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Everything of Me

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Peter wants nothing more than to take Stiles back to his apartment, spread Stiles out on his bed and feast, fill the room, fill every room, with their scents, but when they drive into Beacon Hills, Stiles reminds Peter to head to the loft.

"Derek asked us to, after all," Stiles says, texting someone -- probably Derek. "Well. Ordered, more like, but still." Once he's done, Stiles drops his phone in the cupholder and pulls down his long sleeves from where he's had them pushed up around his elbows all day. Peter doesn't like that they cover the mating bite but he understands. Better to get the lay of the land first when it comes to Derek. "That doesn't mean we have to tell him anything tonight. We can wait for the big reveal."

Peter's tempted but he remembers the days before he took the alpha spark from Laura, when he was omega and alone, no pack bonds to anchor him and his wolf half-mad inside of him. The ache of those memories, the yearning for connection, for pack, for anyone, is something deeply ingrained him in now; he has Stiles' bond, and it's a beautiful, impossibly strong thing, but he's greedy for more. "No," he says, and surprises himself with the lack of reluctance in his voice. "I at least want to offer Derek pack bonds. We can wait on what you are, if you want. He --"

Stiles cuts him off. "How 'bout we see how the conversation goes," he says, and offers his hand. Peter takes it in his, laces their fingers together, glances at Stiles and meets Spark-white eyes with his own alpha-red. "If it makes sense to bring it up, we will. I don't -- I don't like the thought of hiding from Derek." Peter hums in agreement and Stiles takes a deep breath in. "What if Lydia's there, too?" he asks.

"Lydia's up to you," Peter says, after a moment's thought. "She's next, after Derek, but it doesn't have to be tonight if you don't want it to be."

"I think --," Stiles starts, trails off. Peter squeezes Stiles' hand, feels an impression of Stiles' hesitation and worry and want down their bond, can smell the echoing remnants of a hurricane in his scent, all ferocity and tightly-leashed power. "I think we should wait, with Lydia. Derek, tonight, sure, but -- I think we should talk to him first. He'll be your second; he deserves some input and including him in our plans will go further to reassure him of the pack bond than any words might."

Peter laughs, a little -- low and heated and so very, very amused. "You know my nephew well, Stiles."

If they were anyone else, if Peter didn't have the strength of their bond thrumming inside of him, if he hadn't seen the proof of it with his own two eyes, if he couldn't glance over and lick the scarred imprint of his teeth in Stiles' right arm, he might be jealous.

Stiles grins, shifts in his seat a little as he watches the streets of Beacon Hills through the window. Peter wonders what he sees, wonders if each shop and store and house and alleyway has its own story buried in Stiles' memories. Sometimes he thinks he'll never have enough time to tease out everything Stiles is thinking and sometimes the challenge of it, of learning every micron of Stiles, sends his pulse rocketing and his fangs dripping saliva in hunger.

"You've always been my alpha," Stiles says, the smile turning into a smirk along the edges as if he knows what hearing that does to Peter. He probably does, the little shit. "But Derek -- Derek came close. Closer than anyone else, even if I never held pack bonds with him. I think -- we haven't had the same lives, obviously, but I think I understand Derek at a level that most would scoff at, hearing me say that."

Stiles might not feel guilt or regret the way that Derek seems to wear both like skin, but they both carry so much fucking sorrow. Peter could vow to never cause either of them an ounce of sadness, could swear to kill anything that might even dream of doing so, but it would still never be enough.

"Will he forgive me for Laura?" Peter asks. Stiles opens his mouth, scent flaring with fury, and Peter says, quietly, "You might tell me not to regret killing her, that pack law even justified it, but she was his sister and his alpha and his only pack for years. Laura's just one thing of many that stands between us but she's the most important."

"Was Talia big on teaching her kids pack law?" Stiles asks.

Peter has to think about that. He was raised with knowledge of all the laws, even the ones the Hales didn't follow, but he was always expected to be the Hale executioner; knowing why he was going to kill someone was always as important as the how. Talia, too, was taught the law, even if she didn't always listen.

He casts his mind back, tries to remember, and finally says, "If anyone was taught, it was just Laura, but I don't think -- no, Talia wasn't. She wanted to modernise the pack, do more with diplomacy and discussion than by law and judgment. I tried to tell her that they all needed to know but she -- you're saying that Derek doesn't know," he realises, knows he sounds winded by the sudden epiphany. "He doesn't know."

"And you never had a chance to tell him," Stiles says, gentle. "Which might be for the best, because I don't think he would've listened before. But he will now. He'll want to learn -- if not from us, then we can always send him to Satomi for lessons, let her teach him as a neutral third party. For now, I think he'll agree to pack bonds, but I think eventually, once he knows? Once he understands why you had to do it? He'll accept them. It might not be today, or tomorrow, or this year, but -- yeah, Peter. I think he'll forgive you for Laura."

Thankfully there's not too much farther to go or else Peter would have to stop the car and lean over the centre console to haul Stiles into his lap and bury his face in Stiles' scent. Instead, Peter maintains tight control over his thoughts for the next three blocks and parks the car. He doesn't even have time to turn the car off before Stiles is getting out, coming around and opening Peter's door, crouching down and fitting his hands to Peter's cheeks, pulling their foreheads together.

"We can wait," Stiles murmurs, as Peter gasps for breath at the thought of having his nephew back. He doesn't even know why he's reacting this way, why the mere thought of it is sending his mind spiralling sideways, the wolf inside only leashed by the bond to the Spark and the way that the Spark is holding him, grounding him, anchoring him.

He supposes it has a lot to do with the contradictions of being a modern Hale, with the way that their wolves clamour for connection, for family, for pack, and how for so long Talia ignored that. She was always insistent that they were more than their instincts and Peter tried so hard to obey her, attempting to sate his wolf's need for kin any way he could and just barely maintaining control.

Now, mated to a Spark who has done nothing the past week but demand that Peter indulge his instincts -- talking to Peter's wolf, meeting Peter's desires with his own, being as proud to show off their bonds as Peter revels in them, sharing blood and sex and breath -- he's further away from Talia's expectations than ever. And now he might even have Derek as well: Derek, who's become divorced from his wolf in a way that has hurt Peter to see, that divide possibly healing with the promised acceptance of bonds that would demand nothing less than complete recognition of both man and wolf.

Stiles keeps one hand on Peter's face, curls the other around Peter's throat and strokes his fingers down the back of Peter's neck, nails digging in just enough to bring Peter back, the ache of the physical sting guiding him.

"We'll tell him tonight," Peter murmurs, once words have come back, once the desire to lick Derek's cheeks and tear Talia apart have faded into the background enough so that he can grip sanity tight with both hands. "And call Alpha Ito tomorrow?"

"Maybe the day after," Stiles says. Peter can hear the grin in his voice. "We'll have Lydia tomorrow, probably."

Peter groans something unintelligible, inhales the scent of his mate a few more times, and then leans back, takes a few deep breaths to centre himself. He gives Stiles a heavy-lidded look, lets heat fill his voice, and says, "We have Lydia tomorrow afternoon."

Stiles raises an eyebrow, grinning as he stands up and stretches, pops his back and his neck. "Why, Peter," he drawls, "do we have plans tomorrow morning I don't know about?"

Peter growls, turns the car off and then gets out of it, closing the door behind him. He grips Stiles' wrists, pushes Stiles against the car and crowds against him, nose tracing the curve of Stiles' cheekbone. "I'm going to take you home and eat you alive," he snarls.

"Big bad wolf," Stiles croons. "Should I be scared?" A rumble comes up Peter's throat, straight from the wolf, and he bares his teeth, feels them drop into fangs, feels the fingers around Stiles' wrists grow claws, feels the press of his shift at the edges of his control. "Aw," Stiles says, barely holding back a grin. His eyes burn white, the full press of his scent untangles itself, stretching up and around Peter with the shivering weight of tangible sunlight, and he coos out, "Puppy." Peter snaps fangs at him and Stiles just laughs. "My puppy," he amends, and when he rubs noses with Peter, Peter's wolf disappears in a snarl of fizzing luminescence, bound back inside Peter's body.

Peter reels, leans against Stiles, forehead pressed to Stiles' shoulder. His heart's racing, the faintest whine coming from the wolf, and he can't focus on anything with the full substance of the Spark let loose -- can't focus on anything except staying here, like this, surrounded and protected and safe in the middle of the Spark's power.

Stiles gradually draws his magic in, inch-by-inch, and by the time it's gone, with only the topmost layer of his scent still noticeable, Peter's head is clear, his thoughts his own once again.

"We should go in," Peter says. "The sooner we do, the sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can go home."

"Derek's been watching us since we parked," Stiles says. "I can feel his eyebrows from here."

Peter -- reluctantly -- pushes himself back from Stiles, offers Stiles a hand and can't help the way he knows his scent has turned gloating when Stiles doesn't hesitate to accept it. Stiles rolls his eyes but smells pleased, amused, happy.

The two start walking to the door; they pass Lydia's car and Peter takes in the way it smells of empty coffee cups and pastry crumbs, the slight taste, in the back of his throat, of dust. Lydia's been worried and hasn't cared to hide it when she usually makes sure that every part of her life pretends, at least on the surface, to a level of perfection that most would never question. Being able to taste the dust, smell the remnants of food and drink, it's wildly out of character.

Peter doesn't say anything about, just tugs Stiles along a little faster as they go into the building and up the stairs.

--

When they get to Derek's floor, they see the door open, Derek waiting for them. His eyes dip to their hands, still joined, but he doesn't say anything, choosing instead to move out of the way so that they can come in. Peter watches as Derek's nostrils flare, as he blinks at the layering of Peter's scent inside of Stiles' and vice versa, and as his eyebrows furrow.

"Stiles," Lydia breathes out, when they enter the loft. She comes barrelling their way and Stiles lets go of Peter to catch Lydia when she throws herself into Stiles' arms. Stiles holds her tight, buries his face in her hair. Derek's eyes flick from Lydia to Peter and his scent carries with it a tinge of confusion at the way Peter doesn't react. Usually, Peter would make a comment, brush against Stiles, do something to break Stiles apart from whoever else has his attention and bring Stiles' focus back to him; part of it's Peter, which Derek's always been familiar with, but part of it was the courting instincts, which Derek -- might have noticed. Huh. Peter never asked Stiles if he thought Derek knew about that.

Lydia eventually pulls back, disentangling herself from Stiles and then holding him by the shoulders as she looks him over. "You look better," she says. "Much better. But something's different." Her eyes, narrowed, scan Stiles from top to bottom and back up again.

"Tomorrow," Stiles tells her, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Before, Peter might've seen something romantic about the gesture but now, knowing what he does of Sparks and what Lydia is, all he sees is something paternal, protective. "Peter and I literally just drove back into town. There's something we wanna talk about with Derek but I mostly just wanna sleep for the next twelve hours. So -- tomorrow. All the time you need and all the brainpower I'll have, fully rested."

"Promise?" Lydia asks. She smells worried but amused, scent full of ice and steel and bone and the taste of howling wind underneath it all. Peter blinks, the wolf tilting its head, when he realises that part of her scent -- the part that smells of bone ash and the promise of more -- reminds him of Béa. There's a hint of yew, as well, in her base scent; it's similar to the tinge of yew berries in Stiles' scent, but Lydia's is younger, like a sapling, and not quite as full. Still -- her having the promise of a gift that can even compare to Stiles and Béa reminds Peter that Lydia's more than a mere banshee. She'll grow into the gift and will most likely end up being one of the more deadly non-humans because of it.

Stiles gives her a tender smile that makes Peter bite back a grin. "Promise," he says. "We'll meet at my house, around one? I'll get the coffee and you can catch me up on all the school I missed."

"After we talk," Lydia says in agreement. Her eyes flick from Stiles' to rest on Peter. She looks thoughtful, the worry in her scent overwhelming the amusement for a brief moment, and adds, "Peter can come. Make him pick up the coffee."

"He's involved," Stiles says. "He'd be there anyway. But sure, I'll let him buy the snacks."

Lydia makes a noise under her breath and stalks past to Stiles to stand in front of Peter. One corner of his lip curls, meeting her gaze, but there's nothing confrontational about the challenge -- not enough to bring out his wolf, anyway. She presses one finger to his breastbone, scarlet-tipped nail pricking almost hard enough to draw blood even through his shirt. "Almond croissants," she says, "from the bakery on Fifth. And the biggest vanilla latte they have. Stiles will have --"

"I know what Stiles likes," Peter says, cutting her off. He tries not to be rude about it even though the wolf is snarling at the implication that anyone knows Stiles better than Stiles' mate. "We'll see you tomorrow, Lydia."

The skin around her eyes tightens as if she wants to glare at him but refuses to allow herself to do so. She huffs, tosses her hair back over her shoulders, and leaves, glancing back at Derek before she does. Peter's not sure what conclusions she and Derek have drawn or what they were talking about before Peter and Stiles arrived, but he's intrigued by the way her look has Derek setting his shoulders, lifting his chin in acknowledgment and unspoken argument, both.

With Lydia gone, silence falls over the three of them. Stiles makes a break for the kitchen, fills up three glasses with water and takes them to the table. He pulls two chairs close together and sits down in one of them, kicks the other one back a little in invitation. Peter rolls his eyes but does as directed, sitting down next to Stiles and inhaling the smell of a joyous, sunlight summer afternoon, all cut grass and blooming trees and sugar and happiness. Stiles is enjoying this, then.

Peter kicks at him, softly, even as Derek's walking to sit at the table across from them, moving cautiously.

"Lydia's right," he says. "You do look better. You smell better, too. And something is different." He pauses, watches as Stiles takes a sip of water, waits until Stiles sets his glass back down. It's instinctual, Peter thinks, rather than a choice or discomfort with the coming discussion; that bodes well for Derek joining their pack, joining them. "What happened?"

Stiles leans back in his chair, looks at Peter with his eyebrows raised. Peter reaches over, runs his fingers through Stiles' hair, yearns to be able to touch Stiles' neck, to leave his scent and mark on Stiles' throat, squeezes Stiles' shoulder instead, thumb digging, just a little, into the scabs that Stiles hasn't bothered to fully heal yet.

"Stiles told me why he wasn't well," Peter says, gaze moving back to Derek. "And what it would take to fix it. So we did."

Derek makes a face, says, "Just tell me."

Peter would never admit to being nervous, especially when he has Stiles on his side, but -- he is. "We didn't go to San Francisco," Peter starts off, slow. "We went to New Orleans."

"That's a -- you weren't gone long enough for that," Derek says. He's frowning now, doing the math in his head. "You didn't fly; you don't smell of airports. You -- why. And how did Stiles lie about that on the phone?"

Stiles elbows Peter when he hesitates to answer. "Come on," Stiles murmurs. "Tell him, Peter. He deserves to know. You want him to know."

Peter opens his mouth but nothing comes out. He whines, low, and squeezes Stiles' leg under the table, claws out and digging through Stiles' jeans. He wants to tell Derek everything, wants to smell honest submission from Derek, wants to dig his teeth into Derek's flesh and bite Derek into their pack. He feels his fangs drop, gives Stiles a plaintive look and knows shame is spiralling through his scent.

"I was sick because of the nogitsune," Stiles says. He shifts in his chair, puts one hand over Peter's, still gripping Stiles' thigh. At the touch, the slight heat of Spark-light buried under Stiles' skin, Peter's wolf retreats; his fangs and claws recede though the power of speech is still just barely beyond him. "Part of how we separated, it left me -- sick. I needed an anchor. My pack bond to Scott isn't very strong; it's barely stronger than thread. I needed something -- better."

Derek shakes his head. "It never felt right," he says. "But I thought it was just me, something I couldn't -- you've never treated him like an alpha. His rising, there wasn't much time between that and the nogitsune, and it's not unheard of for some bonds to take longer to settle, but I thought --."

Stiles shrugs one shoulder, then leans and rests his head on Peter's shoulder. The increased physical contact helps calm Peter even further, as does the thought that Stiles isn't hiding, isn't ashamed -- not that Peter thought he was, but the thought had crossed his mind that Stiles might tone down what they are in front of others. Knowing that Stiles isn't willing to do so, that he's not going to change his behaviour from how he's been acting the past week, that Stiles is finally showing others who he is, the real him, isn't hiding what he wants, has Peter's wolf more content, now, than anything else.

"Between me and Scott, I was always the one getting him into trouble and hauling him right back out of it," Stiles says. He drums the fingers of his other hand on the table in a rhythm only he can hear. "I made all the plans, did the research, had the car. He always assumed I was his but -- I was with him, but I wasn't his. Brother but not beta, y'know? When I needed a bond, I came to Peter. He's been courting me for months and we'd started forming a bond."

"I wasn't imagining that, then," Derek says, eyes darting between Peter and Stiles. "The courting."

"I was going to wait," Peter admits. He rubs his thumb in circles on Stiles' jeans, in both apology and comfort. "I wanted to give Stiles a chance to leave, grow up, learn. But when he told me he needed a bond, and that he wasn't going to wait, well."

Derek narrows his eyes a little, lips flattening a touch as his scent flares with wariness and disappointment. "You mated?" he asks Peter. "With a teenager?"

"I want to be very clear on this, Derek," Stiles says, and waits for Derek's reluctant nod before going on. "I might wear the scar of Peter's teeth, but I was the one who mated him." His voice softens as he adds, "I know that this -- I know what she did," and Derek's face goes white. "It wasn't your fault. I'll tell you a million times over that it wasn't your fault. But it's not like that with me and Peter. Okay? I need you to believe me when I say that Peter is nothing like her, and my relationship with him is nothing like yours was."

"How did you know?" Derek asks, breathing out the question barely loud enough to hear. Peter aches for the emotion he can hear in Derek's voice.

Stiles gives Derek a smile, a small one, a sad one, and the chemosignals coming off of Stiles speak of nothing so much as sorrow and forgiveness and love. "I'm the research guy," he says. "It's what I do."

Derek holds Stiles' gaze for a long time, then looks away, shifts uncomfortably and gulps down half the glass of water. When he sets the glass back down on the table, having had time to gather himself, Derek says, "So you needed an anchor, needed to mate. You didn't need to go all the way to New Orleans to do that."

"He needed the strongest bond possible," Peter says. "Anchoring to a beta wouldn't have been enough."

Derek's scent spikes a little as a wave of realisation threads through it. He looks between them, lets his eyes settle on Peter for a long, silent minute before he turns his attention back to Stiles. "The strongest mating bond would be with an alpha. Who was in New Orleans, Stiles?"

The smile that crosses Stiles' face is one that speaks of nothing so much as vicious, cruel triumph. Derek flinches, seeing it -- small micromovements of head and shoulder and face that blare out his discomfort to Peter's eyes and wolf. Derek doesn't look away from Stiles, though. Peter's impressed. "An old friend of ours," Stiles says. "The demon wolf is dead."

Derek slumps back in his chair, relief and fear battling through his scent. His eyes slide over to Peter, and Peter unleashes the wolf just a little, enough to feel the red spark of the alpha wolf inside of him look out at Derek.

"Deucalion," Derek says. "You're an alpha again." He glances back at Stiles, eyebrows dipping down at, Peter thinks, the complete lack of care that Stiles is showing. "And you're okay with this?" Derek asks. "Knowing what it means, what Peter was like before, you're --."

Stiles lifts his right arm and sets it on the table palm-up, pushes up his sleeve to show the scar of Peter's mating bite. "I joined his pack," Stiles says. "And then I mated with him. He did it for me, Derek. So yeah, I'm okay with it."

Peter uses his feet to slide Stiles' chair close enough so that he can wrap an arm around Stiles' waist and pull him tight. Stiles lets him, moves with it, and even as Stiles fits his body to Peter's, Peter adds, "He's also my emissary. The triple bond, it anchored him enough to start the healing." He takes a deep breath, waits for Derek to meet his eyes, and says, "We want you to join our pack, join the Hale pack. We're going to reclaim the territory, heal the nemeton, build a new pack house. We want you to be part of that. I know you were planning on leaving, but -- we want you to stay. With us. I want you to stay with us."

"I --," Derek stops, looks stunned.

"Peter's sane now," Stiles says. "He's anchored. He's not going to go crazy again."

Derek's shaking his head. "You can't know that," he says. "There's no guarantee. Especially with Deucalion's alpha spark, and if he does lose it, it'll be twice as difficult to take him down."

Peter growls at the idea of anyone trying to kill him, but Stiles knocks one foot against one of Peter's. The scent wafting out from him fills with devilish humour, a sense of anticipation and relief, and Stiles tells Derek, "I guarantee that if Peter goes crazy again, I'll pull him back. If he can't be made to see sense, then I'll kill him myself."

"I know that you -- but you're human," Derek says. "Mated, sure, anchor, probably, but still human."

Now Peter understands the relief in Stiles' scent. "Not human," Peter says, as casually as if he's commenting on the weather.

Derek stares at Stiles, searches his face for anything that might give away what flavour of non-human he's become. "The nogitsune?" he guesses. "It left something."

"No," Stiles says, soft. He closes his eyes and sets his shoulders.

His scent is the first thing to come out, unfurling itself in large waves like wings that fill the kitchen to overflowing in a matter of seconds. Stiles cracks his neck, lets out a sigh of what sounds like decompression; when he opens his eyes again they burn Spark-white and echo the glow pouring out of every inch of Stiles' skin.

Derek throws himself back from the table, chair clattering to the floor. He stands there, staring, as his eyes flare wolf-blue, then he drops to the ground, curls up in on himself, hands on the back of his neck, as the sound of lupine whining fills the air.

Stiles stands up, so Peter does as well, and Stiles goes around one side of the table while Peter goes around the other. Peter drops to his knees next to Derek, puts his hand on Derek's back, feels the way Derek's trembling. Stiles sinks to one knee in front of Derek, reaches out and puts his hands over Derek's, strokes them.

"Hush, wolf," he says. Derek goes silent, instantly, though the tremours running through his muscles double in intensity. "Oh, Derek. Calm, please. It's just me."

"Spark," Derek murmurs. "Spark."

Stiles laughs, a little chuff of noise, and blinks back the power, the blinding glare of his eyes and the press of his power, until there's just a little extra light outlining him. He shifts, settles onto his ass and crosses his legs, sets his elbows on his knees and rests his chin in his hands. "Look at me, Derek, please. Don't worry; I put it away, it won't hurt. I'll never hurt you."

It takes Derek four or five minutes to uncurl enough to look at Stiles, and, even then, he only looks at Stiles' chin, won't meet his eyes. Peter shifts as well, wraps an arm around Derek and leans down to press himself into his nephew's side, lending Derek his solidity and his surety of Stiles.

"You mated a Spark," Derek whispers, almost collapsed against him, no strength whatsoever in his muscles.

"Stiles wasn't lying when he said he mated me," Peter says. "But yes. When he bared his wrist, I bit down and cemented the bond."

Stiles ducks his head a little, trying to catch Derek's eyes, but Derek's chin dips down even as he tilts his head to the side, baring his throat. "You believe me, now, when I say I can make sure Peter stays as sane as he ever gets?" Derek nods. "It's your choice," Stiles says, "whether or not to join our pack. But Peter and I both want you if you decide to stay." Stiles stands up, rests his hand on Derek's hair for a moment in some kind of benediction that Peter doesn't understand, says, "I'll be in the car," and leaves as silently as Peter's ever heard Stiles move before.

Peter waits until he hears the echo of the car door closing shut before he moves; he reaches up to the table, gets Derek's glass of water, sits on his heels and waits for Derek to unfold himself. When Derek starts to move, ten or so minutes later, Peter presses the glass in Derek's hands.

"He's a Spark," Derek whispers, as if he can't believe it -- that, and as if he thinks Stiles might still be able to hear him. "All the -- and he's --."

"From what he's told me, he didn't come into the full use of his power until after the Whittemore boy's first few kills," Peter says. "So if you're worried about anything that happened during my first reign as alpha, he was still human then. Mostly human. Not the Spark."

Derek shakes his head, not in disbelief, Peter thinks, but still stunned by the situation, by Stiles, by what it means to be offered pack bonds with a Spark. "And you -- how are you -- even when he hid it, I wanted to --."

Peter laughs a little. "The first time he showed me everything, I ended up clutching his ankle and begging. For what, I don't even know now. But he claimed me. And he's still Stiles underneath. He -- what I'm about to tell you goes nowhere, Derek." He waits for Derek to nod before saying, "He hates what he is, sometimes. Hates what it means for his relationships with the rest of us. He doesn't want to be treated -- well, like a Spark, actually, I guess. He just wants to be treated like a normal human. After we mated, when the frenzy hit, he --." Peter stops, smiles at the memory, doesn't know what Derek's reading from his scent or his posture but, for once, doesn't care. "The wolf didn't want to hurt him. Didn't want to be above him. And Stiles just -- told me it was okay. He let me hurt him. He's still carrying the marks from it even though he could've stopped me or healed them instantly."

"I thought I smelled old blood," Derek admits. He looks down at the glass of water in his hands, says, "I --. It doesn't surprise me that he doesn't want to come across as changed. But he is. He can't not be."

"Which is why he has the pack," Peter says. "Not to protect him from others; he can do that without us. But to protect him from himself. There's a lot you don't know about Stiles, a lot I only learned because we were stuck in the car for days together, but Stiles is brutally honest. When he said we both wanted you in our pack, he meant it and so did I." Peter pauses, gathers his courage, says, "There are things we need to talk about, I know, and things I'd ask you to do if you joined the pack. I also know you said you wanted to leave, to go and see Cora. If you still want to, then -- but you'll have a place here if you ever decide to come back."

Derek's shaking his head, started the moment Peter mentioned him leaving. It's made hope rise up in him, a dangerous amount, but Peter doesn't bite it back, doesn't keep it from twisting out and joining the trepidation in his scent.

"I'll stay," Derek says. "I'll stay. And -- yes. You're right. There's a lot to talk about, all three of us. But -- pack," he says, and Peter knows he's not imagining the yearning in Derek's voice, can feel it in the way he, himself, longs for Derek, wants to curl up with Derek and sleep pressed skin-to-skin, wants to hunt on moonless nights with him and howl with him on nights when the moon hangs heavy in the air, wants to run and tussle and play with pack. "Yes," Derek says, barely louder than a whisper. "Yes to pack."

Peter's wolf leaps inside of him, presses outwards until Peter's showing red eyes and fangs and claws, the beta-shift coming over him with enough force to leave him breathless. He can feel the bond grow into being inside of him, a long, coiling sliver of moonlight stretching outwards from his wolf to Derek's, reeking of fur and bloodied breath, with cool winds and old trees, with the pain and love of family. He leans forward even as Derek's turning his face away, baring the long line of his throat to Peter, and as Derek whispers, again, "Yes," Peter opens his mouth and bites.

--

Peter makes his way down the stairs a little unsteadily, a wave of dizziness hitting him when he walks outside and breathes in the night air. The bond between him and Derek floods his awareness until it's all he knows, then disappears just as fast; the anchoring was instant but the settling is taking a while. It's already been close to an hour since Stiles left them alone to talk.

Peter's halfway to the car when Stiles unfolds himself from the passenger seat, getting out and crossing the distance between them in what feels like an instant. Peter lurches unsteadily and near-collapses in Stiles' hold.

"Whoa, Peter, okay, hi, there you are," Stiles says, catching him and staggering a little under the weight. "You okay, wolf?"

"I accepted," Derek says, behind Peter. "It hit Peter hard. Um. Sorry, I --"

Stiles runs a hand down Peter's cheek, providing a measure of strength to get Peter upright. "Don't apologise," Stiles tells Derek, even as he's tugging Peter over to the car. "Uh. I don't know what the appropriate thing to say here is. Congratulations? Welcome? I'm sorry you're stuck with us but no take-backs, you're ours now?"

Derek snorts and, between him and Stiles, Peter ends up dumped in the backseat. He doesn't mind too much.

"Told 'im to --" Peter starts to say.

"I figured," Stiles cuts him off, shoving himself inside just long enough to press a kiss to Peter's lips. "Makes sense. We should've counted on it."

The door closes and Peter curls up, looks out where he sees Stiles grin at Derek, sees Derek duck his head, tips of his ears turning red. "You got pjs?"

"Yeah," Derek says, and holds up his left hand to show Stiles a backpack. "Clothes for tomorrow, too."

"Awesome," Stiles says. "Let's go make the alpha's place smell like pack."

Peter blinks; when he opens his eyes, he's lost enough time that Derek's in the passenger seat and Stiles is behind the wheel, streetlights doing a slow in-and-out dance as they drive across the city to Peter's apartment. He closes his eyes again, just to blink, and forgets to open them.