Live In Your Arms (Steter)

Chapter One

Authors Note: I'm publishing Chapter One as a preview, but chapters two through twenty-one will be published in the summer. If you want to read them as I upload them, they are available on AO3 under my handle Rainy182. Trigger tags (as were used on AO3): Greif/Mourning, anger, childhood trauma, implied/referenced child abuse, suicidal Stiles, suicidal Peter Hale, soulmates, toxic relationship, 17-year-old Stiles, no smut, hallucinations, sick Peter Hale, POV alternating, angst and hurt/comfort, main character death

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The funeral was a quiet affair. It was early December but the temperature in Beacon Hills had already given way to winter, causing the lingering rain to turn into sleet that further melted on Peter Hale's warm skin. He added this moment to the growing pile of resentment he had for being a werewolf. He wanted to feel the cold set into his skin, and he wanted to finally be physically numb to match the internal lack of emotion he had been feeling for the past month. Instead, Peter was standing high above the funeral pyre – upwind away from keen noses – warm. Alive.

While his sister, his former Alpha, Talia Hale was dead.

It had only taken twenty-four hours for the adrenaline to wear off and the grief to set in after he had killed Talia. For Cora's words – "Because now you have Stiles. The pack be damned. But now I don't have a Mother." – to resurface and sink into his brain. Peter had found himself unable to look Stiles in the eye for the following week that it had taken them to get to Spokane, Washington. A burning anger, both at his soulmate and himself had begun to boil underneath his skin the longer he had time to think about his actions.

Peter was angry at himself for not trying to subdue Talia first. He was angry at Stiles for putting him in a position where he had to choose between his pack and his soulmate. He was angry at Talia for her manipulations and violence. Peter Hale was filled with anger that hadn't cooled even after he had relinquished the Hale Alpha Spark to Laura a week ago.

Yet, he told Stiles that he had business in Arizona. Yet, he bought a plane ticket and rented a truck to drive to California. Yet, he still paid for a night at a motel on the edge of Beacon Hills. Yet, Peter Hale stands on top of a hill watching his sister's body be lowered into the ground. He cried and he wished once again that he could feel the bonds of the Hale Pack; that he could lean on someone who understood the complicated feelings of betrayal and anger and love and grief he felt towards his sister.

The funeral stopped when the last ember was finally extinguished by the rain. The mass of people broke away into their respective packs and groups. Peter knew from experience that the after-funeral reception would be closed to just family and pack. Morbidly, he wondered if he would be allowed in or if they immediately would kill him for what he did. He could see it in his mind's eye: Laura's eyes would flash red, and she would roar as she slashed his throat the same way he did her mother's. The pack would watch silently, but as he lay dying, they each would approach him and add a single cut to his body. Symbolic of the entire pack forsaking him and taking revenge for his hand in their destabilization.

His phone ringing broke Peter away from his thoughts. As he saw that it was Stiles, Peter was distantly glad he moved far enough away not to be seen or heard, then after a few rings he picked up the call.

"Stiles," Peter said. There was a pause after his greeting as if Stiles hadn't expected him to pick up the phone, as if he was expecting something different from the call.

"Peter," Stiles said, another pause, "How is Phoenix?"

"Hot...a little dry," Peter replied. Peter had begun to move further away from the funeral and back towards the car that he had parked several miles up away. The funeral was essentially over and whatever he had come to find, Peter now realized that it had been gone long before Talia was put into the ground.