia but at the end of the day, for Stiles insomuch that it affected his day to day life, Lydia being dead was a lot like Lydia being alive. 

And Jackson might have been pretty and popular, but after the initial shock wore off, the only person who seemed to be impacted by his absence, besides the Whittemores was Danny. Danny had fallen into some strange bromance with Greenberg and a situationship with Isaac of all people, so while he definitely remembered and probably missed Jackson in the way that only brothers from another mother could, Danny wasn’t exactly falling apart at the seams.

Plus no Jackson and no Lydia meant that Danny was the undisputed king of the mountain at Beacon Hills High School.  And Danny’s reign thus far had been kinder and gentler than Jackson and Lydia’s had ever been.

And that probably went a long way in people being willing to let Jackson and Lydia slowly but surely turn into little more than the first known victims of the Beacon Beast.

And as much as Stiles wasn’t shedding any tears for Gerard and fully believed that the world was a better place without the evil old son of a bitch in it, he couldn’t bring himself to feel that way about Chris’ death, about Allison’s death and yet…

Peter made it all sound so neat and necessary and somehow not so terrible.

Allison was dead, Chris was dead, Gerard was dead (thank fuck) and everyone was almost better for it.  Aleksander had stopped fighting them and allowed Stiles to move in with Derek.  Boyd, Isaac, and Erica all seemed lighter as if a burden had been lifted from them.  The town had mourned its dead and moved on and Scott, well, Stiles hated to admit it but Peter was right.  Things with Scott were not better, Stiles would never say better, but they were easier without the pull of Allison and the ever-present drama that accompanied Scott-and-Allison’s-Super –Awesome-But-Epically-Complicated-True-Love.

Argents notwithstanding, everyone did seem to have drawn the long straw.

And wasn’t that a horrible thought for Stiles to have? 

“I can think of much more horrible things,” Peter admitted softly.

“So I just said all that out loud.  That’s uh, that’s a thing that just happened.”  Stiles groaned.

“The Beacon Beast.  I abhor that moniker.  I find it terribly unimaginative,” Peter scoffed.

“Yeah, the press should have given you a better name so that you wouldn’t be made fun of by all the other serial killers ‘cause The Buttermilk Bluebeard and The Shoe Fetish Slayer are just all kinds of picky,” Stiles replied.  “I hear on Wednesday they wear pink.”

Peter laughed, and it sounded so merry and bright and happy it made Stiles ache.  “I really have missed you, Stiles,” Peter sighed.  “Both of you.”

Derek inhaled sharply and his grip on Stiles tightened.  “You’re always welcome to visit.  The local Motel 6 may be a bit beneath you but the BHPD has excellent accommodations.  There are three hots and a cot with your name on it buddy,” Stiles said, tilting his head slightly to the side so that Derek could bury his nose into the crook of his neck.

“Tell Derek I apologize.  It wasn’t my intention to upset either of you.”

We’re not upset.  We miss you too.  We’re furious at you.  Come home.  Stay away.

“Then stop doing it.”

“I would that I could, Stiles.  I would that I could.”

“Peter—”

“I’ll talk to you again soon.  Kiss Derek for me.”

“Peter wait—”

“You still look beautiful when you come.  Now hang up.  Your water’s getting cold.”

Stiles dropped the phone and it clattered to the desk.  “How the hell?”

“Stiles,” Derek said quietly, nodding towards Stiles’ laptop.

Stiles’ laptop had been sitting open and turned on atop the dresser directly across from the bed.  As Stiles peered down to look at it he noticed that the light that indicated that the camera was in use was on.

“Peter?”  He whispered.

I'll be your liquor
Bathing your soul in juice that's pure

I'll be your anchor
You'll never leave these shores that cure

I've seen you suffer
I've seen you cry
For days and days

So I'll be your liquor
Demons will drown and float away

I’ll be your father
I’ll be your mother
I’ll be your lover
I’ll be yours

The End