Archive of Our Own ^beta

Two weeks. He’d been shot in the ass, and they’d only given him two weeks off to recover. Sure, all he had to do was get the stitches out and let werewolf super healing do its thing and he’d be all better, but the doctors didn’t know that! For all they knew, he was homeless with a GSW to the left ass cheek. That HAD to be worth more than two weeks off, but noooooo.

He only got two weeks in a swanky hotel room with an overprotective partner to come to terms with everything before he was thrust back into high school hell—“overprotective” might have been a bit of an understatement, honestly. Peter had refused to let Stiles out of his sight since they’d seen each other in Stiles’s hospital room.

At least the werewolf council sent an Edible Arrangements basket with a get well card. Hans had even gotten all the members of the council to sign it.

He missed his house. He missed the hum of the refrigerator air conditioning unit. He missed the creaky fourth stair heading to the second floor. He even missed the couch he and Scott had broken when they were 12 and high on Pixie Stix with the one loose spring that always jabbed at his ass when he mistakenly sat on it.

Peter had spent the past two weeks being kind and gentle and loving with him, holding him close at night and taking him and his dad out when his dad wasn’t working to look at rental properties he’d found. When his dad WAS working, Peter dragged Stiles out to buy replacements for everything Stiles had ever owned and along to meetings with Peter’s chosen architect for the pack house project.

It turned out that designing a house from the ground up was a very detailed, complicated project. The main house needed something insane like eight bedrooms, all with their own en suite bathrooms, and Peter wanted them all soundproof, for obvious reasons. He also wanted a top-of-the-line fire suppression system, a basement that was a full-on panic room, and a built-in security system with hidden cameras in every room of the house but the bedrooms and the bathrooms. That wasn’t counting the secret cubbies and the closets that led to other areas of the house and the tunnels out of the basement/panic room. All they needed was candlesticks in the conservatory and the place would be fucking Boddy Mansion from Clue. Stiles wasn’t going to lie: He delighted in watching the architect freak out just a little bit more with every addition Peter demanded. It was a glorious thing to behold.

Scott came around the hotel quite a bit, too, bringing school assignments to keep Stiles up academically and sticking around for gaming sessions on the consoles—plural—that Peter insisted on buying for Stiles. Even Allison came around to offer her support and tell him she had no idea what the hell was wrong with her crazy family. They all gathered around the 65” TV Peter had also bought specifically for Stiles and blue shelled each other like nobody’s business on the regular.

Peter had gone a little nuts buying Stiles and his dad clothes and personal items and technology. Stiles had never owned so many clothes in his life. Combined. He’d never had jeans that fit him in quite the way his new ones did, either, even AFTER Lydia had gotten hold of his wardrobe in The Before. He had a Windows laptop AND a MacBook, a personal Android cell and an iPhone for pack business, a Wii U, a Playstation 3, and a vintage Sega Genesis, and the aforementioned TV for what was going to be HIS office/game room in the new pack house. Peter had even tracked down a Commodore 64 for him because he mentioned one time in passing that he liked those old text-based games.

Stiles had never been spoiled before. He liked it.

The Wednesday before Stiles was due back in school, Peter and Derek signed the lease on a massive penthouse and then the two floors of apartments below it in a highrise downtown. The architect was still drawing up the plans for the pack house, what with Peter changing his mind and adding things every other day, and the project was going to an absolutely massive build, so Peter apparently just signed a lease for two years with a muttered “we can use it for guests later” as the only explanation offered. The man was a crazy person. Stiles needed to remember that; that fact had started slipping from his mind recently.

——————

The Friday before Stiles was due back in school, the entire pack moved into apartments on the top three floors of the high rise—the penthouse had apparently been furnished to Peter’s liking, meaning the coziest opulence Stiles had ever experienced, that Thursday, so the place was completely move-in ready.

The original four of them, plus Cora and Malia when they packed up, would live in the penthouse, which was easily as large as his dad’s house had been with twice the bedrooms and triple the bathrooms. It didn’t seem possible that something that took up two floors of a highrise apartment building could hold so many rooms and still seem so spacious; magic must have been involved somehow. There was no other explanation. Peter knew witches. Stiles knew that Peter knew witches. Spatial magic wasn’t overly difficult for a competent practitioner—Stiles had known witches who could pull off something like this penthouse in forty minutes and still have the energy to go bowling afterward—but it was incredibly expensive to have done because witches knew that their time was valuable. Witches and textile artists, man. You were going to pay them what they were worth, and you were going to like it.

There was that one time his friend Bethanny had accepted a custom fanfic in exchange for a protection amulet in The Before, though. That had been awesome, and Stiles had gotten to write about Batman and Supes, which was always a good time. The point was, situations like that were the exceptions and not the rules. Peter must have paid through the nose to get them what was basically a T.A.R.D.I.S. apartment.

The walls were all painted darker and neutral colors, depending on the room in question. The only white walls were in the gourmet chef’s kitchen. Darker wood paneling lined the walls in bedrooms and other designated single-purpose rooms. The furniture in every room was oversized, overstuffed, and covered in a multitude of textiles, each one offering a different sensory experience. He couldn’t help but wonder if this was because he’d once mentioned how soothing different fabrics could feel to him in different situations.

His partner didn’t miss a thing. He knew this. His partner was also a crazy person with apparently more money than God. He should not be surprised by the shape of the penthouse they were going to spend basically the rest of his high school career in, but he was. He really was.

He spent Friday night gawking at his personal office/game room. He wasn’t even sure why he needed an office/game room of his own, but he had one now.

“Peter, this is insane. Like, this is literally insane.”

The walls were a light blue, almost the exact color of his room at his dad’s house. All his new tech had been moved in that morning, while he was off with Peter turning yet more hairs on their poor architect’s head gray, and more oversized, overstuffed furniture—two navy blue leather loveseats, two midnight blue corduroy armchairs, and a square dark wood coffee table (Lydia would probably call it “walnut” or some shit like that)—had been clustered around the tech center. The room had fucking surround sound installed, too.

The lighter wood desk sat at a diagonal in a back corner. It was absolutely massive, the length of a fucking door and twice that width, and was intricately carved with what looked like satyrs and woodland animals frolicking in a forest. Stiles wanted to jump into the black leather executive office chair and roll around in it.

Bookcases lined the walls in the back half of the room, custom built by the looks of it because they fit themselves around the speakers mounted in the back corners. Every one of those shelves was filled with books, and some of those books looked old as shit, but in the expensive way.

All this had been done in less than two days. That shouldn’t have been physically possible.

He mated himself to an insane person.

Peter grinned at him as he continued to gawk. “You can go check out the books, Stiles. They are yours, after all. And you’re welcome, Darling. Nothing but the best for my sweet boy.”

What else was a ’wolf supposed to do when his alpha told him to go check out the books? He went and checked out the books—a mix of sci-fi and fantasy fiction, mythology and supernatural reference, and general interest reference materials on various subjects. He spent the rest of the night checking out the books. He was pretty sure he would spend most of the rest of his life checking out the books.

He fucking LOVED his insane person.

——————

The Saturday before Stiles was due back in school, Peter called Jackson and his parents and Lydia and her mother over to the penthouse for “the talk,” since at this point Jackson and Lydia were basically a unit and Stiles had revealed that Lydia was a bean sidhe. Peter was shady and evasive when Stiles asked him exactly what “the talk” was going to entail.

“Peter, this isn’t something you can just wing and expect everything to go well. You don’t know Jackson. He’s a stubborn douchecanoe at his best, and I seriously doubt this conversation is going to place him at his best. Lydia will probably end up helping to wrangle Jackson before the afternoon is out, but she’s going to need some time to analyze everything before she accepts it, and she’s going to want to know why you didn’t come forward, and ‘I’d have been a shit father’ isn’t going to cut it with her. She’s going to want to know how we know this stuff about her, and man, I’ve got to tell you, the time travel is going to drive her nuts, like very possibly literally. I don’t really want to share the time travel thing with them.”

Peter smirked at him. “Stiles, did I never tell you that I knew Lorraine Martin? Honestly, I did. She was a bean sidhe herself, and she actually gifted me some of the same books that are currently in your library. I actually makes sense that the gift would pass on to her only granddaughter. It certainly wouldn’t take an overly large leap on my part to make the connection, and I’d be able to smell it on the girl as soon as I met her face to face. As for Jackson, I’m going to tell him the truth—I was too young to raise a little one, Maggie was already married to the man who would adopt him as his own, and Tally talked me out of it.”

The more time he spent with this partner, the more he wanted to grow up to be the type of quick-thinking left hand Peter was.

Jackson and Lydia, with Mr. Whittemore and Miss Martin in tow, arrived promptly at 1 PM, both of them walking into the casual opulence of the new penthouse as if being in a place like this was a regular occurrence for them.

Stiles happened to know that it was not.

They all joined his dad and Derek in the living room, sectioning off into groups and sides before the conversation even started. The pack sat on a couch and arm chair on one side of the large velvety ottoman that served as a coffee table, the other four in a loveseat and oversized arm chair on the other side.

Lydia perched herself in Jackson’s lap and stared expectantly at Stiles.

“I thought we were here to talk to Peter Hale. What are you doing here, Stiles?”

Stiles looked at Peter, hoping his alpha would jump in and save him from being dissected by a still-clueless Lydia Martin.

Peter smiled broadly at her, not quite Chris’s megawatt smile, but almost as disturbing to behold.

“Stiles is here at my request, Ms. Martin. The two of you know him from school, and I thought a familiar face might put you more at ease as we discussed the topics I called you both here to discuss, much in the same way the Sheriff—”

“And what are the topics you called us here to discuss, Mr. Hale? You were very evasive in your phone calls.”

That was the Lydia he knew and loved—the sharp, analytical genius who could cut to any point and force everyone else along with her. The vapid front she was still putting on at school had always driven him insane.

Peter cleared his throat and steepled his hands together in his lap before turning his attention to Mr. Whittemore.

“I first wanted to discuss the matter of Jackson’s parentage.”

Mr. Whittemore nodded at him. Stiles hoped that was permission enough, because he remembered that restraining order from The Before, and man, that had not been fun.

“Jackson, you’ve been told the identity of your biological mother and father, have you not?”

Jackson nodded at him, looking intrigued and more than a little nervous if the ticking of his jawline was anything to go off.

“Margaret Miller was in fact your biological mother, but Gordon Miller adopted you in a closed adoption after you were born. Your biological father was young and reckless, too wild to be expected to help raise a child. When the Millers passed after the accident, he was…dissuaded from taking you in and raising you as his own for a number of reasons I hope will become clear this afternoon.”

Jackson’s right eye twitched slightly. Lydia nodded at him with a simple “that young father was you, wasn’t it?”

Peter nodded. “I’d had a…liaison with Maggie. It was brief, and in the end we parted amicably enough, but she wanted her husband to raise the child with her, and he was willing to look past her indiscretion. I was more than willing to allow my son to be raised in a stable, loving nuclear household, and so signed my rights over to Gordon. When I’d heard that they’d passed, I was already involved in some…shall we say less than savory aspects of my family’s business. My sister pointed out that I was in no position to raise a toddler, and that I was needed exactly where I was. For a variety of reasons I will bring up after this, I had to listen to her and act in the way she wanted me to. She promised to find a good family for you, Jackson, and I think she did an excellent job. The Whittemores are upstanding people who have done an amazing job raising you as their own. I don’t wish to step in and replace them now, but I would like to be involved in your life now that I am free to do so—if you’ll let me, of course.”

That was…really impressive, actually. Peter really sounded regretful that he hadn’t been able to raise Jackson after his biological mother had passed. Stiles even almost believed him, and he knew the real reason Peter had stayed out of things with Jackson. Stiles briefly leaned his head on Peter’s shoulder in a show of support, and Lydia narrowed her eyes at them. He sat back up and leaned back, trying to act as if he’d just been looking for a comfortable spot to lay his head.

Lydia rolled her eyes at him, then patted Jackson’s shoulder and said that he didn’t have to decide anything right away. Jackson nodded, but then his nose twitched. He didn’t look overtly pissed, but he clearly had something on his mind. Stiles took a subtle sniff of the air. Jackson smelled nervous. He smelled nervous, but also determined. Stiles wished that his wolfy super sniffer could shed light on WHAT he was determined about.

“I don’t know, Mr. Hale. My answer to that will depend on your reasons for not being involved in my life until now.”

Peter nodded. “A fair answer, Jackson, and please, feel free to call me Peter. You should all feel free to call me Peter.”

There were nods around the table, then Lydia spoke up again. Stiles was not surprised at this in the least.

“That explains why you wanted to speak with Jackson, Peter, but why are my mother and I here?”

“The answer to that ties into the answer about my reasons for not being able to be involved with Jackson before now, Ms. Martin…Tell me, what is your stance on the existence of the supernatural?”

Miss Martin gasped at the question, but it was so quiet that the humans in the room didn’t catch it. Stiles did, however. He knew Peter and Derek had, as well.

Lydia just scoffed.

“I’m far too old to be scared of campfire tales and spooky stories, Peter.”

Peter nodded as if he’d expected that answer. Stiles figured that he probably had—Stiles had basically told him this morning that Lydia was going to need proof and time to analyze everything before she’d jump on board.

“Of course, Ms. Martin, of course, but what if I told you that some myths, rumors, and tales were based in truth? What if I told you that many creatures you’ve heard about around that campfire actually exist, albeit in a different manner than the stories tell of?”

She smirked at Peter. “I’d ask you if you’d forgotten to take your mental health medicine, of course.”

Stiles snorted, and Derek shot a glare at him. He threw his hands up. “What? It was funny!”

Peter sighed.

Jackson’s face took on a sort of constipated expression that always signaled he was having Deep Thoughts about something—Stiles always used to tease him about that exact expression in The Before.

“Coyotes? Are they some of these supernatural creatures, Peter?”

Every now and again Jackson’s Deep Thoughts were frighteningly accurate. What the fuck did he know?

Peter nodded and offered him a softer, more genuine smile. “They can be, if they’re in the class of shifters. Most of them are simply coyotes, however. Werecoyotes are a dying breed. What makes you ask, Jackson?”

Lydia looked mildly concerned about Jackson’s mental wellbeing. Stiles was impressed. Miss Martin looked decidedly unimpressed with the entire conversation.

Jackson just shrugged. “I think I met one in the Preserve. Must have been three or four years ago, I was out running one afternoon and this scrawny looking coyote, had to be a young one, comes bounding out of absolutely nowhere in front of me, growling and threatening-like. Freaked me out.”

“No doubt” was all Peter said in response. Jackson nodded and continued. “I did the only thing I could, which was just to talk to it. I swear, this thing understood English. It cocked its head like it was listening to me, and it calmed down after I told it I meant no harm. I swear, this coyote had human intelligence. You know, how they say you can see it in the eyes. It was there. Anyway, it wandered off on its own, and I got the hell out of there. Never saw it again.”

Lydia scoffed. “Coyotes are intelligent animals, Jackson, and most animals respond to tone of voice. It was probably more scared of you than you were of it, so it was confused and then wandered off, the way most animals will once they realize that a potential threat is not an actual threat.”

Miss Martin cleared her throat loud enough for the humans in the room to notice it.

“It’s possible, Lydia.” She turned and addressed Peter with her next statement: “We’re here because of Lydia’s grandmother, aren’t we?”

Peter nodded. “You are. I can smell it on your daughter.”

Lydia sniffed the air, then looked confused. “What are you talking about? Mom? What about Grandma? Which grandma?”

Peter answered her.

“Your grandmother Lorraine. She was part of our little community here in Beacon Hills, a bean sidhe. You’ve inherited her gift, Ms. Martin, though it is still dormant within you.”

Lydia’s expression went deadpan.

“How could you possibly know that?”

Peter shifted to his beta form. “Because I can smell it on you. ’Wolves like me have enhanced senses of smell, and creatures associated with Death have a very distinctive scent, even those whose gifts currently remain dormant. Your particular gift is usually passed down from mother to daughter, but Lorraine only had your father, meaning it skipped a generation and found a home within you.”

Stiles had been hoping for more of a reaction when Peter shifted. As it was, Lydia blinked heavily several times in rapid succession, Jackson’s jaw ticked a couple times, Miss Martin jumped a bit in her seat, and Mr. Whittemore’s head swung around to look at Dad.

Dad grimaced and nodded at Mr. Whittemore—that’s why he was here, why he’d called into work that day. He was the human authority figure who would lend credence to any shifting that occurred. It looked like it was working, given the subtle relaxing of Mr. Whittemore’s shoulders and his minute nod in return.

Stiles took note: Adult human authority figures needed to be added to his network. He needed more than Dad—everyone would expect his own dad to have his back, so he’d need someone else…Mel, maybe? Possibly Chris down the line, provided the man didn’t kill him for successfully lying his ass off to him.

“Will I—you said that that banshee thing or whatever was genetic for Lydia. If you’re my biological father, will I turn into that, too?”

“A werewolf, Jackson,” Mr. Whittemore interjected. “He’s a werewolf, son. I know it sounds ridiculous, but we can call it what it is.”

Peter chuckled. “It does tend to run in genetic lines, yes, however your biological mother was completely human, so those genes may lie dormant for the rest of your life if you don’t receive a bite or a scratch from another ’wolf. The choice would be yours to make, Jackson, and it isn’t one you should rush into. We have enhanced senses and incredible healing powers, and we physically age much more slowly than humans do because of said healing powers, but we also end up in a lot more serious fights defending our territory from interlopers and are often targeted by hunters of the supernatural. The life of a werewolf is not without its dangers.

“We also function much better in established packs—we’re at our peaks in packs with permanent hierarchies and clear structures. In fact, lone ’wolves, those that we call omegas, tend to literally go a bit insane, so if you’re one of those people who values strict independence, the life of a ’wolf may not be for you.”

Jackson nodded. “So, I can think about it?”

Stiles decided that was as good a time as any to speak up. “You absolutely should think about it, Jackson. You should also know that whether you decide to become a ’wolf or not, you’ll have a place in the Hale Pack. Humans are just as welcome as supernaturals, as evidenced by my dad being here—”

“You just left yourself out of that, Stiles. Are you a werewolf too, or something else like me?”

Stiles sighed. “Jesus, Lydia. Would it kill you to let me finish? You may not have noticed this, but I still deal with ADHD. I will literally lose thoughts as I’m speaking them.”

Lydia rolled her eyes. “It won’t kill you to answer my questions. That’s why you’re all here, right? I get to ask questions.”

“Ugh, yes. I am a werewolf like Derek. We’re both pack betas, which is what Jackson would be, and what you would be if you decide to pack up with us, as well—there’s protection in numbers even for non ’wolves. Peter is our alpha, the leader of our pack, which I have been informed on numerous heated occasions was a benevolent dictatorship, so take that into consideration as you’re considering joining us.”

It was Peter’s turn to scoff.

“I think what Stiles is trying to say is that I’m the leader because I’m the alpha, which is a slightly different thing to betas. We tend to be physically stronger and faster to heal, and we can turn humans into werewolves with a bite. We also have a more physically intimidating alpha form we can take should we choose, on top of the beta form I’m currently shifted into. You’ll notice my eyes are red; that’s the mark of an alpha ’wolf.” He turned to Stiles and asked him to shift, using yet another pet name, which Lydia was sure to notice. Probably Mr. Whittemore, too, him being “the best damn prosecutor the county’s had in a long time” according to Dad.

That was a problem for future Stiles, though.

Stiles shifted.

“Notice that Stiles’s eyes are blue. The standard eye color for most betas is gold, but some of them will have different colored eyes depending on circumstances and originating packs. Most of them will have gold eyes, though, so you’ll know they’re betas.”

Different packs had different eye colors? Stiles really needed to dig deeper into all the werewolf books Peter had stocked his library with, apparently.

They spent the rest of the afternoon with the Whittemores and Martins, Peter patiently answering all their questions, Derek silently nodding along with Peter, and Stiles snarking with Jackson and Lyds while his dad shared commiserating scoffs and eye rolls with Mr. Whittemore.

By the end of the afternoon both the other parents were making jokes with Dad about anything and everything, Lydia and Peter were on a first-name basis—god help them all if those two actually got along in this timeline—and Derek and Jackson were talking sports like they’d been friends for half their lives.

Overall, Stiles was going to call this meeting successful, and damned if Peter hadn’t proven him wrong and successfully winged everything.

In bed that night, Stiles took his time and showed Peter just how proud he was of his alpha for being so patient and thorough and offering so many little teaching moments.

——————

The day before Stiles was due back in school, he, Peter, and Derek took a hike through the Preserve in a coyote hunt of their own. Peter said that he’d be damned if he was going to stop at only one of his children that weekend, and Stiles would always want to help his partner in any way he could. Derek apparently just wanted to get out of the apartment.

Peter and Derek would occasionally stop on their little jaunt and randomly let loose a howl, hoping to get Malia’s attention. Peter used the opportunity to teach Stiles how to howl properly, as well as the different timbres and tones a howl could take on and what each timbre and tone meant. By the end of that afternoon, Stiles could successfully howl specifically for help and knew how to track individual pack members using echo location and identification of what howl belonged to who. It was all fascinating; he couldn’t believe that Before Scott would willingly miss out on all this just to be human.

Peter also taught him a bit about physical tracking in the wild, how to look at branches and bushes, what forest floor detritus looked like scattered naturally versus what it looked like when run over by various creatures, and how to spot minute signs of movement through the brush.

Peter was an absolute font of knowledge, and he kind of wanted to kick his actual teenage self’s ass for missing out on this the first time.

Of course, this meant that he and Peter needed to break for a mini makeout session. They sent Derek ahead, then Stiles thanked Peter through kisses and whispers for teaching him so much. He spent a good ten minutes thanking Peter this way, to both of their pleasures and enjoyment.

He was just about to sink to his knees right there in the middle of the Preserve when they heard rustling from up ahead and Derek’s cry of “found her.”

Peter leaned back and let go of Stiles entirely, ran a hand through his hair, and asked if he looked alright before mumbling a quick “never mind” and racing off toward Derek, his heartbeat ratcheting up with every step.

Stiles’s alpha was actually nervous, and it was adorable.

He took his time catching up with his boys, and when he wandered onto the scene, Peter was already crooning lowly to a coyote that Stiles instantly recognized as one Malia Hale Tate. He’d forgotten how pretty her coyote blue eyes were.

He focused in on Peter, picking up on his nervous energy even as he was keeping his voice low and even. He had no doubt that Malia was probably picking up on his nervous energy, too, given the upward curl of her upper…lip? Coyotes didn’t really have lips, but it would have been her upper lip in her human form. Whatever. Given the upward curl of her upper lip and the low growl emanating from her.

Peter’s words were comforting, at least:

“Hey there, pretty girl. It’s okay. We’re here to help you; we would never hurt you. You’re safe here with us. We just want to help, Malia. I’m Peter, and this is Derek. Stiles is the guy behind me. We want to be friends. Can we be friends? You’re such a pretty girl, such a good coyote, just look at you.”

Stiles slowly walked up to Peter, resting one hand on Peter’s shoulder and reaching into his pants pocket to pull out the venison jerky he’d brought to help things along.

“Calm down, Peter. She can probably sense your nerves, Love. Here.” He handed Peter the jerky. “Deer’s her favorite.”

Peter took the jerky and crouched down slowly, breathing deep and slow.

“What if she doesn’t like me?”

Stiles huffed. “She’s a coyote. She doesn’t like any humans right now, do you, Malia? Doesn’t trust us, not that I can blame her. Just move slowly and let her get used to you, babe. Give her the jerky and let her enjoy it in peace. Maybe head behind a tree and full shift. She might trust the wolf more than the human.” Stiles shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. In the Before, Scottie alpha-commanded her into shifting against her will, and it was a whole big deal after that.”

Derek whipped his head around to look at Stiles and raised one eyebrow, the rest of his face actually looking disturbed. It was kind of exciting seeing Derek visibly emote, like he’d been let in on some big secret.

“What? It’s something alphas can do, you know. I’ve seen another alpha do the same thing with a beta ’wolf. Of course, both times caused more trauma than they were worth, but I was just a squishy human, so what did I know?”

Derek chuckled. “I’m aware that alphas can force a shift, Stiles. I’m stuck on the fact that you said Scott—tiny, asthmatic Scott—was an alpha.”

Stiles grinned. “Yeah, man, the other timeline was wild times. I forgot you didn’t know that.

Malia looked from Derek to Stiles to Peter, who was now extending the jerky toward her, before she finally inched forward, so low to the ground she was practically army crawling, and took the jerky from between Peter’s fingers.

Stiles smiled at Malia and crouched down, himself.

“She’s such a pretty girl, aren’t you, Malia? She’s smart, too. Survived all this time on her own and still remembers where she came from.” He extended his hand to her, low to the ground with the palm up. She slinked toward him, getting just close enough to sniff at his hand.

“It wasn’t your fault, Malia. None of it was your fault. You were so young when it happened that it couldn’t possibly be your fault. You were just doing what every sibling does—play fighting with your sister. The accident wasn’t ever your fault, not a minute of it. You were so brave.”

She came a little closer to him, resting her muzzle against his palm. He took it as permission to lightly pet her muzzle and scratch behind her ears.

“You survived, which is more than a lot of people would have done, no matter how old they are, but you’re safe now. You’re safe with us, and if you want to shift back to human, you totally can. It’s cool if you don’t just yet, but you can now. Peter here can help guide you through the shift. He’s really good at the whole education thing. You should trust him, smart girl.”

He nodded at Peter, who kept his voice low and steady. “All you have to do is focus in on those parts of you that are still human, Malia. Focus on your memories of your human life, your human family. Focus on your father, who is still alive and missing you. Remember what it felt like to have fingers and toes, to stand on two feet. Remember the wind on bare skin, what that felt like. Remember the gooseflesh the cold would bring, the feeling of warm rain soaking your clothing and causing it to stick to your human body.

“Feel your fingers and your toes elongating. Feel your bones restructuring themselves into their human configuration. Should you want to shift, let it all happen. It wants to happen, Malia. You just have to let it.”

God damn, Peter was good at this. Stiles was so happy he got to see this side of Peter this side around.

Malia howled and dropped even lower to the ground, the howl becoming more strangled as her body began to ripple and shift. Stiles turned away, giving her privacy for her first shift in literal years, and removed his shirts, putting his flannel back on before holding his t-shirt behind him, hoping Malia would recognize the offer and take it.

She did. Moments later she cleared her throat and something sounding like “oak” squawked out of her vocal cords. This was already better than their first meeting had gone before—she’d shifted on her own and actually tried to speak to them.

He turned back around and laid eyes on her for the first time again. Her hair was long, falling nearly to her ass, and matted to all hell, but her skin was clean and clear. His shirt was too short on her for her to be classified as decently dressed, but it at least covered all her bits. Her eyes looked wild as she darted them back and forth among the three of them.

Peter smiled gently at her. “It’s okay, Malia. You’re still safe here. You’re still safe with us, Sweetheart.”

She wobbled over to Peter on two legs, then butted her head against his chest. Stiles wondered if she could sense the alpha in him. It would make sense—Stiles was pretty much always aware of the feel of alpha rolling off Peter in waves.

Did she find it soothing, like he did?

Peter raised one hand and rested it against the back of her head, something akin to wonder and awe on his face as he smiled at Stiles.

“I’ve got you now, Malia,” Peter crooned over and over, “you’re safe.”

They managed to get her back to Stiles’s Jeep, which they came out in because Peter’s Mercedes and Derek’s Camaro weren’t great for the further back roads in the Preserve. She clung to Peter with one arm as they walked, and Derek looped one of his arms around her waist to help stabilize her as she remembered how to walk on two legs.

Stiles enjoyed the fact that his pack this time around actually thought about other people. It didn’t, and wouldn’t, fall solely on him to help Malia adjust to being human again. They all helped Malia into the back of the Jeep, Derek and Stiles carefully positioning themselves so they wouldn’t see any of her bits as she climbed in and settled against Peter on the bench seat.

Stiles pulled out his phone to call Lydia as he turned the car on, then realized that he’d completely forgotten to get her contact information the day before. It was a situation he’d have to rectify when he saw her at school—he was absolutely positive she’d officially join the pack quickly this time around; Peter had been smooth and charming and honest with them, and she had no reason to hate him this time around.

He pocketed his phone, then threw the Jeep in reverse and got them back on the road to the penthouse.

By the end of the night, they’d gotten Malia bathed, groomed, and arranged in a pair of Peter’s silk boxers, one of Derek’s t-shirts, and a pair of Stiles’s joggers. Peter took great pleasure in gently detangling the knots and mats in her hair, softly telling her how he used to do this for his wife when she was still alive, and how relaxing he always found it, sharing bits of his life with her to keep her calm.

Stiles fought the urge to tear up valiantly when he’d heard them and barely won that battle. Peter was being soft and vulnerable and putting Malia’s needs before his own—he hadn’t even hinted at her being his daughter, letting her adjust to being human. Stiles was so damn proud of him it felt like his chest might burst with the feeling.

Best. Alpha. Ever.

Peter tucked her into bed fairly early in the room he’d furnished for her based on Stiles’s memory of her preferences—dark, warm colors on the walls and in the cotton bedsheets, light wood minimalist furniture, lots of warm light in the form of table and floor lamps.

They fell into bed together the night before Stiles was due back in school full of soft kisses and gentle caresses. Peter made love to him among soft whispers of pride and love and always, and he fell asleep tucked into the arms of the man he knew without a doubt was his forever.