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Everything of Me

Summary:

"We're all his," Peter says. "Some of us have learned when to leverage that to our advantage, and some of us are still too focused on what we belong to, rather than who and why."

or,

There are so many things to take care of in their immediate future -- meeting with the Consilium, a visit to Letitia in Dallas, the drive back to Beacon Hills, dealing with the pack -- and yet Peter thinks he'd be capable of doing anything, as long as he has Stiles by his side. (And oh, he does.)

Chapter Text

Stiles falls asleep. The bond disappears without him awake to maintain its visibility but Peter can feel it, anchored in his chest, large and strong and woven thick between them. He closes his eyes, inhales the scent of his mate, thinks about everything yet to come: potentially another meeting with the Consilium, a visit to Letitia in Dallas, the drive back home, dealing the McCall pack, with Stiles' father, with the nemeton and Deaton and Stiles' mentor. There's going to be so much to do in such a limited time that if Peter was any other wolf and Stiles any other mate, they'd probably decide to never leave this bed.

Peter is an alpha, now, though, with a wolf currently satiated but soon, he has no doubt, one that will wake up clamouring for a pack so he can stake his territory claim, protect his mate, increase his power. And Stiles is Stiles -- a Spark, yes, with connections that Peter doesn't know about and a power that reaches the centre of the universe, but still Stiles, young and determined and now full of an anchored magic that will demand to play, grow, rule as is his due. It's enough to make any man laugh, enough to have any wolf howling its joy across the heavens.

He opens red-tinged eyes, holds Stiles close. They're not good people, either of them, and the world isn't ready to face them -- but they aren't going to give anyone the choice. Peter grins, then full-out smiles.

What fun they're going to have.

--

Stiles wakes up when the sun rises, the pattern of his breathing changing the moment that the sun crests the horizon. He hums, stretching, and rubs his nose on Peter's collarbone. It's another minute before Stiles opens his eyes, looks up at Peter, smiling softly. "Hey," he says, voice sleep-ragged and rough.

He looks better already, skin losing the sickly tinge he's been carrying around, the circles under his eyes starting to fade. He's so beautiful, lying here, naked and comfortable in it, his eyes still glowing Spark-white, the corners of his lips turned up in an easy, relaxed pleasure.

"Good morning," Peter says, and thinks that it's been worth it, all of it -- Talia, the fire, the coma, his aborted attempt at holding the Hale alpha power and subsequent death and resurrection -- to get him to this point, here, with his mate in his arms. "Sleep well?"

"Very well," Stiles says. He leans up, kisses Peter, tongue sliding into Peter's mouth like it belongs there, tasting every crevice and corner, running over the pricks of Peter's fangs. "Morning breath," he says, once he's pulled back enough to speak. "Ick."

Peter laughs, says, "And you can't do anything about that? Lazy creature."

Stiles grins, lifts up a hand to trace the arch of Peter's left eyebrow. "The way you like me," he says. "You should get some sleep. You must be exhausted."

"Exhilarated, actually," Peter says. "The alpha power, the bonding -- either, both. I don't think I could sleep right now if you paid me."

"Hungry, then?" Stiles asks.

Peter narrows his eyes, looks at Stiles; the question was too innocent, too put-on, especially with the way Stiles has one hand on Peter's face, the other circling Peter's navel. "What are you really asking?"

Stiles' smile turns a little blood-thirsty, a little predatory. Peter feels the greed of it run through their bond, down his own spine. "I've had sleep," Stiles murmurs. "I'm ready for round two and I'd really like you to fuck me now, alpha."

"You just woke up," Peter says, trying to ignore the way all the blood in his body is rushing to his dick, the way that the wolf inside of him starts panting in want. "Aren't you hungry? You should eat something."

"You're my mate," Stiles says, and he rubs up against Peter, letting Peter feel that Stiles is hard, too. "Provide me with sex, Peter, and feed me later."

Peter's first instinct -- his first human instinct -- is to wrap his hand around the back of Stiles' neck. He remembers what that feels like, though, what it does to him, so with his arm already in motion, he ends up running his fingers through Stiles' hair, scratching at Stiles' scalp. The noise Stiles lets loose sings to his wolf, calls the lupine power to the forefront; Peter wraps arms around Stiles, sits up and pulls Stiles with him, and kisses Stiles.

It's a rough kiss, Peter's fangs tearing into Stiles' lips and tongue, Stiles giving back just as good with blunt, human teeth. Their blood mixes in their mouths, smears out onto their chins, and the smell of it combines with their scents to have the wolf inside Peter howling. Stiles bends, bites Peter's throat, digs his teeth in and shakes, tearing the skin.

"Taste so good," Stiles mutters, as the smell of salt and pomegranate floods the air around them, sense-impression of their bond. "God, Peter, could just -- I could just eat you alive."

Peter throws his head back, gives Stiles the vulnerable line of his throat, says, "Do it," and rubs his hand over their cocks, gathering pre-come on his palm before he jerks them off together. "Do it, Stiles; take what you want, anything, I'm yours."

Stiles groans, thrusts up into Peter's hold, gives Peter a matching bite on the other side of his neck. "My wolf," he says, and kisses Peter again, this time bringing Peter's blood with him, liquid already soaking into the soft palate of Stiles' mouth like a permanent fixture. "My alpha, my mate. Mine," he snarls. Peter murmurs agreement, over and over, until Stiles grips his face with both hands and says, "Fuck me, Peter."

Peter falls onto his back, Stiles straddling him, and Stiles stops, just -- looks at him. The mood disappears, instantly, even though their bodies haven't yet caught up; Peter still has them both in hand, Stiles still carries a lust-fevered blush on his cheeks, high up on his chest.

Peter frowns, says, "What? What is it? What did I do wrong?"

"I said I wanted you to fuck me." Stiles narrows his eyes, asks, slowly, "Do you like being on your back, Peter?" Peter's not sure how to answer that; it sounds too much like a trick question. Stiles lets out a sharp exhale, rolling his eyes. "Oh, for the love of --," he mutters, then leans down, fixes his gaze to Peter's. "Listen to me, wolf," he says, and the alpha inside of Peter sits up, head cocked to one side as it listens intently to the Spark currently pissed off at it. "This man is going to fuck me -- right now and for years into the future. He is going to be above me, behind me, on top of me, and a dozen different other positions. None of them will be an attempt to dominate me because he is wholly and completely unable to do so and he knows that. He is mine and he is doing what I want. Do you understand."

The wolf whines and Peter bares his throat.

"Do you understand?" Stiles asks again, demanding an answer.

This time, the wolf yips, just once, a noise that, to Peter's ear, almost sounds apologetic. He reaches up, strokes his claws across Stiles's cheekbone, says, "We understand."

Stiles kisses Peter, close-mouthed, chaste, too short. He rubs his nose along the line of Peter's cheek, inhaling, and Peter takes the opportunity to nudge his chin against Stiles' skin, leaving his own mark even though their scents are already entwined, joined. "Then fuck me, Peter."

Peter smiles, a bared-teeth, snarling smile, and surges up, flips them. Stiles lands on his back, Peter above him, caging him against the mattress, and Stiles grins up at him, Spark-white eyes glowing with pleasure. "I'm not going to be gentle; I can't, not right now. It's going to hurt," Peter says, the rumbling purr of his wolf invading his voice. "I'm going to take what I want from you and leave you screaming. That's what you want, Stiles?"

"Yes," Stiles breathes. The inner light of magic radiates outwards, through Stiles's skin, and he moves his legs, spreads them and pulls them up as much as he can with Peter still crouched over him. "Please, Peter."

Someday, Peter's going to eat Stiles out, send him spiralling through orgasms just from Peter's tongue in his ass, get him all loose and sloppy and wet and leave him aching to be filled until he's past the point of words and movement and can only beg with noise. Someday -- hopefully soon -- he's going to take hours fingering Stiles, might even work him so open that Peter can get his fist inside, imagines the way Stiles would blossom so beautifully under the attention, would drip sweat and flare his scent and leave Peter just as undone as Peter leaves him. Right now, though, all Peter wants to do is get inside and he's already warned Stiles that he's not going to take his time.

He moves Stiles, arranges him so that he's holding his knees wide, baring himself for Peter's touch, Peter's gaze. Peter's had partners in the past who hated this position, disliked being so open, detested the way it left them broken apart for Peter to look at. Stiles gives into it beautifully. He has nothing to hide, nothing to be ashamed about, and Peter -- Peter aches for the trust Stiles offers him, for the way he can feel the bond between them, anchored tight on both ends, for the look in Stiles' white eyes as he waits for pain.

"God," Peter breathes. "God."

The look on Stiles' face turns wicked, smile gleaming like shards of glass, as he says. "Not quite."

Peter laughs, helplessly, and then rams himself inside of Stiles.

Stiles is still a little open from last night but not enough to keep him from giving voice to a low, broken moan of hurt. Peter doesn't stop, ignores the way that he can hear Stiles' skin tearing except to use it to urge himself on, ignores the smell of fresh blood except to think, idly, in the back corner of a mind gibbering with fear at what he's doing to a Spark, that the blood -- even the most miniscule amount -- might help to slick the way. He's focused on bottoming out, getting wholly inside of Stiles, and he does, almost immediately with the force he uses. Once he's there, he doesn't wait, just pulls almost all the way out and slams back in again, baring his teeth when Stiles jerks underneath him.

He loses himself to the rhythm, the wolf, the need to take this offering and break it apart so that no one else will ever want it, to claim it so thoroughly that no one else will ever even think about trying to take it away from him. He wants to ruin the man beneath him, tear out his heart and fill the empty space with his own, mark Stiles so thoroughly that Stiles breathes the same breath as Peter, feels the same beating heart sending life throughout his body that Peter does, exists with the same blood, the same flesh, the same all-consuming, uncontrollable need to be one and never separate. Stiles sobs, tears running down his temples, instinct pushing him to get away but not strong enough to overpower his need, the way he's still holding his calves, still letting Peter take and take and take. Peter wants to get his teeth into Stiles' neck, wants to lay a circle of bites and bruises around his throat in claim, but the wolf won't let him; he has to settle for drawing his fangs over Stiles' collarbone, for ripping apart the skin of Stiles' shoulder.

Stiles screams when Peter's claws dig into his hips, harsh, wracking breaths doing nothing so much as exciting the wolf, but he goes still the instant Peter circles one hand around his dick. He's hard, Peter doesn't know how he's still hard even through all this agony Peter's inflicting, and he meets Peter's eyes, white to red, for a split-second before Peter throws his head back and roars, thrusting without rhythm into Stiles as he comes.

--

Peter -- drifts, there's no other word for it. He and his wolf are in tune, achingly connected, as they float in the aftermath, both of them surrounded by the scents of mate and sex and blood. He thinks, possibly, that he could spend hours here, like this, wrapped in intense physical completion, feeling his wolf's fur run up and down his skin.

But then a kick to his chest and a pissed-off, "Don't leave me hanging here, Peter," start to draw him out of it.

He opens his eyes, feels his spent cock twitch, as he meets Stiles' eyes and takes in the gleam of Stiles' teeth. "Jesus," he says, can't help the slight thrust as his mind starts coming back to him. He looks down, sees fingernails, not claws, on the hand around Stiles' dick, and jerks once, twice, feels Stiles tighten around him, and groans, grinds in as far as he can as his healing kicks in and he starts getting hard again.

"Don't you dare," Stiles hisses, "not until I do. I will kill you, Peter."

Peter's mostly sure that Stiles won't, not when he's all that's anchoring Stiles, but he doesn't want to chance it, not with that look in Stiles' eyes. He draws his thumb up the underside of Stiles' cock, twists a little when he gets to the head, and Stiles closes his eyes, throws his head back and arches into the touch. Peter does it again, collects more pre-come on his palm to ease the friction, and follows the clues of Stiles' body to figure out what Stiles likes best: this finger here and Stiles moans, this motion here and Stiles pants, this curl here and Stiles comes.

The pressure around Peter's dick feels so good; he moves into it, with it, and comes again with a low groan. When he's done, the last spattering of aftershocks worked through his body, Peter pulls out, rubs one finger around Stiles' rim and draws pain, winces as he eyes the damage he's done.

"As close to all-powerful as anyone gets," he murmurs, "and you can't heal this?"

"Don't wanna," Stiles says. "Not until I plan on sitting up, at least." He makes grabby-hands for Peter and Peter goes willingly, curling around Stiles, licking up the salt-tracks from Stiles' tears before he starts pressing kisses to Stiles' temple, murmuring apologies. "Don't apologise," Stiles tells him, shivers when Peter draws fingers over the claw marks in Stiles' hip, still sluggishly bleeding. "Wanted it, wanted you. You warned me; if I wasn't ready for it, if I didn't want it, I would've stopped you."

Peter's instant reaction is to argue, to say that Stiles wouldn't be able to stop him, not with Peter in a mating frenzy, but that's a human reaction, a denial of everything that Stiles has done, the past few days, and everything he is. "I know," Peter says. "I'm still sorry."

"Be sorry while you sleep," Stiles says. "And get over it by the time you wake up." Peter mutters a protest but his eyes are already closing, half against his will, and the wolf, completely satisfied, is dragging him under. "Love you," Peter hears, and then he's asleep.

--

He dreams of the nemeton. The tree's at the centre of Hale territory and full-grown, providing shade over a large clearing. There's a woman kneeling at its base holding a small ceramic box; she looks young, Asian, harried, and smells of fox dens and fire. Noise comes from the forest, yelling, shouting, the crunching of shrubs and bushes and broken branches. She looks around, turns back to the box, whispers out a prayer and then shoves the box deep in the nemeton's roots. She runs; a few minutes later, soldiers run through as well, ignore the tree, fan out of the clearing in every direction.

The box rattles, a dozen fireflies emerge from the tree, the nemeton shakes and collapses into dust, cracking open the box.

Then -- Stiles. Stiles, wandering into the dust-cloud, wearing nothing except a stripe of red paint down his back. He kneels at the ruins of the tree, cups his hands, and a black fly buzzes around them, eventually lands. The fireflies dance around Stiles' head, dart towards the black fly, are rebuffed every time when Stiles closes his hands around the fly, protecting it. The swarm of fireflies grows until they're so thick that he can't see Stiles, a furious, droning hum surrounding Stiles, and then it breaks, just long enough for Peter to watch as Stiles brings his cupped hands to his mouth.

The fireflies start to pop, one by one -- pop, pop, pop, pop --

And then Peter wakes up.

--

Stiles is sitting next to him, cross-legged, dressed, and with a tray on his lap. He cocks his head to the side, looking at Peter with eyes gone back to human-normal, says, "Ah. The dreams started, then?" Peter forces himself to sit up, takes the tray when Stiles offers it, glances across the food: pancakes, coffee, baked oatmeal. "It's all vegan," Stiles says. "The elemental doesn't keep milk or eggs here but there's flour and flaxseed and shelf-stable soy milk. Hope that's okay."

"More than," Peter says. "You didn't have to go to all this trouble."

"No trouble," Stiles says. "You were asleep and I was bored. I made some bread as well; we can have peanut butter sandwiches in the car if we want."

Peter starts to eat, hadn't realised how hungry he was until the first bite of pancake is being chewed and swallowed. "Heal yourself?" he asks, in between bites of whole wheat and chocolate-chip pancakes and baked oatmeal laced with dried cranberries and cherries.

Stiles smiles, says, "Mostly. I thought making sure my alpha was fed was more important. Didn't clean up, though."

Peter nearly chokes. He looks at Stiles, inhales deep; Stiles reeks of Peter's come, of blood, of satisfaction and a little bit of pain. "Mostly?" he asks. Stiles pulls his shirt collar to one side, shows off the scabbed-over ruin of his clavicle, then displays his hips and the five perfect claw-marks in each side. "Stiles, I'm --"

"Not going to apologise," Stiles says firmly. "You're going to eat and then we're going to fix the house and make ourselves presentable, because we have lunch plans." Peter makes a show of eating, exaggerating his bites, but raises an eyebrow as well. Stiles waits until Peter's halfway through his pancakes before saying, "I called the kittens. We're going to meet with them before we leave. Bee's going to be there as well, so you can meet her, and the elemental, Alex."

"What should I expect?" Peter asks. "And what did you mean about the dreams?" Stiles looks at him; Peter says, "You'll have to carry the conversation while I eat, Stiles."

Stiles rolls his eyes, sprawls out on the bed. "Fine," he says. "Expectations for lunch. We're going to a place I like on Magazine; they do these amazing waffles and they have a coffee they call their adderall brew, plus the crab and bacon dip, and the shoestring fries, and the paella --." He trails off, licks his lips, and Peter looks down at his breakfast tray, wonders if he should be eating it based on the way Stiles has gone momentarily silent with food daydreams. "Anyway. The kittens prefer Commander's Palace but I like watching them try to blend in. They fail miserably but it's like getting a meal and a show -- and I always make them tip well. Alex doesn't eat meat but doesn't care if other people do and Bee refuses anything with onions, and both of them are sarcastic little shits, so you'll get along fine. They're also completely devoted to me," Stiles adds, looks and sounds discomfited, his innate distaste for the reverence a Spark deserves weighing heavy on him. "So when I start laying into the kittens, they'll be right behind me."

"Good," Peter says. "So will I. What, exactly, will you be castigating them for?"

"The wards, first of all," and Stiles' eyes go hard. "They should never have increased the power of their wards like that, not when they knew I was coming." Peter frowns, a little confused. "They'd never get them strong enough to stop me," Stiles explains. "Not when I'm the Spark who made them. But they raised the level to war footing without any kind of notification. Fuck knows how many people were affected." Of course Stiles is more concerned with other people; Peter doesn't know how that matches the idea of Sparks being unable to care about others, thinks maybe all of those ancient stories got some things drastically wrong. Although it could just be Stiles.

It's probably just Stiles. He has a habit of exceeding expectations.

Stiles shifts, rolls onto his side and shoves a pillow under his head, fixes his eyes on Peter. "Then we're going to talk about the little welcoming party they sent out to meet us. I haven't decided what to do with them yet. When I explained the situation to Bee, she told me to kill them all and start over. Alex said much the same. What do you think?"

"I think that you probably have an idea already," Peter says, "and I'll back you up, whatever you decide." Stiles huffs, opens his mouth, and, ignoring his wolf, Peter says, "But I don't think you should kill them." That gets Stiles' attention. He closes his mouth, makes a gesture with his hand for Peter to carry on. "Killing them may not solve the problem if their successors are anything like the originals, and it may breed distrust. You're a Spark, Stiles. I think you should use that. Remind them what you are, put the fear of god into them, then make them respect you. Cut out a little bit of their pride, too, while you're at it. It's obviously made them stupid."

"I don't like fucking with people," Stiles says, mouth a firm line. "I don't like --"

Peter leans over the tray, touches Stiles' leg. "You don't like being a Spark. You've said that. And I can't imagine what it must feel like to know that there's realistically very little outside of your abilities, to have had to create your own moral code to keep your magic under control because it's so reactive that it would do anything you asked of it." He pulls his hand back, smelling something start to inhabit Stiles' scent, something that Peter can't put a name to. "Your mentor's doing what she can but I'm your mate, Stiles, and I'll be honest with you even when you don't want to hear it. In this? Fix the cats. It's the best choice. You know it's the best choice."

Stiles flops onto his back, laces his hands together on his belly. Peter sips at his coffee, waits. "I fucked with someone's mind once, when I was little, before I knew what I was. What I am," Stiles eventually says. Peter's heart sinks; he sets down his coffee mug, feels like he knows what he's going to hear before Stiles says it. He thinks back to everything they've talked about the past few days, mind slotting together bits and pieces from various conversations. It's not altogether a surprise when Stiles says, "My mom." Peter closes his eyes. "I wanted -- she was trying to kill me, Peter, and she didn't know why and I didn't know why, either, and I was doing a lot of unconscious magic around that time. Being around me heightened her own magic and so mine gave her dementia in self-defense; when that didn't work to stop her, I made it bad enough that she ended up restrained to a hospital bed for six months. I'm the one that drove her mad and I think I knew it, on some level, because when she had one last moment of lucidity and asked me to kill her so that none of us would suffer anymore, I did."

"Stiles," Peter breathes, because guessing something and hearing it are two completely different things. There's pain twined up in Stiles' scent, pain and heartbreak and sorrow. No guilt, though, and no remorse, so at least Stiles doesn't regret the actions he took to save his own life. He just mourns them.

"It's why I'm so hesitant to mess with anyone's mind or personalities," Stiles says. "I don't trust myself not to make it worse."

Peter lets out a deep breath, puts the breakfast tray to the side. Stiles tenses at the movement and so Peter doesn't do what he wants, which is to gather up Stiles, hold him close, wrap him in cotton and keep him safe from a world that's been so cruel to him over the years. Instead, he moves just enough to brush his leg against Stiles', to use the smallest of physical connections to ground them together. "You're older now," Peter says. "You've ignited and you've been in training and you don't use your magic unconsciously anymore. You know your magic and your magic knows you. You can do it." Stiles doesn't move, doesn't acknowledge Peter's words, so Peter says, quietly, "You've been in and out of my mind in the last twenty-four hours and I'm not any the worse for wear."

Stiles sits up, a rapid movement that Peter didn't expect; he blinks at the action, has to fight not to drop his eyes when Stiles glares at him. "I would never --." He stops, hisses between his teeth; the glow coming from under his skin explodes and paints the air around them with prismatic sunlight, so bright that Peter has to squint his eyes against the luminescence.

Resisting the urge to hide under the blankets from the glare currently making his eyes water, Peter says,
"You drive your magic, Stiles. If you don't want to hurt them, you won't. You haven't hurt me." Stiles says Peter's name; Peter can't stop himself, shows Stiles red eyes and a curled lip, even through his tears. "You called me alpha, you accepted my offer of emissary-ship, and you let me fuck you raw," he says. "And all of this after the history we share. By any metric in any court, I've hurt you a lot more."

Stiles' eyes are wide and the light around him starts to fade back into something a little more subtle, the glow of starlight rather than high-noon sun, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat. It's like he can't comprehend Peter's words, as if he's been living on an entirely different planet the last few days, and Peter won't have that, he won't.

"You claimed me," Peter says, softer. "You could have changed me when you did that but you made us part of each other, instead. When my wolf didn't feel comfortable being above you, you gave it permission to adapt. Instead of revelling in an alpha werewolf's submission, you told me to be myself. You demanded I remain myself, not turn into a slave, and -- you want me, Stiles, do you know how that feels? To know that someone like you, Spark or otherwise, wants me as I am? We're not good people, we're not nice, and you want me anyway. Maybe even because of that. I would do anything you ask and all you've asked is that I fuck you, take a nap, and then eat breakfast."

"I've asked you to kill," Stiles says, eyes wet and shining with something that smells, amidst Stiles' scent, like love. "To take me halfway across the country and murder someone in cold blood just so I don't die."

Peter gives Stiles a smile, a sad one, though a proud one, too. "You came to me for help and asked nothing of me I wasn't already prepared to provide," he says. "I would let you do anything to me, Stiles, and I'd live through it -- or die through it -- happily, knowing that it's what you want."

Stiles laughs, a choking, wet sound, as he pulls his knees up to his chest, as he wraps his arms around his legs and holds himself compact. "I don't deserve that," he murmurs, still loud enough for Peter to hear. "No one deserves that."

"It's my choice to offer it," Peter says, "and I have. I do. Not because you're a Spark, or my mate, or a member of my pack. But because you're you."

Peter moves, then, slow enough that Stiles can push him back if he wants, to wrap one arm around Stiles' shoulders. Stiles turns into the half-embrace, snuggles in closer, and Peter feels a wave of tension slip out of Stiles' body even as his light dims further, sinking in and leaving Stiles limned in soft moonlight.

"The nogitsune said something similar right before we split," Stiles says, soft, quiet, almost reluctant. "I didn't believe him. But I might eventually start to believe you."

"I'll just have to keep saying it until you do, then," Peter says, and tries to hide the triumph from his voice at having won this one thing over the fox that Stiles still seems to miss. Evidently he doesn't hide it well enough; Stiles elbows him, makes a noise that Peter thinks is supposed to be indicative of his dismissal, his distaste for the competition, but just sounds fond. "Are we good?"

Stiles sighs, rubs his eyes on the back of his hand. "Yeah," he says. "We're good. And I'll fuck with the cats; you're right, it's the best choice. I was hoping you'd talk me out of it but -- whatever. If I make it worse, we'll just kill 'em."

Peter laughs, can't help it. "That's the spirit," he says. "Now, a more important question: are there more pancakes?"

--

They clean up by hand. Peter whines, says that Stiles could put everything back in order by snapping his fingers or waving his hand or just blinking, but Stiles says that while magic is a tool, they shouldn't use it just because they can when making the bed by hand works just as well. It's more telling than Stiles realises, probably, and gives Peter a greater insight into the rules Stiles must have bound his magic into following.

Once the house is clean, they shower -- separately, to Stiles' disappointment, but the shower isn't big enough for both of them and they really do need to get clean since they'll be spending time with other shifters -- dress, and leave. Stiles erases the runes from the front door handle, then resets the wards, taking away most of his magic so that the blue tinge comes back, although it doesn't seem as faded as before. Stiles also wraps up most of his scent, leaving out just the top layer. Peter's gratified to learn that this layer of scent is thoroughly entwined with his own, not to mention with satisfaction, adoration, the diabolic mischievousness that Peter hopes Stiles never hides again.

As they drive away, Peter looks back at the house; he's not the most sentimental of wolves but he thinks he'll always remember this house fondly.

The drive back upriver takes about seventy-five minutes. They do it with the windows rolled down, with Stiles telling stories about everything they pass, pointing out landmarks and restaurants and places that used to be other things, more popular things. Peter asks how Stiles knows all of this when he's only spent a weekend in the city, why he cares, and Stiles says, "I know a lot about a whole pile of cities," like it's nothing, like it's no big deal that he knows enough about New Orleans to sound like a native as he talks about the city and the parishes surrounding it-- except for the accent, of course. "Chicago, Portland, Seattle, Dallas -- though that one makes sense, I guess -- and Boston. I know a little about St Louis, a lot about Wichita, and nothing about Detroit. Savannah and Charleston, I could probably give tours there, and I mean, New York, right? The history of NYC is fascinating."

"But you call it NYC," Peter says. "No one calls it NYC."

"I do," Stiles points out, very obviously trying to hide a smile as he says it.

Peter rolls his eyes, asks, "But why?"

Stiles shrugs. "Why not?" he asks. There's more to it than that; Stiles' scent has changed, a little, deepened, maybe, or gone darker, somehow. Peter decides not to push, not when they have the rest of their lives in front of them and, more immediately, a nearly-forty hour drive back home to Beacon Hills coming up.