Chapter Text
Being in Perpetual is a continual lesson in the unexpected. The Ajatar, with her regal mien, following of loyal deer women, never removing her horned mask, rules a small empire in the Cascades from her home office and boardroom. Peter remembers negotiations and treatises between packs being weeks long affairs growing up, all the logistics that came with having another pack on their land.
Now, they’re seated around a dark-stained walnut boardroom table, with pastries from Control the Spice and a coffee station along the far wall. The deer woman who gored Deaton, Sandy, idly taps away at her laptop while they wait for the video call to connect.
Cora is slumped back in her chair, a pose Peter knows to be calculated indifference, while Derek sits between them, spine straight and jaw clenched. He squeezes his nephew’s shoulder and feels him relax a fraction, although Derek continues to stare at the painting of the Orion constellation on the opposite wall, rather than the large screen at the end of the table.
Talia looks... terrible, quite frankly. Peter is shocked at the state of her, the dark bags under her eyes, the slight tremor in her hands. He can see her trying to pull it together, to channel the carefully crafted Alpha persona he loathes. He tilts his head, attentive, as her gaze roves over her children, hungrily taking them in, searching for some sign of affection.
She’ll be searching for a while. Cora and Derek both bristle under control, and what she and Deaton attempted is unforgiveable.
“I am the Ajatar. Mistress of the Perpetual forest, of the Skagit Range. Here with me is Tabitha Achebe, elder of our coven, and Peter Hale, alpha of our pack.”
Tabitha inclines her head at the introduction, but her face is otherwise blank. Aggie sits to her left, uncharacteristically stoic and clad entirely in clotted blood red.
Talia takes a shaky breath in, “I’m sorry we’re meeting under these circumstances. Before we begin, I’d like to have a word with my brother, with my children.”
Cora’s frown deepens while Derek’s jaw ticks. Peter can feel Stiles worrying for them from across the table, and the dark looks on Tabitha and Aggie’s faces could blot out the sky.
Peter’s not made of stone. A (very small) part of him feels pity for his sister. Then he thinks about how she was willing to let him sink into catatonia simply because she couldn’t accept him as another alpha in the territory. “We’ve elected to have the Ajatar speak on all matters relating to Deaton’s transgressions, Talia. Say whatever it is you want to say, but we’re here at her leisure, not your convenience or to soothe your delayed bout of conscience.”
Talia, somehow, looks even more devastated. The Ajatar looks pleased, though, and Stiles looks slightly less ready to go to war. Again.
“You are aware, I’m sure, of your former emissary’s trespass onto our land. Although his death was inevitable, we do recognize it was a loss to you, and as such request no compensation. You will face enough difficulties without an emissary, or any blessing from a Nemeton on your land. But you and your pack are no friends of ours. You are not welcome here, ever. And we will not keep your secrets from any tribunal or council that enquires, niin metsä vastaa, kuin sinne huudetaan.”
The edge of Stiles’ mouth lifts in a faint smirk, and Peter makes a note to order in some Finnish language books to the shop.
“We will send along his effects, of course, should you wish to honour his passing. There is nothing left of his remains.”
“Peter, Derek, Cora. I am, I am sorry that it ever came to this. I didn’t, I just wanted us to stay happy, like we were.” Talia’s broken voice should stir something other than rage inside of Peter, but he feels it simmering just below the surface, that she still won’t truly own her wrongs.
The Ajatar lets her finish, eyes impassive beneath her mask, before speaking once more, “I would advise you, Alpha Hale, to consider whether you speak of your pack’s happiness, or solely your own. Something to bear in mind, for the future. We are finished, now. Please send any further items to Sandy.” With a gesture to the deer woman, the call is ended.
As soon as the screen goes blank, Derek is up and angrily tearing into pastries. Peter figures stress eating isn’t the worst way to deal with this shitshow, and awkwardly pats his nephew on the back.
When he looks over, he sees Stiles and the witches bracketing Cora, talking in low tones. He’s so absorbed, he doesn’t realize the Ajatar has approached until she’s right beside him.
“Take care of your little mate, there, yes? He’s a fine one. Good with your pups. I would see him well-settled, he’s more fun to toy with that way.”
Derek chokes a surprised laugh around an almond danish, and Peter doesn’t fight a blush at all.
Possibly competing with the earlier Forest House potluck, the Ajatar has invited the whole town to her yard to celebrate their victory. Stiles drags a handsome couple over, introducing Jackson and Ethan to the Hales. Cora quickly starts grilling them on news from home. She doesn’t want to go back, but yes, yes she would like to hear about how Talia and Laura struggled to cope after they left.
Peter thinks Derek might be striking something up with the florist Oread, until he overhears their conversation and realizes they’re just talking about... compost teabags. He shrugs, as long as his nephew is happy, it’s fine if his most significant relationship outside of family is with Toasty the ghost.
Isaac, Erica, and Boyd are quickly drawn into the gossip Jackson is gleefully sharing, and Stiles whispers to Peter that he’s never letting them meet Lydia and Danny, “They would take over this town with their combined sass, you know? No one would ever respect me again.”
The swan maidens and yōkai hit the wine, hard, and grow increasingly more bawdy as the night wears on. Peter hears Jiaying and Aggie comparing notes on his... assets, and decides it’s time for him to see if Stiles would enjoy a quiet exit from the festivities.
They wander through the woods. The nights are colder now, summer truly over, but the fireflies still linger in the trees, lighting their way. Peter follows where Stiles leads, feeling the Nemeton pulse contentedly in the back of his mind. They end up on the same flat rock by the silver birch-lined pond.
Stiles leans once more against Peter’s warmth. “You ever feel like you’re trying so hard to hold onto something, and it’s just slipping through your fingers like smoke?”
Peter aches with understanding, “Yes, all my life.”
Stiles takes in the edge of his profile, trying to memorize every bit of Peter, the angles and textures, the smell of his skin. He has one hand on Peter’s thigh, and the other gripped tightly around his pendant. “I’m not good at letting go. I can’t... I won’t lose you.”
Peter’s eyes are embers in the dark, “Sweetheart, what makes you think I would ever let you?”
Stars slowly light up the sky, as Peter teases his tongue across Stiles’ lower lip, turning quickly into a deep, filthy kiss. He kisses away the gasp that follows, as sparks from Stiles’ fingertips trail down the rock, dying as soon as they hit the clear water below.