The shape of you, here and now
Birthday fic for you @ladypigswagon. I know, I know. I’m really late, sorry T.T.
Stiles sees things he shouldn’t, dreams things that are impossible, that will never happen, things that he thinks could happen but don’t.
He sees his mother proud at his graduation from UCLA (NYU, Harvard, Yale, many others), disappointed when he chooses to not go to college at all and just travel around, interned and hateful, gone. Sees his dad healthy, sick, proud, disappointed, angry, happy, gone. He sees them still married, divorced, with other people, mourning. Sometimes he doesn’t see them at all.
Every time he dreams, he finds himself immersed in a world that is his but at the same time not. Sometimes he has siblings, sometimes he hasn’t; Sometimes he’s popular, sometimes he’s not; Sometimes he’s young, sometimes he’s old; Sometimes he’s innocent and naive, sometimes he’s jaded and amoral.
He’s human, a vampire, a fae, a merman, a fallen angel, a mage, a werewolf and other creatures he doesn’t have a name for. He’s a student, a thief, a lawyer, a policeman, an assassin, a secret agent, a doctor, a hacker and many, many other things and sometimes he’s nothing at all. He’s gay, bi, het, trans, ace, aro, non binary; he’s divorced, married, single, dating or none of those.
But whatever Stiles is, there’s always one thing that never fails to be there with him in one capacity or another, and that invariably makes his life better in some way: Him.
Sometimes Stiles meets Him as a kid, sometimes as an adult. Sometimes Stiles is the adult and He is the child. Sometimes they’re both adults, sometimes they’re both children. Sometimes Stiles needs help, sometimes it’s the other way round. Sometimes neither of them needs help, sometimes both of them need it. Sometimes they’re dating, sometimes they’re married, sometimes they’re friends. Sometimes He takes Stiles in, sometimes Stiles raises Him.
But whatever -wherever, however, whoever- Stiles is and whatever -wherever, however, whoever- He is, they always love each other in one way or another.
Which is why when one morning Stiles -ten year old school boy, unpopular, still unsure about his sexuality but very sure of being a he, dead mother, alive-alcoholic-workaholic-mourning father, he reminds himself because sometimes he can’t remember who exactly he is when he has just been a could have been- wakes up to a newspaper with a front page about a fire with His face on it as the only survivor of those inside the house, he doesn’t even think twice about getting to the hospital and sneaking inside.
Peter. His name is Peter Hale.
The moment he manages to catch sight of Him, the dreams stop and Stiles doesn’t see things that he shouldn’t anymore.
(He doesn’t know how to feel about that.)
Stiles wonders if his Peter is something else. He’s seen him as a trickster, a vampire, a demon, a merman, a fallen angel and many things more, but more often than not, he was either human or a werewolf. It’s not that he particularly cares (Peter is his whichever the form or shape he comes in), but it would be really convenient if he was some type of being that had accelerated healing.
Stiles looks at Peter’s scarred face thoughtfully. It’s not that he cares about his appearance (for all he minds, he could be completely disfigured or mangled, he has been before… Stiles has been too), it’s that he he knows that it will be difficult for him and a constant reminder of what happened when he wakes up and plastic surgery only does so much.
And wake up he will no matter what the doctors say. Whether it is because of his dreams or because he has some kind of precognitive ability, he can’t tell, but Stiles just knows.
Something chimes at the end of the hallway and unconsciously he looks at the clock. He sighs sadly at what he sees. He hid inside a toilet until night came to be able to stay after visit hours because his dad has a night shift today and won’t notice him gone. However, if he wants to make it home before Stilinski senior does, he has to go now.
“See you later, Peter,” he murmurs before letting go of the man’s lax hand and slipping out.
Stiles wonders if all those other Stileses were real, if they too dreamt about him before finding their Peter.
(He misses it. Did they miss it too afterwards?)
Every day, at one point or another, Stiles makes his way to the hospital. Sometimes before school, sometimes right after, sometimes at night, but every single day without fail because he lives in fear of Peter waking up and finding himself alone.
Sometimes Stiles reads to him. He tries things that he thinks Peter would find interesting, things that other Peters liked, things that have words he struggles to pronounce and whose meaning he has to look up later to understand.
Sometimes he sings to him. He hums popular songs that he likes, lullabies that used to calm him as a little kid before everything changed, tunes that he comes up with on the spot.
Sometimes he talks to him about anything and everything. His dreams, his dad, his mother, his classes, what he likes, what he doesn’t, what he wishes that could be.
Sometimes he just sits there and holds Peter’s hand.
Peter finally wakes up at nearly 3am on the 24th of August. The man eyes him blank-faced and Stiles isn’t sure if he’s actually seeing him. He holds his breath, hoping that he recognizes him, that he has been seeing, dreaming things like Stiles. The moment is broken, though, when Stiles has to hide under the bed when a nurse appears and then has to beat a hasty retreat before the doctor on call comes too and finds the sheriff’s son where he shouldn’t be with a person he shouldn’t even know to begin with.
Back at home, he can’t sleep. He tosses and turns again and again until it’s a normal enough hour to justify being up on his summer vacation. Then he makes an excuse about seeing some friends that he doesn’t have and rushes to the hospital again.
He enters the room tentatively and finds Peter sitting in a wheelchair just by the open window. He veritably shakes with nerves, his heart jackrabitting in his chest so loud that he bets that even if his Peter is fully human, he can hear it.
Peter’s eyes are closed like many times before when Stiles stops by his side and his heart thunders even more, feeling a wet and cold sensation taking over him. No. Nononono.
“Peter?” he whimpers and gets no response. “Peter?” he tries again, desperate, and nothing.
Big fat tears slide down his cheeks as he shakes violently, trying to keep himself from sobbing out loud and attracting unwanted attention. It’s ok, he tells himself as he wipes his face, it’s ok. This changes nothing. He bites his lip and then takes deep shuddering breaths, hugging himself until he feels he can contain himself. Then, he takes off his packpack to take out Birdsong, by Sebastian Faulks, which is the book he has been reading to Peter this week. As he does so, he reaches to squeeze his hand before starting to read.
“I know. I was there. I saw the great void in your soul, and you saw-”
“While I appreciate the effort, I hate that book,” a very raspy voice says and Stiles lets out a startled eep, said book flying forward and going out the window before he can stop it.
Stiles turns around in his seat very slowly, too scared to be hopeful. He’s greeted by the sight of a Peter that is fighting to keep awake, his eyes nearly half-lidded. Stiles swallows thickly, trying to remind himself that just because he is Peter’s, it doesn’t mean that Peter is Stiles’ yet, that he can’t just throw himself at the man and never let go.
“Well, it’s good that the possibility of continuing that just flew out the window then,” he pipes and Peter’s lips tug upwards minutely. “Hi, Peter.”