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Peter had thought that nothing could or would ever break him as much as the fire that took his home, his sanity, and his pack did.
Sitting on the dusty ground of an abandoned warehouse, listening to his mate’s heart give one last, feeble attempt to beat in his chest before falling hauntingly still, Peter realises he was wrong.
Nothing was worse than feeling that fledgling little matebond snap.
He thought he had more time. He thought had time to slip away and take care of Gerard before coming back to ensure his mate got home safely. Maybe if Peter hadn’t been so hasty to tie up loose ends, he could have saved him. Maybe if he had been faster, he could have gotten him to the hospital in time for them to do something.
Instead, Peter had been spilling Gerard Argent's blood while Stiles slowly drowned in his own.
Blood speckles across Stiles’s lips and down his chin from where he had choked on it, and Peter very carefully wipes it away with a finger. His mate had already stopped breathing by the time Peter arrived, but his final breaths before losing consciousness must have been agony. The stench of fear and pain and despair hammer the message of his failure into him with every breath he continues to take.
It should not be possible to continue to breathe in a world where his mate does not. He hadn’t even told Stiles about their bond yet.
The shock of it leaves him partially numb, his mind not yet fully accepting the reality in front of him, even when the evidence of it lies in his arms and the fierce stabbing pain where a piece of his soul has been ripped away, nothing but horrible, gaping nothingness in its place.
As such, his mind has not yet fully broken.
The rational, analytical part of Peter that is used to drowning out pain and using numbness to think knows that he can’t stay here, that there are things he needs to do.
Part of Peter, as he is a petty and vindictive creature at heart, wants to drag everyone back here, make them face what they’ve done. Wants to rub Scott McCall’s face in his failures as a so-called best friend and show him the consequences of choosing to get his dick wet even after repeated warnings against it. Wants Christ Argent to face the result of his cowardice and willful blindness, wants to make his nephew pull his head out of his own misery long enough to remember that an alpha is supposed to look after their pack. He wants to do many, many things and blame many, many people as he cradles Stiles’s lifeless body in his arms.
But there isn’t time for that.
Every moment he spends in a world where he cannot hear Stiles’s heartbeat pushes him closer and closer to the brink. Insanity waits in the wings, rage and madness lurking in the shadows of his psyche like pacing tigers waiting to pounce and drag him back down into insanity. Clinging to the numb, icy shadow blanketing his mind and dulling the full reality of losing his mate won’t work forever, and he can’t afford to fall now.
Stiles needs him, and he won’t fail him again.
What Derek doesn’t know is that the main reason Peter was so enraged by him and Laura abandoning him was that, if they had just stayed, he could have done something. He could have fixed things.
He could have brought their family back.
Peter has always been the one with the contingencies, who always had a plan, even when it came to death. Hell, he thinks he’s proven that quite well recently, what with his own successful resurrection. But he knew how to save other people too. He had plans and back-up plans and back-up plans for his back-up plans to get himself and his loved ones out of situations that would appear dire and impossible to anyone else. Nothing would stop him from protecting his loved ones, not even death.
Except, apparently, for time.
He had contingencies. If he was the one who died, he had journals where his family could find clear instructions on what to do in a variety of situations. He knew three different methods of resurrection to take into account a variety of factors like method, species of the deceased, and phases of the moon.
And he knew about time travel. Three methods, to be exact.
Peter’s always been a fan of threes.
But messing with a thing like time is a delicate thing, requiring precision and the perfect alignment of circumstances. It often requires fast action.
None of them were any good after six years.
If Derek and Laura had stayed, if his alpha had done her duty and helped him heal, he could have saved them. He had a time travel ritual that could send them back up to a year. Even if he wasn’t healed to full capacity, he could have instructed them, guided them through the process of doing it themselves. They could have worked together to save their family. It had been entirely possible.
But Laura had run. And in doing so, she doomed them all.
Seeing how Peter’s pack had been entirely bound to him by blood or bonds, he’d never had to worry about the fact that the blood of a relative or bondmate was required. But since he is neither related to Stiles, bound to him with a sealed matebond, nor connected to him through a solid packbond, Peter can’t do this alone.
Only one person can help him now.
“Hale? What the hell?”
Peter brushes past the sheriff into his house, ignoring the belligerent man behind him until he reaches the living room and turns to face him in. Noah Stilinski’s face is twisted and red with rage, but Peter pays it no mind.
“You know your son has been hiding things from you, lying to you for the past few months, yes?” This just serves to make Noah angrier as he switches from belligerent to indignant. “I’m here to tell you the truth.”
The conversation…doesn’t go smoothly, but it’s better than what Peter could have hoped for. At least the man doesn’t have his gun nearby, keeping it locked in a safe when he’s home. Continually reminding him that it’s about Stiles’s safety, that it’s a life or death situation, is the key. Showing him proof with fangs and claws and glowing eyes is also highly instrumental in getting him to listen and believe.
He gives him a very brief overview of the supernatural and what’s happened the last few months, focusing mostly on Stiles’s involvement though he makes sure to explain his own death and resurrection, mentioning that he had studied many ancient rituals in case something like that should occur. Noah spends the whole time vacillating between disbelief, impatience, dismay, and anger.
“So where is he, Hale?” Noah asks, not for the first time, patience running out. “Why are you here explaining this and where is my son?”
Peter gazes at the man for a moment, weighing his options.
“He’s in my car,” Peter says. “I’ll go get him.”
Noah follows him to the door, Peter bristling a little at having the agitated man at his back, but he walks out to his car under his sharp eagle eyes anyway. Noah waits on the porch with crossed arms when he clearly doesn’t see anyone in the car.
Opening the door to the backseat, Peter very carefully scoops Stiles up in his arms and lifts him as if he were simply sleeping, using his elbow to close the door behind them. Noah’s arms fall as soon as he sees his son, and he meets Peter on his way back to the house.
“Stiles? What’s wrong with him? Is he asleep? Did something else happen?” Peter shifts around the sheriff even as he tries to crowd close to get a closer look at his son. Concern has taken over his features when he peers at his son, though his mistrust for Peter seems to have grown even further.
“Inside,” is all Peter says, hurrying them along. Once they’re both in the house again, he sucks in a deep breath as he heads towards the couch. “He’s dead,” he says bluntly.
“What?!” The sheriff stumbles over his feet and lurches forward as Peter lowers Stiles carefully to the couch. If it weren’t for the bruising on his face and the stillness of his chest, he might even believe his mate was simply sleeping. Unfortunately, the jagged, fresh wound ripped through his soul is a constant reminder that he is not. As is the absence of his heartbeat.
Peter steps coolly out of the way as Noah rushes the couch and frantically examines his son, increasingly distressed pleas and denials spilling out of his mouth. Peter keeps his own emotions shut down as he watches, detached. There are things to do, he can’t get distracted by his emotions.
When Noah can no longer ignore the evidence stacking up in front of him, he turns to Peter with teary eyes filled with the type of rage borne from desperation.
“How could you let this happen?” He hisses, features twisting as he seeks desperately for something or someone to blame and direct his grief and anger towards.
“Gerard Argent had some of his men kidnap Stiles after the game,” Peter says instead of giving a straight answer, keeping his voice carefully moderated. “Gerard beat him in his basement. I can only assume he cracked, if not broke, at least one of Stiles’s ribs. I also suspect that he was bleeding internally without anyone realising it. After Stiles left here later in the evening, he drove his jeep into a warehouse wall where a confrontation was happening. As far as I can tell, the impact likely caused the by then definitely broken rib to puncture a lung, and his lungs filled with the blood that had already been pooling in his chest cavity.”
“Where is Argent now?” Noah hisses. Peter unsheathes his claws again, studying them casually.
“Dead,” he says simply, waiting to see how the sheriff will react. Noah studies him for only a moment before his eyes go hard.
“Good,” he nods. His heartbeat does not stutter. Good, indeed. Then Noah turns back to his son and slowly sinks to the floor, leaning against the couch and clutching Stiles’s hand. Tears fall down his face.
“Why?” Noah rasps without looking away from Stiles’s face. “Why bother telling me all of that if he was already dead? Why bother bringing him here at all?” Peter huffs, crossing his arms.
“Did I, or did I not, just explain to you how I successfully resurrected myself using one of several ancient magic rituals I am aware of?” Peter snaps. His already short tether and the looming threat of insanity don’t leave him the patience to deal with the grieving father’s emotions. He’s practically vibrating with the need to get started.
Noah sucks in a harsh breath, realisation causing his eyes to widen slightly as he gazes up at Peter.
“You can resurrect him?” Noah breathes.
Peter’s grin is full of teeth.
“Better. I can turn back time.”
Things move quickly after that. As much as it makes him seethe, the fact that both he and the Stilinskis are apparently so forgettable to everyone else comes in handy, as no one arrives to get in his way or ask questions he has neither the time nor the desire to answer. Noah stays by Stiles’s side at all times, only moving when Peter asks him to do something, much more composed now that they have a plan.
Peter is loath to leave Stiles too, but there are things he needs to do to prepare. He makes stops at his apartment and the Hale Vault. His only comfort is that Noah is at Stiles’s side, clearly ready to do whatever it takes to protect his son, even in death.
Noah insists on carrying Stiles when they reach the preserve, even after Peter reminds him of his supernatural strength. Seeing the way the man is clutching at his son, Peter drops it, focusing instead on finding the Nemeton. He can feel the finicky tree calling to him, guiding him, and it makes him breathe a little easier.
While his pessimistic side — the one he usually operates under — wonders if perhaps the Nemeton is just hungry and excited for the blood sacrifice it's about to get, it doesn’t feel malicious. In fact, the impression coming from the tree is a strange mixture of hopeful, mournful, and anticipatory. Peter starts to wonder if Stiles and the tree are more connected than anyone knows.
“What is that?” Noah asks when they step into a clearing that hadn’t been there moments before, eyeing the giant tree stump at the center. Peter moves towards it swiftly.
“That is the Nemeton, or what’s left of it,” Peter says, slipping his shoes off. “A Nemeton is a powerful tree, sacred to Druids and generally a strong beacon for the supernatural. The largest convergence of telluric currents in the area also happens to be right below it, though it gains more power from human sacrifices.” Peter slips off his jacket as he speaks and folds it up next to his shoes, stripping off his socks then adding his watch to the pile as well.
Noah is hesitating a few feet into the clearing, eyeing the stump doubtfully.
“So…it’s a magic tree.”
Peter sighs. “Yes, it’s a magic tree. A magic tree that is going to allow us to save Stiles, or rather to go back in time to prevent him from needing saving. Now, come here and take your socks and shoes off before getting on the stump. And undress Stiles too while you’re at it.”
Peter tugs his V-neck over his head, dropping it on top of his jacket.
“Why, exactly, do you need me to undress my son?” Noah asks suspiciously, eyeing the bloody runes covering Peter’s bare torso. He’d carved them into his skin with his claw before they left the house, and while the injuries healed almost instantly, the blood dried and stayed behind.
“Stiles needs to have as much bare skin as possible against the tree to connect with it and ground the ritual,” Peter explains, grabbing his bag of supplies and stepping up onto the rough wood. “The no socks and shoes in your case is just as much a respect thing as it is to allow connection between you and the Nemeton during the ritual.”
“Respect…for the tree?” Noah repeats, skepticism and doubt dripping from his tone even as he toes off his own shoes. Peter tries to have patience with the man whose entire understanding of the world is still shifting while dealing with the death of his son.
“Magic tree, remember?” Peter mutters, pulling the Hale family’s ritual dagger carefully from its sheath and taking a moment to study it.
The ornate dagger had been used by Peter’s family in rituals for generations, holding a pride of place in the Hale vault when not being used. It feels heavy, the weight of its history and meaning causing him to treat it delicately. He can’t help running his fingers reverently over the surface of the blade, careful not to touch the sharp edge, before returning his attention to the task at hand.
While Peter carefully carves runes at the four cardinal points around the outer rim of the trunk, Noah carefully lays Stiles on the ground and begins stripping him of his clothes. Peter politely pretends not to see the tears that slip down the Sheriff’s cheeks as he maneuvers his son’s lifeless body. As he carves each one, he knicks the tip of his finger and rubs his blood into the grooves.
He can feel the Nemeton waking up more and more beneath him each time more blood is added.
“So, what happens if this works?” Noah asks as he steps carefully onto the tree, Stiles back in his arms. “Are we just rewinding time in general, or are we going back in time? Because we can’t exactly prevent this from happening again if we don’t remember it.”
“Sit there,” Peter says before answering, pointing to a spot on the stump across from him. “And lay Stiles carefully over here for now.” He points to his right, so that Stiles will be beside them with his feet towards Noah and his head near Peter’s hip. Then he answers the question.
“Anyone present at the time of the ritual should go back with their memories intact, whether they are an active participant or not. Seeing as it is just the two of us at the moment, we should both keep our memories. Whether that means Stiles will also wake with his full memories, I don’t know.”
Cleaning the wood off the blade with a special oil that won’t damage it or interfere with the ritual, Peter gestures at Stiles, squatting near his head.
“Lift him up for a moment, will you? I need him sitting up long enough for me to carve something into his back.” Peter ignores the way his stomach is already twisting and clenching at the thought.
Once Noah has him propped up, Peter crouches behind Stiles’s back, taking in the smooth expanse of pale, mole-dotted skin that he had fantasised about running his tongue and teeth and claws over, tasting that skin, leaving his marks littered across that gorgeous expanse.
Caught up in the guilt of what he’s about to do, Peter leans forward and presses a soft kiss against the top of Stiles’s spine, whispering a soft “I’m sorry, darling,” into his skin.
The words have barely crossed his lips when Noah rips Stiles away from Peter, clutching him close and glaring over Stiles’s shoulder.
“What the hell, Hale?” Noah growls, looking fiercer than he had the first time he shoved his way into their home. All the mistrust that had slowly disappeared throughout the evening is back tenfold.
“Is now really the time for this conversation?” Peter grits. He flexes the hand not holding the dagger.
Noah scowls fiercely, every bit the protective father ready to defend his child from a predator.
“Unless the next thirty seconds are going to make or break this ritual, yes, this is the time.”
Peter sighs, shoulders slumping, and sits back on his heels. He meets Noah’s accusatory expression wearily.
“Werewolves have mates, I’m sure you can guess what that means. Soulmates, fated mates, true mates, call it what you will but it remains the same. Not all wolves find their mates, but when they do they know it instantly. The first time I caught your son’s scent when I was still feral, I knew he was my mate. I felt the fledgling strand of an incomplete matebond take root in my chest when we actually met.”
“He’s sixteen,” Noah growls. Peter runs a hand down his face. He really doesn’t want to be having this conversation right now. He’s not in the right frame of mind to choose his words carefully or explain in a way that a human would understand.
“Yes, I know, and I had no intention of telling Stiles until he turned eighteen. Knowing what it feels like to wait too soon and miss my chance, I will not be making that same mistake next time around.” Seeing Noah’s face twist in further outrage and open his voice, Peter holds up a hand. “But I still have no intention of bedding him before he’s of age. I just want him to know.”
Noah glowers, his teeth clenched tight. A muscle in his jaw jumps.
“We’re going to be continuing this talk when we get back, Hale,” Noah threatens, “when I have my gun with me.”
“Fine. Just do keep in mind that I am literally turning back time for Stiles right now,” Peter says in irritation. Noah slowly relaxes his hold on Stiles’s body and leans him back towards Peter so he can add the necessary runes to his back. He braces his left hand on Stiles’s shoulder blade to prop hold him up and steady himself while he works.
He can feel the weight of Noah’s glare attempting to burn holes in his skin where he’s touching Stiles.
“Don’t worry,” Peter mutters, concentrating on the runes. “This is the first time my hands have touched Stiles’s naked body, and I have no intention of doing so again without his consent.”
“Hale,” Noah growls warningly, his scent roiling with protective fury. Thankfully, he doesn’t take it any further, leaving Peter to his task.
Once he’s done, Peter lays Stiles very carefully back down so he’s stretched out across the stump. He walks around Stiles’s head and crouches between Stiles and the edge of the stump.
“What are you doing now?” Noah asks as Peter gently picks up Stiles’s wrist. Peter takes a deep breath as he settles the dagger over Stiles’s wrist.
“The blood from the rune on his back will activate it, but without a heartbeat pumping the blood through his veins, he’ll bleed out too slowly for the ritual. We need a bit more from him for this to work. This way, gravity will assist.” Peter carefully slides the dagger in a line across Stiles’s wrist and hangs his hand over the side to drip onto the roots.
Peter settles back into his spot, sitting cross-legged across from Noah. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, taking a moment to recenter himself and let the sick feeling roiling in his stomach fade. Even in death and knowing the purpose for it, it feels intrinsically wrong to cause such harm to his mate’s body.
Noah doesn’t let him rest for long, impatient to get on with the next step so they can finish the ritual.
“What now?” Peter huffs and reopens his eyes.
“Just one more rune and your blood to activate it,” Peter assures him.
“Huh,” Noah tilts his head, his emotions calming as his expression slips into something more contemplative. “You know, I thought something like this would have, I dunno, more steps to it or something.” Peter snorts.
“You didn’t see all the steps that led up to this part. I’ve been preparing for this for years. It wasn’t easy learning and memorizing all these different runes and their exact placement, you know. And it’s not just the steps, it’s the circumstances. Thankfully Stiles isn’t a wolf, so we don’t have to factor in the moon phases and getting the right amount of moonlight.”
Though, if Stiles had been a wolf they wouldn’t be in this situation to begin with.
Peter shakes off that thought. He won’t go down that road, won’t get lost in what ifs.
“And the ritual requires a Nemeton,” Peter adds, carefully carving the last rune into the very center of the stump. “There are only eight of them in the world. Even if you know where one is, they tend not to be found unless they want to be. We just so happen to have one practically in our backyard, and for some reason it seems to like Stiles.” The stump seems to hum beneath him in agreement.
“I don’t know how I feel about a tree liking my son,” Noah mutters. Peter gets the impression of the Nemeton bristling in offense, and snorts.
“Here,” Peter sets an ornate goblet over top of the freshly carved rune and passes the dagger to Noah. The design of the goblet is very similar to the dagger, a matched set. “Fill it just under halfway. The goblet isn’t technically necessary, but it allows us to better measure the amount of blood being used than just letting it drip freely onto the wood. And be careful where you cut, it’s incredibly sharp and we don’t want you to bleed out.”
“Because we don’t want me to bleed out, or because me bleeding out would disrupt the ritual?” Noah asks mildly, watching his blood fall into the cup.
“Both,” Peter says dryly. “The more blood powering the ritual, the further back you go. A complete human sacrifice paired with enough blood from the caster can send you back up to a full year. We don’t want to go that far. There’s no point in me going back if I’m just going to be in a coma or feral, and who knows what would happen if we went back to a time where I was technically dead. As tempting as it is to go further, we need to aim for before Stiles was hurt but after my resurrection. That gives us a window of about a week.”
Watching Noah’s blood reach the line they wanted, Peter pulls a strip of cloth out of his bag and wraps it around Noah’s wound before he pulls it away so none of it drops on the Nemeton before they’re ready. Then they sit there silently, staring at the goblet.
The weight of what they’re doing fully settles on them then, and Noah swallows hard. He looks at his son, at how Stiles’s skin is drained of all colour and lacking all the vibrant life and energy that usually emanated from him. He turns back to Peter with a firm, resolved expression.
“Let’s do this.” Peter nods in return and carefully lifts the goblet, holding it above the rune.
He meets Noah’s eyes over top the goblet, seeing the same steely, grim determination and hope that he’s feeling reflected in them. The Nemeton buzzes beneath them in anticipation.
“Here goes nothing,” Peter says.
He tips his hand.
Peter wakes with a gasp, jerking upright in bed and clutching at his bedsheets with clawed hands.
Eyes wide and hardly daring to hope, Peter takes stock of the situation.
He’s in his apartment. It’s daytime, sunlight streaming through his windows and the average sounds of a city of people going about their days floats to his ears. The pain in his chest where his bonds are anchored is no longer the all-consuming searing black hole of despair it had been since he’d heard Stiles’s heart stop. It’s back to the same dull ache he’d grown used to.
He can feel his matebond.
Peter vaults out of bed, throwing on the first clothes he can find before rushing for the door.
He can worry about the possible consequences of time travel later. For now, he has a mate to go find.