Archive of Our Own

The wind whispers secrets to him. It has for as long as Stiles remembers, holding him close and guiding him where he needs to go like a third parent. Like a guardian. He's never gotten lost, nor has he ever truly been scared, because he knows the wind will tell him how to fix it. When he tells his dad about the wind, John nods and nonchalantly asks him what the wind is saying now. As the years pass, his father begins to respond with confusion and worry about how long Stiles' so-called imaginary wind friend will stay, so Stiles stays quiet. He begins to pretend to notice more things, or says that he reads more books and articles than he already does (of which there are a lot anyway), or that he overhears all sorts of conversations. It's not him, not really, but his dad doesn't have to know that. The wind doesn't mind not being believed, so Stiles tries not to, either.

At least his mom understands. She kisses his forehead and asks him to tell the wind hello. Stiles doesn't need to—the wind hears everything—but he relays the warm gusts that the wind blows their way. He asks, "Why can't you hear it?"

Claudia smiles, and now her arms are around him in a warm hug. Stiles snuggles into her. The wind approves; it always reminds Stiles to bring his jacket outside and to dress warmly, but sometimes Stiles is too distracted to pay attention to it.

"I used to be able to hear it," Claudia admits. "It was a very dear friend. And then you were born, my little dove, and I gave my gift to you. The wind will be your friend forever. It's loyal like that."

"It tells me things," Stiles says. "It tells me about Scott's asthma—it can't fix it, it says, but it can make it better while he's around me—and about Mrs. Andrews' dogs—four puppies, can we have one?—and about gossip. The wind really likes gossip." He scrunches his nose. "Boring gossip. But sometimes it tells me about new movies at the theater. Like Batman!"

"What does it say about Batman?" Claudia asks, patting down Stiles' hair.

Stiles tells her. He tells her every little thing, always happy to talk about the wind. No one else believes him and for a while it doesn't matter because his mom does. It takes years until he finds that this won't always be the case. That one day he won't have her in his corner, that she won't always be herself. Both he and the wind choose to remember her from before the sickness came. The wind tells him stories about her. Like his parents' first meeting, which the wind tells differently than his dad does. There's more alcohol involved in its story. After the sickness, there is confusion and pain, and her cries of regret that she passed the wind onto him.

His dad shakes his head and holds him close. "It's alright, Stiles. It's alright. She remembers me and you, and she loves you so much that she remembers all the stories you used to tell, it's only that she doesn't remember them in the right order, or that they're not real."

By age nine, Stiles knows better than to insist that the wind is real. Even Scott doesn't believe him anymore. He used to when they were both four, five, six, but it's not the same anymore. Nothing is, after his mom dies.

The wind comforts him in the only way it knows how. It tells him stories of funny things happening all over town, of animals that are moving through the forest, of the werewolves in the preserve. The wind swears that it's not lying, but Stiles doesn't completely believe it. The wind is real to him. Werewolves are in books and movies. The wind sighs at him and nudges him gently to keep him from falling off the monkey bars. It doesn't matter, anyway. One night Stiles goes to sleep and wakes up to the wind telling him that the werewolves are no more.

"Peter," the wind says. "Find Peter."

It takes two months for Stiles to be allowed to visit Peter.

"He's still healing," the nurses tell him, shooing him away from the room. "He needs his rest."

Stiles makes a face. Peter is getting too much rest already. He's in a coma. When he's finally able to visit, Stiles lurks by his bedside for a while, then slumps down into one of the uncomfortable hospital chairs. Looking back toward the door to make sure that he won't be yelled by a nurse, Stiles prods gently at Peter's hand and asks, "Why are you so important?"

"Because he's yours," the wind tells him, and it flutters against his face. "Stay with him, Stiles."

The wind doesn't tell him what to do very often. And when it does, it's always because Stiles is in danger or it's important, so Stiles agrees. Even without the order, Stiles likes the idea of Peter being Stiles', of being tied to another person in a way that might be like the wind is tied to Stiles. In a way that's strong, unyielding, eternal. Stiles visits Peter as often as he can, holding his hand and telling him all about his life. He tells him about the wind, too. Peter can't tell him it's not real if he can't speak. If he can speak, then Stiles has already won. As he gets older and bigger, his wind does too. Peter is the first person Stiles tells when the wind is able to hear past the boundaries of Beacon County. He thinks one day his wind will grow to go up to Oregon, or even further east. Maybe it will be able to reach the whole of North America! The wind only encourages his ambition. 

It tells him more as he grows up. Stiles is ten when it tells him about the deaths it sees and that not all of those deaths are natural. He helps as much as he can, secretly logging into his dad's computer to arrange ways for his dad to realize who the culprit is. He's still too young now, unable to do anything to help in the heat of the moment even if he can get to the crime in time. He's too easily overpowered by a lucky grab or some asshole with a knife, but he won't be young forever. In the meantime, he asks his dad for shooting and self-defense lessons. Growing up with a sheriff for a father, Stiles is a big believer in the law. He knows just as well that the law has limitations, gaps, and Stiles will one day be the one to fill those gaps.

Eventually, he asks for more information about the Hale fire, and the wind tells him. It promises to tell him the moment an Argent crosses into Stiles' land. At age sixteen, that's most of northern California and parts of Oregon and Nevada.

Stiles doesn't always use his powers for good. Often he'll ask the wind for answers to test questions he doesn't know or he'll let the wind correct his mistakes. The wind is very good at chemistry; Stiles is not. Sometimes, Stiles thinks the wind manages to douse his bunsen burner's flame just before he makes a mistake, but the wind always insists that they're not that powerful. Yet. To the wind, there is no Stiles and it, only them. Stiles doesn't mind. With his mom gone and his dad so often at work and Peter not awake yet, it feels good to have someone in his corner, even if it's an entity that Stiles doesn't truly understand.

He's in class when the wind tells him that Peter is waking up.

Stiles stands from his desk, abandons his backpack and textbook, and says, "I have a stomachache. I need to go to the nurse."

He doesn't wait for the teacher to give him permission. Stiles runs down the empty halls and out a side door, then makes his way to the parking lot. Coach Joe yells after him while third period gym class cheers him on. It's the most enthusiastic a group of high schoolers has ever been about his presence. Listening to an unseen voice and being pretty damn weird does no favors for one's social status. The wind lets him know that his playing hooky is on its way to being reported to the high school office staff, so Stiles pulls over and sends his dad a text message to say he's going to the hospital. Then he pulls over again to clarify that it's because Peter's waking up, not because Stiles is hurt. His dad won't be happy either way, but at least he won't be panicking over his kid.

He skids to a stop at the long-term care visitor's section in a parking spot that all but has his name on it and follows the route he knows by heart. When he arrives, he sits down across from Peter's wheelchair and realizes that the wind hadn't mentioned that anyone else noticed that Peter woke up. Peter isn't acting any differently, either, just staring at the wall, and Stiles' excitement begins to wane. For all he knows, the wind got overexcited over Peter unconsciously lifting his hand and now here he is, about to get a month of detention and a lecture from his dad. Stiles sighs, loudly. And then he takes Peter's hand in his. It's force of habit; it feels weird to be there without holding Peter's hand. Early on, the wind told him something about werewolves needing positive contact to build pack and Stiles had decided that if Peter's pack wasn't pulling their weight, then Stiles would be here for him.

"Please be awake," Stiles says quietly, trying to meet Peter's sightless gaze. "I'm not very patient, everyone knows that, but I've been waiting a really long time to meet you. It's rude of you to keep ignoring me for six straight years." When Peter's blue eyes are the first to finally, finally change, his gaze turning slightly to meet Stiles', Stiles takes a short breath. It still doesn't feel as though there is any air in his lungs. "Peter?"

"You must be Stiles," Peter rasps, speaking his first words in six years. Stiles is too shocked to even speak, while the wind whispers smugly in his ear that it told him so. Peter is awake. The corner of Peter's mouth on the side with the burns twitches upward. "Too surprised to speak? I don't mind. I've been trying to speak for years. I have a lot to say."

"Yeah?" Stiles asks, delighted. He leans forward and says, "Please do. I can't promise I'll be completely silent. I don't know how."

Peter doesn't look dismayed. "That's alright. I do have a lot of questions."

And he does. Stiles answers all of them as honestly as he can. Peter doesn't ask for the source of Stiles' answers until the very end, and it is only then that Stiles hesitates. But the wind brought Stiles to Peter, and Stiles rediscovers hope. Hope that Peter will believe him, that Stiles won't need to hold this secret alone forever. Peter listens carefully as Stiles speaks. The wind says that werewolves know when people lie. Stiles doesn't mind; he has nothing to hide. Peter is sharp, even if his words come out slowly, and occasionally he stumbles over a syllable. If this is what he's like just out of a coma, Stiles can't wait to see him in a week, a month, a year. 

"Why are you here?" Peter asks, his brow furrowing in confusion. "I can understand curiosity, but Stiles, you have visited me nearly every day for years. It can't be that simple."

Stiles shrugs. It's both simple and not. For him, who grew up with the wind, who is inseparable from it in the best of ways, it is absurdly simple. For Peter, who doesn't trust the wind as Stiles does, it may not be. "The wind says you're mine. That's all I need."

Peter tilts his head, his blue eyes flashing. "What does it mean, to be yours?"

Stiles shrugs. "Whatever you want it to be. For starters, I could help you find the people who did this to you and your pack." He doesn't need to say the words. It feels like he's been on the edge of this his entire life. It's maybe not a nice offer, but he thinks Peter will appreciate it more than platitudes and offers to help with physical therapy. "It's the least I can do."

"And the most?" Peter all but purrs, evidently content with Stiles' offer.

Stiles smiles. "I guess we'll see."

And he stands up, holding out his hand out to Peter. Slowly, Peter does the same, rising on his own power inch by inch. Stiles itches to steady him. Peter takes his hand. His touch is warm. His scars look better when there is intelligence behind Peter's eyes, when they aren't marks of the past but marks of the future. They'll find the people responsible. Stiles already knows of a few. And later, there's a whole future out there. Stiles has a feeling that Peter might want to join him in it. The wind wasn't wrong. He cares about Peter. It feels inevitable, like the flow of the wind.

The nurse on duty is shocked to find Peter awake and moving. A doctor is immediately called in and Stiles is shuffled from the room. There's no place for him in the midst of the medical miracle that is Peter Hale's instant recovery. Stiles wishes that Peter could also hear the wind. Or at the very least, that Peter had a phone. With a grumble, he heads to his car, where there are three missed calls from his dad and a dozen text messages. Stiles hopes that Peter's recovery is a good enough excuse, but he heads to the station instead of back to school. The wind tells him that they should have been sneakier. Stiles agrees. 

John's sitting behind his desk when Stiles arrives. His arms are crossed.

"It's a medical miracle," Stiles pleads, throwing his hands out. "The doctors said so themselves! I had to be there. You can't just skip out on a miracle. It's not like I skipped school to get high or have sex." If he wanted to start a drug habit, he could have done so years ago. The wind knows all the drug dealers in town. Stiles only tried pot once, when he and Scott decided to experiment. Stiles hadn't liked it. It dulled his ability to hear the wind, which is unacceptable in Stiles' mind.

His father sighs deeply and rubs at his face. "I'm not even going to ask. How is Peter?"

It would have been impossible to hide his visits to the hospital from his dad, so Stiles had concocted a story about being friends with Cora Hale and thus needing to visit Peter's bedside as a way of paying respect to one of her last remaining family members. In truth, Stiles barely remembers Cora. She'd hung out with Tammy's group of girls, who did not acknowledge Stiles or Scott's existence on account of them spending much of their time with mud prints on their knees and their shirts inside out. Stiles felt bad, creating a cover story from a dead girl's life, but needs must.

"He's great," Stiles says, dropping into the seat across from his dad's desk. "He's awake and talking and asked me questions, how cool is that? He heard most of what I said to him while he was in a coma. He just couldn't reply. I think it was driving him bonkers."

"Only you would send someone running from their coma," John says, shaking his head. "You're grounded, of course."

"Of course," Stiles mutters. Powerful wind spirit at his side and he's still being grounded. He would appeal on account of the fact that he's sixteen now and it's unfair, but he tries to be good for his dad. His dad cares for him a lot even if he doesn't know most of what Stiles gets up to. He gives his dad a pleading look anyway. And maybe a pout.

John huffs. "I already talked to your school and told them you had a family emergency. I suppose after this long, we can count Peter a part of the family. If you're planning to spend time around him now that he's awake—"

"I am."

"—then I want to meet him. I remember taking him in for questioning when he was a teenager, but it's been a long time since then and I assume his priorities have changed."

"What did he do?" Stiles asks, having never heard this particular story.

"He had a feud with one of his classmates. Trashed his car, though no one was able to prove it was him." When Stiles makes a go on gesture, John gives in and says, "It was your favorite teacher, Harris."

Stiles' expression is deservedly starry-eyed. "Good man. Great man. A legend." The wind had been absolutely correct in sending Stiles to Peter. This just proves it. Also, the contentment that Stiles gets from Peter's presence and the overactive urge to protect him may speak for themselves.

"That's why I never told you," John says, dryly. "Off to class. Apologize to your teachers."

"Yeah, yeah."

Stiles heads to class and spends the entire time there with his head in the clouds. His teachers are used to it, but at least today Stiles has a proper excuse. Scott doesn't understand Stiles' preoccupation with Peter. He'd thought spending time at Peter's bedside was boring, even when Stiles tried to make it fun. Still, he's happy for Stiles and eager to properly meet the man his best friend has been more than a little obsessed with for years. Stiles considers telling Scott about how Peter found his way into the coma now that it's finally relevant. Only for a moment because then he would have to explain everything else, and two explanations about the wind in one day is too much for him. Besides, Stiles has a feeling Scott might not approve of Stiles' extracurricular activities or the plans he has for Kate Argent and assorted fire-starters.

The wind fills him in on the goings-on at the hospital. Peter is currently being run through a wringer of tests as the doctors make sure that the miracle of his waking doesn't fade. It won't, Stiles is sure of that. Peter plays down his ability to move after such a long bedrest, but he doesn't do the same with his mental faculties. He wants to be able to leave the hospital quickly, Stiles reasons. The wind tells him that his dad called to check up on Peter's condition. The hospital also tried to get in touch with Peter's remaining family. They failed. Laura and Derek Hale, aged twenty-five and twenty-two, respectively, never updated their contact information and their numbers are out of service. Year after year, and Stiles hadn't heard them call or visit even once. 

Stiles takes it to mean they've abandoned their claim on Peter. It's fine either way; Stiles' claim supersedes theirs. The wind says so. 

School lets out for the day. Stiles invites Scott over while his dad is still at the station. Unless Stiles does something really bad, Scott is an exception to the grounding, so they do their homework together downstairs and dig into Stiles' secret stash of cheese puffs. Scott bikes off five minutes before John is set to arrive. Stiles hadn't wasted the hours between school and his dad's appearance; dinner is hot on the stove, delicious and the best thing Stiles could think of while staying within his dad's heart-healthy nutrition guidelines. Stiles serves up the chicken-spaghetti squash bake with a look of pure innocence on his face. 

"This is delicious," John says, wagging his fork at Stiles. "You're still grounded."

Stiles brings his hand to his heart. "How could you think I, a mere human, would try to bribe the sheriff of Beacon Hills? I'm disappointed in you. In me. In both of us."

"Mm." John takes another bite. 

"But while we're on the subject of bribery."

"I thought so."

"Dad. Father. Father of the year. We have a guest bedroom. It's underutilized. Heinously underutilized. We never have guests."

John nods slowly. "I know where you're going with this. To tell you the truth, I've been thinking about it for a while. We should house a foreign exchange student." He ignores Stiles' groan and continues, "Your Spanish pronunciation is terrible. I'm sure an exchange student would help shame you into speaking properly."

"I'll study more," Stiles sulks. "And speak Spanish with Scott. We can change the language on our video games. Please, Dad?"

Whether it's out of pity for Peter or reluctance to listen to more of Stiles' begging, John relents. "Only until he recovers enough to move into an apartment of his own. You have to be on your best behavior the entire time. No bothering him if he doesn't want to be bothered, and don't ask about his family or the accident if he seems uncomfortable with it. Jordan already got his statement today. He doesn't remember anything from that day or the weeks directly before and after. If you ask me, that's a blessing."

Stiles nods, looking down. If only it were. 

It takes a week for Peter to be released from the hospital. There is a tasteful article in the Beacon Hills Sun congratulating him on his return and not lingering too hard on the medical marvel part of it. Stiles may have had a hand in helping the reporter, who'd stopped him for a quote while he visited, decide that Peter's recovery is firmly within human limits. Still, the article is enough to bring attention to the Hale name and anyone overly interested in the Hale name. The wind feels her on the very edge of its senses and it flows through Stiles. They smile together.

Peter arrives in the Stilinski home with a cane and with a list of exercises to do to help with his progress. 

"I'll help him with those," Stiles brightly promises to his dad, and chucks the packet in the trash when his dad looks away.

In the evening, Peter goes to bed in the guest bedroom, where he's comfortably close. With the wind's help, Stiles listens to Peter's heartbeat as he starts to fall asleep. It's less creepy than it sounds, really. 

"Am I turning into Edward Cullen?" Stiles wonders aloud to himself. 

"Stiles, go to sleep," murmurs Peter from the next room, the wind carrying along the message. 

Stiles does, his dreams filled with people he hasn't met, places he hasn't seen, the wind twirling around his head. Kate is coming. She has a nice voice, Stiles thinks as he hears her speak. It's a shame she's saying such terrible things. Rallying the troops, asking her father's permission to deal with an issue in Beacon Hills. Gerard stays away, choosing to stay out of what he calls a squabble. It's a pity; he has nearly as much blood on his hands as his daughter. There's a son there too, and the son's wife and their daughter. They aren't spoken of often. Gerard keeps trying to pull Chris further into the family business, but it's Kate who is his pride and joy. Stiles opens his eyes in the morning to the wind gently telling him the goings on around town. 

It's a Saturday, so Stiles spends the day kicking his feet back, watching TV, and keeping an eye on his dad and Peter's interactions. His dad is doing the same with Stiles and Peter, so turnabout is fair play. Stiles loves his dad enough to present the image of a young man who doesn't have a care in the world. It's a kindness, one that Peter carefully scrutinizes as the day goes on. 

"He doesn't know you at all," Peter says when John leaves to help with a minor issue the station is having. "You would think the sheriff of Beacon Hills would be more conscious of what goes on in his own home."

Even though Peter sounds approving, Stiles shrugs, looking down and picking at the quilt he's all wrapped up in. It was his grandmother's once upon a time. "He never believed me when I told him about the wind. I tried, I really did, but it got to be too much, so I started hiding it. I think he blames it on the ADHD and an overactive imagination. And sneaking around, even though he's never been able to catch me eavesdropping."

"What is the wind?" Peter asks. He's staring so intently at Stiles that it seems like he's trying to see the wind for himself. It's impossible; the wind is all around them, everywhere and nowhere. "Is it a spirit?"

"It's the wind," Stiles says with a shrug. "It doesn't have a physical form. Or at least even I haven't seen it. It just exists."

"What is its purpose?"

"What is any of our purpose, really?" Stiles asks, gesturing around. 

Peter gives him a flat look. "Revenge."

"Boring," Stiles tells him. "And inadvisable. I mean, what are you going to do afterward? Your purpose can't be revenge, otherwise you'll be unanchored and wibbly-wobbly after we complete it in a week or two at the rate Kate is getting into town. You need a better one. Multiple ones. How about trying everything on the menu at IHOP?"

"I don't like pancakes."

"I bet you're lying." Stiles takes a few moments to consider whether he can stand to be around someone who doesn't like pancakes. Probably. If it's Peter. Maybe he can convert him if Peter really is serious. "The wind says the purpose it chose is to protect the supernatural community. It likes them. They're cute."

The wind cares most about Stiles, but so too does it care about nurturing Beacon Hills' supernatural community. At its current level of power, it can't sneak through powerful wards like the Hale house had before it fell or notice anyone wearing a certain type of protection amulet. Wards also mean that neither the wind nor Stiles are able to help any supernatural creature who's in trouble. The wards around the Hale’s section of the preserve fell hours after the fire, leaving the two of them unaware of what truly went on before they fell. It can however hear everyone else, and it tells Stiles everything that is happening behind the scenes of the quiet California town. It is a protector, Stiles came to realize over the years, and it suits Stiles perfectly. They'll protect their area together. Even with their lengthening reach, the wind still hears best inside Beacon Hills. 

Peter nods slowly, brow furrowing. "How old is it?"

"We're sixteen," Stiles says. At Peter's look, Stiles shrugs and says, "The wind and I are a package deal. It tells me stories about my mom sometimes, but it doesn't talk much about the past. It cares more about the here and now. I'm the first person in a long time that it can speak to, so it likes me a lot. Even my mom couldn't hear it as well as I can." Stiles reaches out, feels the wind through his fingers. For all that having the wind gets him in trouble sometimes, he wouldn't have it any other way. "It likes you, too, because you're mine."

"The jury is still out on that one," Peter tells him. But when Stiles gestures for him, he sits down next to Stiles on the couch, allows himself to be covered by the other half of the quilt, and takes a handful of Stiles' popcorn. "What are we watching?"

"The greatest masterpiece that you missed out on during your nap: Twilight."

After the movie, Peter vows to never again trust Stiles' cinematic preferences. Stiles pouts a lot. His dad does not take Stiles' side, instead telling Peter about the other quality movies that have come out. Fortunately for Stiles, Peter seems just as secretly dismayed that all of John's recommendations are westerns.

*

The next day, Stiles catches up on his homework and Peter pretends to enjoy the western John chooses in the evening. Stiles has a feeling Peter is contemplating just how quickly he can find a place of his own. Or he would be, if he didn't have so many questions about Stiles' wind to ask every time John leaves the room. The day after that, Stiles is kicked out and ordered to go to school. He goes unwillingly. Neither his dad nor Peter give him much sympathy. His wind reminds him that humans tend to need their alone time.

Stiles asks the wind to tell him if Peter isn't eating enough, or not sleeping enough, or indulging in murder before their appointed time, or anything else. The wind is protective of Peter, but it still weaves through Stiles once and makes a chiming sound that only Stiles can hear. Stiles has no idea what it's on about; this is the same wind that hasn't left him even for a moment since his birth. It can't call other people overprotective without sounding like a hypocrite. 

That Wednesday, Stiles is finishing his math homework during study hall when the wind passes a message along to Stiles. 

"Can you hear me, Stiles?" Peter had asked halfway through the day, muting a history channel show before he spoke. He hadn't needed to; the wind could hear him anywhere. 

Stiles digs his phone out of his book bag and writes, "You could have just texted me."

"But then I wouldn't have learned more about your abilities," Peter replies aloud. The wind manages to catch each inflection of Peter's voice. "You can hear me all the time." He doesn't say any more.

Maybe a small part of it is that Peter doesn't want to go through the effort of texting on John's old flip phone. Stiles wouldn't blame him. But that's not all of it, not at all, and Stiles spends a full hour mulling Peter's words over. During lunchtime, while Scott mopes around about not getting first line in lacrosse, Stiles finishes off his sandwich and texts, "If you want some privacy, I'll get you an amulet. I'll get you one anyway, who knows when you might need something to hide any noise you make."

"Thank you, Stiles." The wind can't give him an image of Peter as he says it. They're still working on echolocation. Stiles can only picture him in the guest room or the downstairs sofa, feet kicked back as he asks Stiles probing questions. 

It's hard, finding a balance between deep possessiveness and valuing Peter's sense of privacy because Peter himself values it. No one else knows about Stiles' abilities. Ergo, no one else tells him off about how much personal information he knows about them or could get at any moment from the wind, which has an excellent memory. No one worries about Stiles spying on them because no one knows to worry. But Stiles won't give up the ability to be truthful with Peter, so he'll give up other things instead. Like the ability to check up on Peter and make sure he's alright.

Hopefully, Peter won't use the amulet much. 

In the coming days, Peter's paperwork goes through and his apartment hunt starts to gain some traction. He buys a new phone the moment he has access to his bank account again. And yet not everything is fixed easily. Peter's gaze still tends to catch on his scars whenever he looks into a mirrored surface. He jokes about it, mentioning his famed vanity, but Stiles can tell it still bothers him. 

"Will they heal on their own?" Stiles asks, reaching for the side of Peter's face. He does it slowly, but Peter lets him anyway, leaning into Stiles' touch. 

Peter breathes in deeply. His skin is rough under Stiles' fingertips. "Not with my current level of power. I would need a lot more than I have now. Even with a pack, a large one like I used to be a part of, a beta wouldn't be able to heal from this easily."

Stiles nods, his gaze on Peter's eyes even as his hand stays on Peter's scars. "I think you're handsome." 

The scarred side of Peter's face twitches as he half-smiles. "You're biased."

"I know," Stiles admits. He'd have Peter any way he can. The scars are just window dressing compared to the fact that Peter is awake and better than Stiles could have ever imagined. Peter just feels like he fits into every strange, jagged part of Stiles, the parts that know too much and feel too much. He's only human and it wears on him sometimes, that he can't prevent every horrible thing he hears. Sitting at Peter's bedside had smoothed some of it. He'd watched him breathe and thought someday. "We can find an alpha if you want more power. A terrible no good bad alpha. I'm not killing any sweet old grandmas, not even for you."

"I know a couple," Peter offers, a nearly satisfied spark in his eyes. It could be better, could be more, if Peter just leaned in and—

The wind blares in his ears. 

When John opens the door, Stiles and Peter are on opposite ends of the couch, with room for Jesus and the wind in the middle. He still looks between them like he knows he interrupted something that isn't The Breakfast Club playing on the television. 

"Hey, Dad," Stiles says, feet on the coffee table. 

"Stiles. Peter." John shakes his head, then greets them properly, as if deciding that his cop instincts are overreacting. 

Surely nothing shady is going on. Stiles smiles brightly and innocently to keep up the impression, but that only gets him an even more suspicious look from his dad. He wonders how quickly Peter can find an apartment. For murder reasons, mostly. But there's some other stuff there, too. Stiles likes him. Not because he's Stiles' mate—although that had initially been everything to Stiles—but because he's Peter. He's sarcastic, snobby, kind. He acts like nothing can hurt him but lets you pull him into a hug. He's deeply loyal, deeply flawed, deeply wonderful. 

Stiles wants him safe and happy, preferably by Stiles' side. He'll settle for just simply safe and happy, but he'll grumble about it for a while. Stiles hasn't met anyone who charmed him down to his bones before. There had been a crush on Lydia, once upon a time. But Peter? Peter borrowed Stiles' heart while Stiles wasn't looking and now Stiles can't remember how to get it back. The wind adores him too. It's rare that the wind likes an individual. It thinks of humans as one big group. Supernaturals get more distinction, but overall the wind doesn't linger, not like it does with Peter. It swirls around him, looks out for him. 

John heads upstairs to shower and change out of his uniform. He'll be gone at least ten minutes. Stiles can't remember what scene the movie is on or who's in it. All he can do is look over at Peter, who's looking at him, and wonder if Peter's thinking the same thing he is. 

And, fuck it. Stiles has always had terrible impulse control. He slides over, watches as a few emotions make their way through Peter's face. The last, the one that stays, is a warm sort of indulgence, the kind of thing that prompts Peter reach for Stiles in return.

"You couldn't wait?" Peter asks, as though he hasn't moved just as close. 

"Waiting is for suckers."

Peter huffs, but he leans in when Stiles does, and he kisses him. Or maybe Stiles kisses Peter. Or maybe it doesn't matter, maybe the only thing in the entire universe that does matter is the kiss. Peter's lips are soft on one side, scarred on the other, and Stiles kisses him gently until he gives up. He's not good at gentleness, and Peter's pulling him closer, more, taking all that Stiles has to give and giving back in return.

Right up until he lets go of Stiles and motions for him to make room again. Stiles turns to the wind to give it his displeasure over not warning him, but the wind tells him he was just too distracted to listen. Stiles accepts the excuse; Peter is a very good distraction.

He glances down at his reflection in the coffee table, then drapes his quilt over his entire body, including his face, before his dad takes his final steps down the stairs.

"And what happened here?" John asks.

Stiles can hear the lighthearted confusion in his voice. Peter probably looks perfect and not all kissed out.

"I like it here," Stiles replies.

After a moment, John pats the top of Stiles' quilt-covered head and heads to the kitchen to find some food. It's great that his dad is so accepting of Stiles' weirdness. Really great, since it allows Stiles to breathe deeply under the cover of the quilt, to wonder at how much he's been missing out on. He has a feeling Peter is going to casually rearrange all of Stiles' priorities, making room for himself and arranging things to his liking. Stiles can't fucking wait. 

Under the cover, he reaches for Peter's hand, touching the tips of his fingers to Peter's skin. He can't see Peter this way, but he can still feel him take Stiles' hand. If Peter needs pack to heal, then Stiles will be the best pack there is. He'll study up on it like there's an exam the next morning. The wind can count as a separate pack member, right? That's two right there. He can get Scott in if necessary. And if not, then there are alphas aplenty in the world. No bad ones in the wind's range of hearing, but they can go on a road trip.

It's a thought for the future.

Stiles has a lot of them.

He keeps an ear out for Kate, whose path is still set to Beacon Hills. Partway through, she convenes with reinforcements from her father. Stiles jots down the information for Peter. The number of people, cars, as close as he can get to the number of weapons based on their movements and words. It's an entirely unnecessary number of weapons. The wind doesn't recognize the four men who are either Argent cousins or hired goons, which means they haven't traveled through northern California before. Stiles gets enough information about them from how they talk among themselves and it puts to rest any niggling worries about them being innocent. Innocence is hard to come by in the Argent circles; more often than not, they are drenched in blood, Kate worst of all. She's on her guard already. Her co-conspirators in the Hale fire have died in strange animal attacks in the past week.

It obviously puts her on edge. Kate doesn't go anywhere without at least a couple guns. The wind brushes up against her and there's also two knives and a row of bullets. And a bulletproof vest. Stiles has to hand it to her. She's prepared for the worst. Kate simply doesn't know what the worst extends to. Stiles isn't going to accept the possibility of Peter dying at her hand, or even him being unhappy, as will be the case if Kate isn't dealt with.

The animal attacks have been giving John headaches and he's mentioned twice that he's happy Peter can keep an eye on Stiles while John spends more time than ever at the station. Stiles would feel guilty, but he's never had a very well-developed guilt gland. He blames it on the wind's influence. As great as a protector as it had been throughout Stiles' childhood, it hadn't been all that interested in reinforcing any of John's attempted lessons on right and wrong.

A few of the co-conspirators, Stiles had known about for years. One spoke of his sins to the cemetery's grave marker for the Hale family, the other confessed to a priest. The wind heard everything. The rest of them, Peter either remembers or connects to the fire with information Stiles hadn't had. Stiles joins him on each of the nights he slips away. There's no danger of Peter being hurt—please, even weakened and not at full power, Peter can easily overpower them—but Stiles goes anyway. He has a gun that the wind helped him find and a water bottle to wash the blood from Peter's claws. During the day, he and Peter prepare for Kate's arrival and develop contingency plans based on just about anywhere she might stop in Beacon Hills. She won't go for the best places to stay—too much security, too many cameras—so they make a map of the cheap motels. They run through plans of attack, places where they can lead her and the hired guns. Stiles pulls out an old whiteboard from the back of his closet to map out everything he knows. It's times like these when he wishes that Peter could hear the wind.

It all goes to hell soon enough.

It's afternoon on the verge of evening, a few hours before his Stiles' dad will be home. Stiles had been planning on finishing off his English essay before showing Peter all the wolf-themed home decor he found online that Peter should fill his apartment with. There may or may not be a high quality wolf-themed kitchen knife set already in the mail.

Heedlessly ignoring the plan, the wind tells Stiles that Kate ran across another werewolf two towns over from Beacon Hills.

Her name is Carrie. She's from the area, though not from Beacon Hills. The wind recognizes that much while she tries to deny that her eyes flashed at the gas station she had the bad luck of stopping at at the same time as the Argents. She gives up quickly enough. Anyone pulling a gun out in the middle of the day, even if the only other person in the gas station is the cashier who seems to think it's a weird type of robbery, isn't going to be reasoned with. A shower of bullets and broken glass follows her as she escapes.

Stiles' heartbeat must spike because within seconds, Peter is in his room, leaning over Stiles' desk chair, his thumb over Stiles' pulse. "It's Kate. She's going to go after another werewolf. They're close."

To her minor credit, Kate doesn't want to go after Carrie. She has her goal set on Beacon Hills. But Stiles doesn't listen to her words; he listens to the heartbeats of the rest of her team, to the way adrenaline has gripped them, to the way they mutter between themselves. When one suggests taking an hour off from Kate's hunt, just an hour, for a little recreation, the rest agree with him. With an irritated huff, Kate does too. She gives them an hour. Whether she wants a break too or doesn't want to lose control of her command, she turns her heel and walks out of the gas station, reminding them all that they're to be back in an hour or she will personally hunt them down. 

"Let's go," Peter says, giving Stiles a hand. Stiles needs it.

With one ear on what's happening miles away and one on Peter, he stumbles even with Peter guiding him. The wind can follow all six people; it's Stiles who has trouble focusing and filtering all that information. He knows where the hunters are, knows where Carrie is, more or less. He knows how many steps she's taken and can feel the beat of her heart. Usually, he doesn't let himself get this deep into the wind; it's hard to separate himself afterward. Even harder if her heartbeat stops while he's listening.

He hands the keys to the jeep to Peter without complaint and focuses on telling him where to go. He knows that gas station, that voice, and he can hear footsteps on pavement. He all but loses himself in the rhythm of their movements, but Peter's heartbeat is patient and steady in its beat. It will drown out the rest if Stiles and the wind let it. It's tempting. Stiles anchors himself in it and goes even further, speaking aloud occasionally in cardinal and intercardinal directions. If Peter says anything to him, Stiles can't hear it.

"Stop," Stiles eventually says, and feels the jeep come to a stop. He's only aware enough to know that Peter must have strapped the seatbelt around him or else Stiles would have flown out of the seat. Six heartbeats. He tells Peter where they are, more or less. If it makes no sense, Peter doesn't tell him. When Stiles opens his eyes, Peter's eyes shine electric blue. In his shifted form, the fur on the burned side of his face is thin and patchy, and a lighter brown than on the other side. It makes something in Stiles' chest twist. This is going to be harder than the first part of Peter's revenge. Four hunters and Kate Argent, who at least for now is unaware of the two of them. She hadn't followed the others and her heartbeat isn't fast from stress or exertion.

"Stay here?" Peter asks. 

Stiles meets Peter's gaze head-on. "Not on your life. You can do the heavy lifting. I'm going after Carrie."

Peter makes a noise that in his shifted form sounds like a growl and leans forward, too quickly for Stiles' eyes to catch. One moment, he's watching Peter, the next, he's being pressed back against the back of his car seat and kissed within an inch of his life. The next, he opens his eyes, and Peter is gone.

Through the wind, Stiles can hear his pace as he makes his way toward the hunters. After grabbing his shadily-procured gun from its place under his seat, Stiles shuts the jeep's door quietly behind himself and starts walking. They've parked on the side of a dirt road that connects a few jogging trails. Often, he considers the preserve part of Beacon Hills, but in reality it stretches on for miles even past the borders of Beacon County. This part of it is close enough to the gas station where Carrie had been discovered. When she'd run, she'd run to a place where she could hide, a place she knew as well as the back of her hand. She's a part of the Ito pack, which never approaches Beacon County's part of the preserve or Beacon Hills proper. It's considered unlucky, after everything that happened, and no werewolf wants to bring attention to themselves in a place with such a dark history.

Six heartbeats, now five.

Stiles keeps walking.

When he's within what he thinks is probably Carrie's range of hearing, Stiles says, "I know you don't know me, but my name is Stiles Stilinski. I'm here to help you." Predictably, she doesn't come out of her hiding spot. Stiles would go after her, but he would rather not find himself impaled on her claws. His gun isn't equipped with wolfsbane bullets. Stiles doesn't believe in that sort of thing. "My friend Peter—Peter Hale, you've heard of the Hale pack, right?—is dealing with the others, but we can give you a ride back home." No dice. "Listen to my heartbeat. I'm not here to hurt you. I don't mean you any harm. I'm just here to help."

"You're Sheriff Stilinkski's kid," she says, too quietly for a human to hear.

Five heartbeats, now three. One more for Peter, one that Stiles strikes from the list because he can see her standing up from her crouch behind a large tree.

Stiles doesn't hesitate to say, "Yeah. We're on the same side."

"You're not a wolf." Carefully, she draws closer.

"Nope. I'm an enigma."

"I don't recognize that species," she says, the closest it looks she can get to joking when she's noticeably shaking. Two heartbeats, and it must be within Carrie's hearing, because she cocks her head toward the sound. "Your friend is very good."

"He is," Stiles agrees. It's not a competition, but Stiles still has the best mate anyone could have.

By the time Peter joins them, there is only one heartbeat left. It's been over an hour now. Stiles keeps an ear out, the wind wrapping itself protectively around him, as Kate draws near. She calls each of the hunters as she drives in the direction Carrie initially ran toward. Whether her heartbeat is steady with fear or anger, Stiles can't tell. She must have a way of tracking their phones because her car veers down one of the roads into the preserve.

"She's here," Stiles says, needlessly because Peter's head has already turned in the direction of the approaching car.

"I can hear her," Peter growls, and begins to run.

"Who were they?" Carrie asks, watching Peter disappear into the woods. "They scared me. I know I wasn't careful enough—I haven't been a werewolf long, I'm still not good with loud sounds—but they didn't care that I hadn't done anything. No one other than them even saw my eyes."

"They're Argents," Stiles replies. "Regular hunters, they hunt werewolves who have gone mad and hurt humans. Or at least, that's who they're supposed to hunt. Neither Kate nor Gerard Argent hold to those ideals. Six years ago, Kate burned the Hale pack alive for the crime of not being human. There were only three survivors. They're not good people, the Argents, but you won't have to worry about them for much longer."

"Good," Carrie bites out. "Satomi warned me about hunters. She didn't say it would be like this."

"Most people don't know what really happened that day."

Carrie looks at him with determination. "I'll make sure my pack at least knows the truth. And the packs that we're on good terms with. They have to know, otherwise they'll be caught off guard worse than I was."

The wind swirls around them, though only Stiles can feel it. Stiles breathes out in relief when he's proven right. The wind delivers news of Peter's ambush to him with approval; Peter hadn't waited long, attacking her as soon as she left her car. This will give his dad a whole set of gray hairs—five bodies dead with bite and claw marks from a species that hasn't been seen in California in decades—and yet Stiles can't feel anything but relief. Kate's presence had been a noose around their necks and waiting for her arrival had left Stiles twitchy with nervous energy.

"It's over," Stiles says, a thin smile on his lips.

By the time they arrive at the jeep at Stiles' very human pace, Peter is already there, leaning against the driver's side door. Something in Stiles quiets at the sight of him, alive and well and washing the blood from his hands. Stiles stops in front of him and just breathes, in and out, and leans in to arrange Peter's hair from the mess it's in. In the meantime, he steals his keys back from Peter, because only one person should be driving his darling jeep.

"Happy?" Stiles asks.

Peter dips his head, but he corrects it to, "Content."

Had he thought about it much, Stiles would have assumed that Peter would be happier in the aftermath, perhaps gleeful with the thrill of the hunt and adrenaline coursing through him. If anything, Peter seems oddly somber and thoughtful.

Once they're all inside the jeep, Carrie says from the backseat, "Thanks for saving my life. Both of you, thank you."

"You're very welcome," Peter replies.

"I know you didn't do it for me."

"We would've done it anyway," Stiles says, glancing at Peter as he turns the car around. It's getting late, but he remembers the way. "Right?"

A moment's pause, and Peter admits, "Yes, we would have. That doesn't sound like me. It's too altruistic."

"We're saints, really," Stiles agrees, just to see Peter roll his eyes at him.

The wind rests against Stiles' pulse, a comforting weight, but it's not enough. Stiles reaches for Peter's hand and drives one-handed until they reach Satomi's house, where they drop off Carrie with her alpha. Satomi doesn't try to make them stay to interrogate them about what happened, although Stiles gets the impression that she'll track them down at a later time.

Instead of driving home straight away, Stiles pulls up in front of an IHOP.

"You are absurd," Peter tells him, but he doesn't give into the impulse to add to his murder count for the day. Instead, he gets out of the car, casually checking his shirt to make sure there aren't any bloodstains. Stiles also checks out Peter's shirt, if mostly to look at the fit. Gone are the days where Peter borrowed John's shirts. That had only lasted a few days before Peter insisted beginning a proper wardrobe was crucial to his healing process.

Once inside, they sit down and Stiles has to remind himself that he would regret ordering everything off the menu no matter how hungry he feels right now. When he glances across the table, Peter's also checking out his menu, but his gaze is far away. 

Stiles pokes at the back of Peter's menu. "You don't have to get everything the first time."

"I've been to an IHOP before," Peter huffs. He meets Stiles' gaze for a moment. "Once. Under duress." After, Peter scrutinizes the menu, and chooses what seems to be the least offensive option.

When the waiter comes by, Stiles orders the biggest, chocolatiest stack of pancakes on the menu. He's impatient, annoyed by his own impatience, or maybe just panicking because he has no idea how to fix Peter. The wind offers no advice. While it likes people, it doesn't truly understand them. Its best offer is to give Peter something shiny.

"Do you regret it?" Stiles asks. It's one of the few things he can think of that might be giving Peter the lost look he has now.

"No," Peter replies. He looks offended that Stiles would even ask. With a huff, he adds, "It's not my first time. I knew what I would get from doing it. I suppose it's that I hoped for more peace of mind."

"Maybe it hasn't sunk in yet?" A big plate of pancakes is deposited in front of Stiles, and his attention is caught for a moment by the smell. Only for a moment, and then he looks up to find Peter is ignoring his own omelet in favor of watching Stiles.

Peter shakes his head. "Maybe." As they begin to eat, he adds, "I just need time, Stiles. Time to come to terms with everything that happened. It's been a whirlwind of a few weeks. Sometimes it feels like I spoke to Talia last only a month ago, other times it feels like decades have passed. Time was felt different to me during my coma and I haven't gotten my bearings yet."

And maybe Stiles doesn't understand completely because he's never faced anything like that, but he understands enough. "Do you need time from me?"

Or maybe he doesn't—Peter huffs in reply, and says, "No. If there's one thing I know, it's that I want you with me. You, your wind, your completely bizarre understanding of boundaries, even the friend that you insist on introducing to me."

"Scott's great," Stiles counters without any actual offense on behalf of his best friend. He feels too warm all over to feel anything but good-humored. "You like me."

"I was in a coma for six years." But Peter's smiling, just a little, and in the face of Stiles' glee he gives in. "I do."

"I like you, too."

"I know. We're never coming back here again."

"If you say so."

Despite Peter's words, he steals one of Stiles' pancakes and orders some syrup that isn't a so-called chocolate abomination. Peter's new life purpose probably isn't going to be trying everything on the menu at IHOP, but that's alright. Stiles fully intends to stick around like a burr until Peter decides what he actually wants to do with the rest of his life. Now that he even has permission from Peter, Stiles isn't going anywhere. Night falls properly while they eat dinner, and when they exit the chain, Stiles looks up at the stars. He can almost, just barely, see the wind smiling down at him.

"Thanks," Stiles murmurs. If the wind hadn't led him to Peter, Stiles hopes that they would've found their way to each other anyway. He doesn't want to imagine a life where they'd just missed each other, or weren't even close at all, and Peter had to do this on his own. Stiles would've been lonely too, unaware of what he could've had and still missing it desperately deep down inside.

Peter looks at him in askance, but Stiles just takes his hand again.

He's contemplative right up until they make their way back home and the sheriff's car is in the driveway. It's only then that Stiles remembers he left his phone at home and his emotions slide right into panicked. "Do we have a cover story? We need a cover story. Why couldn't he have worked late today?" Technically, Stiles is still grounded, even if sometimes his dad forgets that. He has a feeling his dad hasn't forgotten it now.

Peter hums thoughtfully. "I wanted to visit some of my apartment options."

"And you needed my expert opinion," Stiles says, nodding.

"I needed a ride, yes," Peter replies.

John is still displeased, but he lets Stiles off with a reminder to bring his phone next time. Over the next few days, they visit several more apartments while John spends nearly all his time at the station. As far as the authorities are concerned, the animal attacks are escalating. Stiles hopes their panic will drop off after no more attacks occur. Kate and the rest of her ilk are dead and soon to be buried. Until the next time the wind brings news to Stiles' ears, this is the end of supernatural-related violence in Beacon Hills.

A month after moving into the Stilinski's home, Peter finds an apartment. The sheriff and a few of his deputies cheerfully help him move and unpack the newly bought furniture, citing Peter's coma and setting him to unpack the kitchen things.

"I'm stronger than any two of them," Peter grumbles as he opens one of the packages, which happens to include Stiles' wolf-themed knife set. He gives a huff of laughter. "I'm not sure this is appropriate in light of the circumstances." He traces the knife's blade and runs his thumb along the handle. Well, it is very well crafted.

"You like it," Stiles accuses. "Besides, those strange and mysterious animal attacks shouldn't put you off wolves—who may or may not have been the culprit, I know wolf hairs were found but that's not definitive evidence—forever. They're a keystone species that plays a crucial role in our ecosystem."

John ducks out from the closet, where he's replacing a lightbulb. "Stiles, eight people were killed." He gives Stiles a serious look, then turns to Peter. "Keep the knives, but talk him out of the matching silverware."

"Silverware, too?" Peter asks, raising an eyebrow.

Stiles splutters and goes for his phone to show Peter how great the designs are. Anyone would be pleased to eat with them, not even just people who are secretly werewolves. They're not even silver. 

He is, unfortunately, outvoted.

Within a few hours, the furniture is completely moved in and the rest of the sheriff's department slowly clears out. John stays for a while longer, grabbing another piece of pizza when he thinks Stiles is too occupied by trying to set up Peter's overly complicated new sound system, but eventually he goes, too, telling Stiles he expects him home in a few hours. Stiles promises to do so as soon as he sound system stops disrespecting his authority, then flops onto the couch as soon as his dad leaves.

"I'll figure it out later," Stiles says, glaring at the TV. "I'll show it who's boss." He munches on the last slice of pizza with anger. It lasts only until he glances toward Peter, who's laughing at him. "What?"

"Nothing. Come help me with the couch. It should be a foot to the left."

"By help, you mean watch you manfully move it yourself, right?"

"Of course."

Helping with the couch turns into helping on the couch, which suits Stiles perfectly. He's seeing a lot of I'll be at Scott's in his future, since he doesn't want to make his dad suspicious by spending every day at Peter's. Maybe just every weekend. They can be friends. Friends who do great things with their tongues, wow, that's, yes. Rational thought finds its way out of Stiles' head right about there, replaced by touch and feeling. It's like breathing at this point, wanting Peter. Wanting to be wanted back, wanting Peter to be happy, wanting everything. There are other things Stiles' life revolves around, but he can't remember them right now. Eventually, the kiss slows, and Stiles closes his eyes, catching his breath.

"Should I be worried?" Peter murmurs, rubbing his thumb across Stiles' lower lip. "I think I should be. You want a lot from me."

Stiles opens his eyes. "More than you want to give?"

"More than I should," Peter says. A smirk tugs at his lips, and he sounds discouraging, but his eyes are bright. "I want more from you, too."

It's a promise sealed with a kiss, the wind swirling all around them.