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Stiles looks down at the new line on his forearm and sighs. This one won't be a long wait, at least.
You're so beautiful, I wish we had more time.
He doesn't even get to say any words back, collapsing into the dirt, bleeding out from a bullet to the spine, outside of the burning Hale house. His eyes meet his soulmate’s as the light fades from them both.
No, this one wasn't a long wait at all.
The north end of Beacon Hills is largely recognized as the part of town where businesses go to die. It’s full of fading signs and hidden treasures. There’s a seamstress that’s been there for as long as anyone can remember, the only decent locksmith and shoe repair in town, along with the worst diner Peter’s ever had the misfortune of almost eating in. So it’s odd when a very modern and minimalist coffee shop opens up between said decent locksmith and a shipping supplies depot.
The hanging sign out front just says “COFFEE BAR” with a simple drawing of a cup. Leaning in, Peter huffs out an amused little laugh as he reads the menu in the window:
- Coffee S / M / L
- Espresso
- That’s it
A customer exits with a full cardboard drink carrier, and the scent is heavenly, enough to get Peter wandering in while he waits for the heels on his Chelsea boots to be repaired next door.
Inside of the coffee shop is just as minimal as out. The walls are white brick, with a long oak bench along one side and a stainless steel counter on the other. Behind the counter sits an R9 espresso machine and a stack of matte ceramic cups beside a large, industrial sink. Peter is drawn to the small space’s sole adornment, a stunning reproduction of Rothko’s No. 3 hanging over the sink beside the cups. Nothing about the shop is expected, in particular the calm that overcomes him the longer he stands there.
He's pulled from his reverie by the sound of more ceramic cups being placed on the counter, and looks away from the painting to the most beautiful, haunted eyes he’s ever seen. His breath catches in his throat and his wrist burns.
He blinks, the man has his entire forearm wrapped, rather than just the typical wristband for a soulmark. Something about him pulls at Peter, his scent, the weight in his gaze.
“Do I know you?”
The barista smiles, and it’s so incredibly sad, Peter feels like his heart is trapped in a vice.
“God, I hope so, Peter.”
Most people get their soulmarks between the ages of 18 and 30. Stiles always gets his early. He has lived through twelve marks, had a dozen 18th birthdays, died again and again. He’s watched the life leech out of his soulmate nine times, he’s not sure if those were better or worse than the distant pain and loss of the other three. Peter Hale will not die again in his arms. Stiles has paid in blood and he will have his or burn the world trying.
It's not as hard as it should be to establish himself in Beacon Hills. He shows up out of the blue, knows he’s shady as fuck, but people don’t seem to bat an eyelash. Maybe his shitty luck is finally turning around. When he woke up this time, words cutting into his skin, the world was one he hadn’t experienced before. He’s 26, filled to the brim with magic.
He grew up a couple hours outside of Beacon Hills, his mom survived long enough to begin his training, to read his dad into the supernatural. Stiles apparently spent years travelling and making connections rather than going to college or getting a job. His dad manages a gun range, and as he scans his new memories, he’s relived to see that they’re both more than capable of defending themselves, and huh. Looks like shooting ranges are more lucrative than policing, and Stiles’ own charms and runecraft are easy money. He’s woken up with the world at his fingertips.
The urge to just run to Peter is strong, but Stiles isn’t planning on fucking lucky life number thirteen up. He knows he doesn’t have much time before they meet, he never does. So he multitasks. The first time he found out about the Hale fire, he got caught up in Peter’s revenge. They both burned, in the end. After a few more short lifetimes, it became clear that some things are just immutable. Stiles needs to focus on the elements that he can control. He rents an empty storefront in the quietest part of town. Other than crafting magic items, his list of marketable skills is short. Well, he can make a mean black coffee.
The shop is as nondescript as he can reasonably make it. Worse comes to worse, people will dismiss it as hipster BS. It provides the perfect cover for him to research what he’s up against. He’s dismayed that he ends up developing a somewhat faithful clientele. Were there always this many hipsters and coffee snobs in town…?
While he doesn’t have any official resources, Stiles’ network of sketchy supernaturals is vast. He reaches out for information about the Hales, the Argents, Deaton, the Nemeton, all of Beacon Hills. It’s always jarring when his memories start to merge, difficult to tell what’s from this lifetime or the last (or the first, the second, the seventh…). He sighs in relief when he sees Laura Hale is still alive, he doesn’t think he could go through that aftermath again.
“You must be Stiles.”
It’s not just his life that’s changed, this world really is different. Gerard is dead. Kate’s in prison. Stiles laughs so hard he cries when he sees the laundry list of convictions, no chance of parole. Then he just cries. Jesus, he needs this to work. He’s so tired, and he doesn’t entirely understand why he keeps coming back. Is it a curse? Sheer spite? If he doesn’t think about it, he can keep ignoring that particular fuckery and focus on the fraying threads of his sanity.
God, he just wants to sleep. Wants to curl up in Peter’s warmth, hide with his wolf and not come out for days.
Instead, he keeps researching. Laura’s pack is small, missing some of the regulars, consisting of Derek, Cora, Jordan, Isaac, and Peter. Deaton still serving as emissary, that might be a problem. Stiles used to miss his friends, but now his single-mindedness borders on ruthless. It’s easier, being able to just concentrate on a select few. Honestly, he just wants Peter.
This Laura is a lawyer, home from school when the fire happened. That explains why they went the legal route against the Argents, probably what pulled Jordan and Isaac in with the pack as well.
Stiles still struggles with Laura. He knows she’s (usually) a good alpha, doing her best with the hands she’s dealt, but that doesn’t always work out in Stiles’ favour.
“What do you mean, you’re leaving? That’s my son’s soulmate! He’ll never heal without him!”
His dad is staring at Laura Hale with a mixture of disbelief and hopelessness. Stiles isn’t sure any of them are aware he’s awake, until Derek turns guilty eyes his way for a fraction of a second before they return to the worn, linoleum floor of the hospital room.
Laura squares her shoulders, chin raised.
“I have to do what’s best for my family, I’m sorry. I—”
Noah runs a hand roughly through his hair and lets out a short, bitter laugh.
“How is this best for Peter? What do you think will happen to him to be torn away from Stiles so soon after they’ve bonded?”
Laura and Derek leave with more empty, whispered apologies. They don’t even make it out of the state before Peter and Stiles both die. Cardiac arrest from early bond separation.
Stiles rubs at his eyes and tries to figure out his play here. He could introduce himself to the pack, try to control the narrative, but that doesn’t feel right. Laying back on the sofa in the little apartment above the shop, he stares at the swirls on the ceiling. He doesn’t want to share Peter with the pack, he wants to be selfish. Drifting asleep, Stiles thinks if anyone understands mercenary selfishness, it’d be Peter.
When he wakes, the world feels tilted on its axis. He sighs, pulling the compression sleeve that serves as his soulwrap tight, he’s run out of time.
It’s like electricity in the air, crackling down his throat and into his lungs, when Peter walks in. Stiles will never get used to the feeling. And god, he just can’t shake that creeping anguish when their eyes meet. He just wants to hope, he just wants so badly Peter to remember.
“Do I know you?”
Jesus. Fuck. Stiles hopes.
Peter learned early on not to talk about his nightmares. They felt so real, visions of past lives, each ending in heartbreak, leaving him in bedsheets covered in cold sweat and misery.
He kept them to himself, trying to find an explanation or answer until he’s fresh out of options and tired of hitting walls. Finally, he went to the only resource he had at the time.
His mother’s emissary was a hedgewitch, Émilie. Blind in one eye, with a bad-tempered old cat that hung off her shoulders. When his nightly visions became too much, he went to her and she held his wrist tight, missing sight seeing right through him.
“You keep these to yourself, Peter. Some day I’ll be gone, old Nicolete feasting on my bones, and there are those who will try to sacrifice your happiness for harmony.” Her nails dug into his skin, while Nicolete growled and chewed on her lace shawl.
“Forget harmony, to hell with balance, mon chou. You live for yourself and your mate.”
Then she dropped his wrist, already forgetting him, staring at the house and muttering to herself.
“Not everything is, mm, indélébile, Nicolete. No. Some things are. Just so terribly sad. Let’s get you your lunch now, hm? Good good, yes.”
So Peter didn’t talk about his dreams, but they also didn’t stop. Fantasies of a golden-eyed man, achingly beautiful. Someone meant for Peter alone, even if neither of them were meant for the lives they were living. He sees the fire again and again, sometimes Laura and Derek don’t take Cora with them that evening, in others they don’t come back on time to pull him out, in one, they don’t come back at all.
The visions brush up against his waking reality like crashing waves. And when he meets the man of his literal dreams, he can’t help but reach out to touch. His fingertips graze the man’s cheek and suddenly he’s drowning.
“Oh, shit! Peter!”
He crumples to the floor to the sight of—Stiles, Stiles, his name is Stiles—his soulmate rushing around the counter.
When he opens his eyes again, it’s to Stiles’ worried face, warring between hopeful and heartbroken. Peter reels under the assault of memories, while Stiles holds his hand tight and runs soothing fingers through his hair. The vulnerability is mortifying, and Peter attempts a smirk. When he opens his mouth to remind Stiles of his fine wit, he ends up vomiting in a garbage bin beside the sofa instead.
Completely unphased, and apparently prepared, Stiles reaches back to get a glass of water and tissues from the coffee table beside them.
“The memories coming back always sucks. You, uh, the memories did come back, right? You remember?”
Peter takes the glass from Stiles, before it shatters in his white-knuckled grip.
“Breathe, sweetheart.”
Stiles shakes his head, whole body trembling. “I can’t do this again if you don’t remember. God, don’t make me do this alone.”
He goes easy, when Peter pulls him into his arms. Stiles doesn’t look back as he waves a hand, banishing the acrid-smelling garbage bin, and inhales deeply into Peter’s neck.
“I remember it all.” He squeezes a bicep. “You’re looking more mature. Maybe this time I can call you ‘Daddy’. That was a good lifetime, if a short one.”
Stiles snorts out an incredulous laugh, “Fuck, I missed you so much.”
Then Peter holds him while he cries and cries.
Once Stiles is all cried out, he gives Peter one of his hoodies to replace the dress shirt covered in tears and as Stiles laments, Dude, so much snot.
Eventually his arms are empty, as Stiles sniffles his way to the apartment’s small kitchen to make them more coffee. Peter watches him thoughtfully, taking in the details of the suite. It’s much cozier than the shop downstairs. Stiles clearly hasn’t been here long, but there are more prints on the wall. He grins, wide and genuine, seeing Mary Pratt’s Service Station, among them. In one lifetime, it was Stiles’ choice for Peter’s own collection. Talia loathed it.
He continues to catalogue the few belongings before raising his eyebrows at the Appartamento machine on the counter.
“What exactly do you do here that you can afford fifteen thousand dollars worth of espresso machines? You know I love luxury, but,” he pauses, reviewing his memories, new and old. Moon, that will take some getting used to, “I can’t help but recall your preference for clearance section plaid and dollar menu burgers.”
Stiles snickers while he finishes the lattes. “See if I treat you to another McGriddle anytime soon.”
He hands Peter his drink, blowing on his own a little while sneaking sly peeks over the rim of the cup.
Peter’s tone is dry as the desert, but his eyeroll fond. “I appreciate your commitment to realism in latte art.” There’s a creamy dick floating in his drink, complete with hairs on the foamy balls. He takes a sip and frowns, no wonder the shop is a reluctant success, if everything Stiles makes is this good.
He looks over at his mate, sitting there with a goofy grin and a little blob of latte froth on the tip of his nose.
They have so much to discuss, a future to plan, lifetimes of memories to untangle. Émilie’s words stay with him, he’s got a life to live for himself and his mate.
There’s work ahead, but for the present, he settles for licking the foam off of Stiles’ face, and pulling his flailing love in for a deep kiss.