Ficlet: Alive
Author: laraF laraflame
Title: Alive
Rating: PG-13
Pairing/s: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski, mention of Peter Hale/OMC
Character/s: Peter Hale, Talia Hale, Alan Deaton, Cora Hale, Derek Hale, Laura Hale
Summary: Talia never believed in mates, and she didn’t save Pete’s when he was dying. Ten years later Peter is an empty working machine, Cora is scheming, Derek is breaking and Talia has to think about his former decisions. That Peter meets with Stiles after his ritual of visiting his mate’s grave is a complete coincidence. If someone believes in coincidences of course.
Warnings: none
Content Notes: character death, a little blood but nothing overly detailed, ANGST, like seriously - so much angst, slow build, wip, Mate-verse
Submission Type: Ficlet
Word Count: 958
Prompt: #196 - Desperate
Author's Notes: So, this is going to be a longer slow build one and eventually a bittersweet Steter.
The night was bright, the fat full moon bathing the forests around Beacon Hills in red-ish yellow light. The sound of dry leaves crumbling under heavy steps broke the eerie silence. A slumped creature run with incredible speed bypassing branches effortlessly. He’s ragged breathing caused white puffs of crispy air flying towards the sky. A lump figure lay in his arms.
“Talia! Talia!” The figure reached a clearing where three other people waited, the woman exuding such power that her company stood back in reverence. He stopped right in font of the woman and lifted up his precious burden. The young man he held was unnaturally pale with nasty gashes on his handsome face. His golden hair stuck to his head in messy locks. Blood. Crimson stains blossomed all over him like cruelly beautiful flowers.
“Bite him!”came the commanding snarl.
The woman glanced at the boy. For a minute it seemed like infinite sadness flickered in her eyes but when she looked up again her whole face was an unemotional mask.
“He never wanted to be like us. You know this.”
“I don’t care! Just heal him!”
“I can’t, brother.”
“You’re the only one who can!” the man shouted desperately. “Please, I beg you! Please!”
“No, Peter.”
Peter sank to his knees. His tears shone like silver pearls.
“I beg you, sister!”
The black man on Talia’s left looked away in mild discomfort.
“He wouldn’t want to live as a werewolf, Peter” the other man said quietly.
“It doesn’t matter!” Peter roared. With trembling hands he laid the boy down on the dying grass and started fussing with his torn clothes. “At least he’d live. Stay with me, you hear me? Hold on, my dear” he muttered shakily. The veins in his hands which had been inky black until that point started to fade into gray.
Talia took a step closer and crouched down. Her delicate hand hovered over the boy. Her brother didn’t seem to notice. He stared at his own hands, at the disappearing grayness with horror.
“He’s not breathing. He’s not breathing! Bite him, for God’s sake! Do it!” Peter screamed. Helplessly. Hopelessly.
Three of them heard the last weak beat of a human heart. The black man discreetly looked at his watch. Then an agonized howl tore up the peaceful dawn.
*
Peter Hale hasn’t really slept since the night his mate died. That was ten years ago. After he attacked Talia but her husband and Deaton, that sorry excuse of a human being held him down and injected him with a strong sedative serum. Their emissary used that to put down rabid dogs.
When he woke up he was in the house and Talia’s first words burnt something out of his soul:
“Alan destroyed his body but I already made the necessary steps to arrange a proper burial. It’s going to be on Sunday.”
He hated weekends ever since. He moved to the other side of the states, to New York, became a killer attorney and made history with being the youngest lawyer establishing his very own firm. His life consisted of work, drinking and even more work. He owned an impressive penthouse which looked like an exhibition model for a posh magazine. It was all for show - most of the time he slept in the office or wandered from bar to bar always flirting but never taking anyone. His life was just like his flat - empty, soulless, cold.
*
The Hale family came together for the weekend to eat and be infuriating with each other. Again.
Cora Hale loved nothing more than to wreak havoc and make all his aunts cry because of her irreparable boyishness but today she felt almost as morose as Derek. The Hales and all of their associates basically swarmed her huge home. People and werewolves were everywhere and she was certain that the noise they made could be heard from outer space but she couldn’t help herself. It still felt wrong and hollow. She missed her Uncle Peter and his boyfriend.
The biggest taboo among Hales.
Her mother forbade them to ask about those two.
That’s why she brought it up in the middle of the main dish.
“Lasagne was Uncle Peter’s favorite.”
The effect was quite the sight. Her mother dropped her fork and her eyes widened ridiculously, her father pushed back his chair like the devil materialized in his face and her aunts and uncles started to shout confusedly and choke on their mouthful of food. Laura buried her face in her hands while Derek grabbed a bottle of wine from the center of the table and tried to drink himself delirious. Cora felt his pain. Uncle Peter was even closer to the gruff teen then to her but in this exact moment that fact didn’t bother her. She suddenly lost her appetite and stood up just when her mother succeeded in calming down the various Hales.
“Cora.”
“It’s not fair, mother. That you treat him like he doesn’t even exist.” Bitterness creeped into her voice unbidden. “At least tell us, why? What did he do? What happened to Josh?” she shouted. Angry tears threatened to fall down from her eyes but she couldn’t be careless.
“Cora!” Red eyes reigned in the present wolves. Cora seethed but couldn’t fight the power of her alpha.
And that was when Derek proved his inner strength and walked out from the room with an ashen face and trembling mouth.
*
At the same time in Beacon Hills’s cemetery a lone figure placed a single white rose on a tomb.
Joshua Walker
1980-2001.
The good die first.
Peter hated that line.
To be continued…
Title: Alive
Rating: PG-13
Pairing/s: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski, mention of Peter Hale/OMC
Character/s: Peter Hale, Talia Hale, Alan Deaton, Cora Hale, Derek Hale, Laura Hale
Summary: Talia never believed in mates, and she didn’t save Pete’s when he was dying. Ten years later Peter is an empty working machine, Cora is scheming, Derek is breaking and Talia has to think about his former decisions. That Peter meets with Stiles after his ritual of visiting his mate’s grave is a complete coincidence. If someone believes in coincidences of course.
Warnings: none
Content Notes: character death, a little blood but nothing overly detailed, ANGST, like seriously - so much angst, slow build, wip, Mate-verse
Submission Type: Ficlet
Word Count: 958
Prompt: #196 - Desperate
Author's Notes: So, this is going to be a longer slow build one and eventually a bittersweet Steter.
The night was bright, the fat full moon bathing the forests around Beacon Hills in red-ish yellow light. The sound of dry leaves crumbling under heavy steps broke the eerie silence. A slumped creature run with incredible speed bypassing branches effortlessly. He’s ragged breathing caused white puffs of crispy air flying towards the sky. A lump figure lay in his arms.
“Talia! Talia!” The figure reached a clearing where three other people waited, the woman exuding such power that her company stood back in reverence. He stopped right in font of the woman and lifted up his precious burden. The young man he held was unnaturally pale with nasty gashes on his handsome face. His golden hair stuck to his head in messy locks. Blood. Crimson stains blossomed all over him like cruelly beautiful flowers.
“Bite him!”came the commanding snarl.
The woman glanced at the boy. For a minute it seemed like infinite sadness flickered in her eyes but when she looked up again her whole face was an unemotional mask.
“He never wanted to be like us. You know this.”
“I don’t care! Just heal him!”
“I can’t, brother.”
“You’re the only one who can!” the man shouted desperately. “Please, I beg you! Please!”
“No, Peter.”
Peter sank to his knees. His tears shone like silver pearls.
“I beg you, sister!”
The black man on Talia’s left looked away in mild discomfort.
“He wouldn’t want to live as a werewolf, Peter” the other man said quietly.
“It doesn’t matter!” Peter roared. With trembling hands he laid the boy down on the dying grass and started fussing with his torn clothes. “At least he’d live. Stay with me, you hear me? Hold on, my dear” he muttered shakily. The veins in his hands which had been inky black until that point started to fade into gray.
Talia took a step closer and crouched down. Her delicate hand hovered over the boy. Her brother didn’t seem to notice. He stared at his own hands, at the disappearing grayness with horror.
“He’s not breathing. He’s not breathing! Bite him, for God’s sake! Do it!” Peter screamed. Helplessly. Hopelessly.
Three of them heard the last weak beat of a human heart. The black man discreetly looked at his watch. Then an agonized howl tore up the peaceful dawn.
*
Peter Hale hasn’t really slept since the night his mate died. That was ten years ago. After he attacked Talia but her husband and Deaton, that sorry excuse of a human being held him down and injected him with a strong sedative serum. Their emissary used that to put down rabid dogs.
When he woke up he was in the house and Talia’s first words burnt something out of his soul:
“Alan destroyed his body but I already made the necessary steps to arrange a proper burial. It’s going to be on Sunday.”
He hated weekends ever since. He moved to the other side of the states, to New York, became a killer attorney and made history with being the youngest lawyer establishing his very own firm. His life consisted of work, drinking and even more work. He owned an impressive penthouse which looked like an exhibition model for a posh magazine. It was all for show - most of the time he slept in the office or wandered from bar to bar always flirting but never taking anyone. His life was just like his flat - empty, soulless, cold.
*
The Hale family came together for the weekend to eat and be infuriating with each other. Again.
Cora Hale loved nothing more than to wreak havoc and make all his aunts cry because of her irreparable boyishness but today she felt almost as morose as Derek. The Hales and all of their associates basically swarmed her huge home. People and werewolves were everywhere and she was certain that the noise they made could be heard from outer space but she couldn’t help herself. It still felt wrong and hollow. She missed her Uncle Peter and his boyfriend.
The biggest taboo among Hales.
Her mother forbade them to ask about those two.
That’s why she brought it up in the middle of the main dish.
“Lasagne was Uncle Peter’s favorite.”
The effect was quite the sight. Her mother dropped her fork and her eyes widened ridiculously, her father pushed back his chair like the devil materialized in his face and her aunts and uncles started to shout confusedly and choke on their mouthful of food. Laura buried her face in her hands while Derek grabbed a bottle of wine from the center of the table and tried to drink himself delirious. Cora felt his pain. Uncle Peter was even closer to the gruff teen then to her but in this exact moment that fact didn’t bother her. She suddenly lost her appetite and stood up just when her mother succeeded in calming down the various Hales.
“Cora.”
“It’s not fair, mother. That you treat him like he doesn’t even exist.” Bitterness creeped into her voice unbidden. “At least tell us, why? What did he do? What happened to Josh?” she shouted. Angry tears threatened to fall down from her eyes but she couldn’t be careless.
“Cora!” Red eyes reigned in the present wolves. Cora seethed but couldn’t fight the power of her alpha.
And that was when Derek proved his inner strength and walked out from the room with an ashen face and trembling mouth.
*
At the same time in Beacon Hills’s cemetery a lone figure placed a single white rose on a tomb.
Joshua Walker
1980-2001.
The good die first.
Peter hated that line.
To be continued…