Archive of Our Own ^beta

Pain throbbed through his hand but he stared straight ahead, refused to look down at his hands to see them shaking.

The medication wasn't working anymore, the anti anxiety anti nausea anti depression anti anti anti pills they kept feeding him in the hopes he might somehow find a way to fill the void like Scott, fit back into his own head.

He couldn't forget, couldn't compartmentalize and wall those memories off, didn't even know how to live as a single, contained unit with just his feelings, just his thoughts, just himself, alone.

Argent was handling it better than him, and it was his daughter killed in action. Scott had taken the brunt of it, knew intimately how long brain activity continued after the heart stopped beating, and he was handling it better, already back in the drift without frying his partner's brain or sending him into seizures.

Stiles wasn't sure why he couldn't just get the fuck over it, why they wanted him back, why he wasn't in the medbay on permanent lockdown with the others like him, why he didn't just leave to work as a deputy under his dad or throw himself headfirst into the breach and be done with it.

Booted footsteps scraped on the metal grille of the catwalk before he felt a presence next to him, easily identified by the slight limp. “Hey man. I heard about today.”

Fingers twitched, a thumb scraping over his bruised knuckles as he thought about decking Aiden. “He deserved it.”

“They don't understand.”

And that was one of the many reasons he couldn't sync with Scott anymore, why they couldn't operate a jaeger together no matter how hard Scott willed it. Forgiveness was something they'd split themselves open on, giving and rejecting until it had nearly broken them. It still could. 

“You really need to stop.”

He glared up at his best friend, chewing the inside of his cheek so he didn't blurt out something along the lines of 'fuck you'. It had happened before.

“It wasn't your fault. I'll tell you every day until you finally realize it.” Scott was amazing for exactly that reason, helping even as he was healing. It hadn't worked when his mother died, and it wasn't working now. If anything he just wanted his brother to go away, scared he'd hinder him, rip the wounds back open.

“You think Argent would keep you on if he blamed you?” Scott tried, nudging his shoulder. “He'd at least ship you back to Anchorage.”

“He should have put me on a ground team.” With all of the recklessly suicidal people.

“It wasn't your fault.”

It was, and he wished Scott would stop hurting himself by trying to say otherwise.

“I've got an appointment in five minutes.” It was the only excuse he could come up with, but bailing had worked so far. Morell was too busy to chase him down, and Argent wasn't forcing him to go.

“I'll walk with you.”

Fuck. “Sure, okay,” He mumbled, getting to his feet and walking away. When Scott fell into step beside him they fell into a thoughtless rhythm, an echo of synchronicity that made his chest tighten in response.

“Jackson keeps falling out of alignment.”

“I could have told you that would happen. Oh wait, I did,” He sighed, not feeling any better for confirmation of his long held belief that Jackson had no place in a jaeger. They were already shorthanded. Losing another team was just going to make it that much more difficult for the 'dome. Besides, it's not like he hadn't done the exact same thing.

“Yeah,” Scott agreed easily, taking the reminder with easy grace. “Lydia's pissed. Argent wants me and Derek to start taking assignments.”

Words congealed, a thousand easy denials sticking in his throat. “You ready?” He managed.

“Yeah, I think so. They want us in Alpha Tide.”

The Hale's jaeger. Or what had been the Hale's jaeger, before Laura had died of Kaiju Blue and Derek had stopped bridging with Peter. “I still think it sounds like a laundry detergent,” He said through a grin he didn't really feel. “You guys should look into sponsoring.”

“Screw you,” Scott muttered, shoving him with an elbow. “She's gorgeous.”

But she wasn't Gamma Sentinel.

It showed how much had changed that when he rolled his eyes and nodded, Scott took it at face value.

Morrell didn't look surprised to see him, or even pleased. Just anticipatory, a little like a hunter that had watched prey step into her trap and was just waiting for it to spring.

“Yes, I'm still angry. Yes, I'm still grieving. No, I don't want to talk about it,” He said, dropping into the chair across from her. “The pills are working fine,” He added, ignoring her settling into her chair. Whatever else she thought, he wasn't going to be there that long.

“Since we last spoke,” She began, as if it hadn't been months since the last time he'd come to her office, asking only for something to help him sleep through the night. “You've taken one other pilot to the incident.” She punctuated that with a quick glance at her folder, a cursory sweep that he felt was probably more for dramatic effect than anything. “And two others were completely blocked from any attempts to bridge. That's unusual. It takes a great amount of determination to completely stonewall a drift.”

“That's trauma,” He dismissed, rolling his eyes.

“You wouldn't even let Lydia in. Your file says you both worked well together in the academy, she was the next best candidate for piloting with you.”

Lydia had also been Allison's best friend. The last thing he was going to do was inflict his memories on her.

“Are you still having panic attacks?”

“No,” He lied.

“Good drifters are unique, Stiles. The enrollment rate at the academy is dropping-”

“I know, I need to get the fuck over myself and stop being such a drama queen,” He snapped. “I've heard it already.”

“Maybe having another co-pilot would help you deal with the loss.”

“She's not replaceable, Jesus,” He snapped, fingers clenching tightly as he tried to throttle the rage. “Besides, I'd fry any other pilot that got in. Or did you forget what happened to Danny?” Kind, smart, stable Danny who couldn't even look at him anymore, spoke strangely because he'd almost bitten his tongue in half during a seizure.

“I'm not implying a co-pilot is replaceable. But another co-pilot might help fill that silence. We both know isolation only makes it worse. As for Danny, he has less experience than you. There are other more experienced candidates you could look at. I've found someone that might be a good match for you.”

“No. Assign me to a ground team. Discharge me if you want. Don't give a fuck.” If someone would just take the choice out of his hands, go ahead and make a decision about his position, he'd be that much better off. All of them would be, no longer riding the uncertainty of will he wont he, waiting to see what would happen.

“How do you feel about Scott piloting again?”

“It's fine.”

“You're not worried?”

“Of course I am. But rangers pilot jaegers, sometimes they die. I can't control whether or not that happens.” Not if he wasn't in the jaeger to begin with.

“What about his co-pilot?”

“Hale seems like a good choice.”

“But he's not you.”

“I can't drift with Scott anymore. If Hale can, that's fine,” He lied again.

Morrell made a notation on his file, pen scratching on paper.

“I'd like you to run a simulation on your own before you come back here. Just give it a chance.”

“Sure.” That was a lie too.

He didn't run a simulation, stayed as far away from Deaton's wing as possible, and avoided Argent like usual. The world spun on, the 'dome continuing it's routine without him.

Scott was deployed to Mexico. He paced the catwalks in the hangar, didn't text his dad and Melissa about the deployment until he was sure the news was getting ready to break the story. The moment he had confirmation Scott was on the way back, safe, he texted them to let them know.

The panic attack came when the Alpha Tide was settled back in the hangar and Scott was holed away with Derek, adjusting to the separation of their headspace.

He stumbled back to his room and dropped into the bottom bunk, Scott and Allison's bed before- Before.

The memory was a discordant blur of sounds and sensations, his neck snapping, spine bending into the inevitable break. His heart stuttered in his chest, skipped over beats before tripping into overdrive, fluttering and rabbiting with no discernible rhythm.

Scott never came.

The door to his room opened, creaking metal on metal. He turned, expecting to see Scott, maybe even Lydia. Instead, Argent stood there in his marshal blues, bars and stars in perfect order.

He stared, waiting for the marshal to say something.

“Ranger, combat room, five minutes ago,” Argent commanded, expression uncompromising.

“What?”

“We've got the candidates lined up. Get your ass in the combat room,” The marshal barked, like it was basic all over again, scrambling for the spontaneous alarms.

“No.”

“This is not up for discussion.”

“I quit.”

“No, you don't, and I'm not discharging you.”

“I-”

“She would kick your ass if she saw you like this.”

“Fuck you,” He snapped, the words hurled into the air like a challenge. He almost hoped for punishment, for a discharge, for something.

“Still not dismissing you Stilinski. Combat room. If you're not there, I'm pairing you with Lydia and I'll bolt the pons to your head until it takes.”

The threat worked, the idea of pairing with Lydia making his gut clench and roil with nausea.

“Fine. Let me change.”

His hands shook, fingers twitching and tapping a rhythm out on his legs the entire way to the combat room.

Scott and Derek were already there, Scott looking genuinely excited. Maybe his brother didn't know he hadn't been given a choice.

The first candidate stepped onto the mat, and he almost laughed at the absurdity of it. He'd kept up with his physical training, if only for the release it offered, the crash of endorphins and physical exhaustion, the comfort of routine. But Ennis was all brawn and charge, little more than a tank rolling over him and even attempting to go through him a few times. Isaac relied heavily on savate, like Allison had, and it only made Stiles take him down too quickly with too much force. He intentionally fumbled with Lydia until she made an angry, disgusted sound and stalked off of the mat. Jackson did nothing but try to beat the shit out of him until Argent ended the match.

“Are you-” He started, watching Peter Hale step onto the mat, his jaw slamming shut when Peter's smile turned predatory. A quick glance at Scott and he was surprised to see him leaning into Derek, both of them wearing hooded expressions; all traces of Scott's excitement was gone, their body language closed and tight.

“Just work through it,” Argent told him, completely unforgiving. Stiles didn't fail to miss his shoulders rising, arms crossed over his chest tensing. If he could see them, he was sure Argent's hands would be fists, knuckles white.

“Is something the matter Stilinski?”

“So much,” Stiles quipped, moving to the side as Peter shifted into his space. Peter moved with him, a hand moving to his hip and a leg sweeping his feet from under him. His head slammed into the mat hard, the thin layer of padding doing nothing to stop the flash of pain that burst white in his vision.

“I'd feel guilty if I didn't know you were intentionally screwing up.”

“You're capable of guilt?” Stiles grunted, moving to his feet in a smooth economy of motion and sliding into Peter, his back hitting his chest before he was twisting sharply and throwing Peter to the mat. A smile stretched Peter's face, there and gone again.

“Sociopath,” He muttered, stepping back as Peter got to his feet.

They circled, and he searched for an opening.

Peter lunged and he felt the impact of fists and elbows against his sides and forearms, all light taps considering the damage he knew Peter was capable of. The burn of bruises and muscles straining settled him into his skin, addicting in it's own way. Sweat rolled down his neck and soaked the back of his shirt, beaded his forehead and itched his scalp. He countered, struck, grappled, broke away. Peter talked and he barely heard it, he spoke and didn't even pay attention to what he was saying, too busy trying to take the asshole down.

“Time.”

He looked over at Argent, blinking stupidly. Neither of them had managed another point.

The marshal's face was a study in uncompromising neutrality, familiar from weeks of appearing before committees and analysts. “You two will be running a simulation together today. Report to Deaton.”

“What?”

“You heard me ranger.”

Even focused on Argent's form disappearing through the doors, he could hear the whispers behind him.

“That was actually fun,” Peter's voice chimed next to him. It spurred Stiles into motion, if only to get the fuck away from Peter and figure out how he was going to get around the marshal's edict. He followed Argent out, then took an abrupt turn in the opposite direction of the offices.

“The science wing is in the opposite direction," Peter observed.

“Pass on my regrets. I'm sure Deaton will understand.”

His shirt strangled his throat, material bunched around Peter's fist, knuckles slamming into his sternum.

“Ow.”

“You will come with me, and you will run the simulation. More importantly, you will not sabotage yourself and especially not me.”

Stiles shoved back, felt as much as heard the fabric beginning to rip before Peter let go. “You can't force me to drift with you.”

“As you're aware, I've gotten away with murder before,” Peter reminded him. “Our esteemed marshal might consider you a freebie.”

“You can't possibly want back in a jaeger that badly,” He tried.

“I really do.”

“He's only doing this because we killed his family.” The words were out between them, felt like a confession to the last person that deserved to hear it.

“There is a pattern there isn't there?” Peter suggested, expression brightening. “At least I had the pleasure of killing Kate with my own hands.”

“I didn't-What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Same as you,” Peter said, his grin all teeth and sharp edges. “Not enough.”

“The marshal wanted you to sign these,” Deaton told him, handing him a clipboard.

“I have to sign a waiver now?” He scoffed.

“Gag order,” Peter informed him cheerfully. Stiles wondered if his default setting was maniacally cheerful or if he was just that profoundly excited at the prospect of getting back into a jaeger. Regardless, it was creepy as hell.

“Seriously?”

“It's a standard precaution when drifting with pilots that have higher clearance,” Deaton explained.

Stiles flicked a glance over at Peter, unable to completely stifle the sound of disbelief before it escaped. “You have higher clearance?”

“Something like that.”

“Sounds like a trip,” He drawled, signing the papers without reading them.

“This is an updated interface,” Deaton told them, voice calm and even as always. Stiles envied his composure and whatever drugs he was on. Or maybe he just really didn't care about them and their personal dramas. “So it might take some getting used to.”

“I'm taking right,” Peter declared easily.

Of course he'd want the dominant position. “Fine.”

The pons felt like a vice on his skull, threatening to cave it in at any moment. He heard as much as felt the computer announce the neural handshake beginning. The wall came up instinctively, a block between himself and Peter.

“You have to let me in.”

“Easy for you to say,” He retorted.

“Considering, yes.”

He snarled, glared over at Peter. He wanted the 'pleasure'? Fine, he could fucking have it.

The drag down into the drift stunned him in and out of his own skin until there was only his memories and Peter's, a simultaneous overlap of existences. The most potent cocktail of emotions he'd ever experienced washed over him, panic and terror, loneliness, an aching sadness that threatened to stop his heart. His stomach lurched for a moment, incandescent rage burning through him like it was his own when he was forced to look at the why of Kate's death as much as the how.

“Acknowledge it and move on,” Peter's voice instructed, cold and unflinching.

“I can't do this,” He muttered, feeling the blood on his hands, slicking the handle of the knife. His stomach pitched, mind zeroing in on the bright, sharp sensation of Peter's dissatisfied rage. She'd died too quickly. “I can't- Disengage. Now!”

“Disengaging neural bridge,” The computer announced tonelessly, right before the shock of the break rocked through him. The echo of Peter's rage followed him out, left him pulling at the pons and throwing it onto the control dash.

“Stiles-”

“Stay the fuck away from me,” He panted, bile rising caustic in his throat and threatening to spill over his tongue.

“I told you to move on.” Peter's voice was calm, reflecting none of the rage that had made a storm of the drift.

A hysterical laugh bubbled past his lips, too fast to muffle. “Move on?” He demanded, shrill. “A goddamn warning would have been nice.”

“You knew I killed her, and there was the gag order. Usually that's it's own warning.”

“You're so full of shit,” He snapped, getting to his feet and weaving unsteadily. The world shifted up and down uncertainly beneath him, and Deaton moved closer, anticipating the fall. Stiles refused to give him the satisfaction. “And you,” He said, glaring at Deaton. “You know better than to pull shit like that.”

“I'm not aware of the circumstances,” Deaton replied blandly.

A disgusted sound erupted from his throat and he turned away from them both, stalked out of the simulation room before the panic attack threatening crippled him, made him even more vulnerable in front of him.

Scott found him on a catwalk two hours later, wading through new memories and trying not to hyperventilate.

Hands clutching his between them, just on the wrong side of painful, brought him back out of himself.

“Are you okay?”

He glared up at Scott, saw his brother's expression falter. “Is it why you stopped talking to me? Because you knew?”

For a moment it was the old Scott staring back at him, the one he'd been before losing Allison. Too wide, innocent eyes and a helpless, puppyish expression. Then his brows lowered, lips pinching and Stiles hated that he saw Derek there, so much of Derek's expression in Scott's features, none of his or even Allison's to be found. “I didn't stop talking to you. You stopped talking to me. To everyone.”

“You wouldn't have told me anyway.”

“Would it have helped?”

Stiles opened his mouth to say yes, it could have changed everything. Except it probably would have only made it worse. “We cried for her.”

“We cried for Allison,” Scott corrected, voice gentling, the foreign expression melting into compassion, something he knew as purely Scott. “We didn't know Kate, and we only cared about her because Allison did.”

And Allison would never have cried for Kate if she'd known the truth. Fuck. His stomach roiled with nausea for Peter's memories, each as bad as the last. “Did they make you sign a gag order too?”

“Yeah,” Scott admitted, pulling away only to sit down next to him, their shoulders brushing together. “It's some heavy stuff, what was there. Derek knows he doesn't remember everything. The drugs.”

“Peter does. He knows- He knows everything she did.” Peter had pursued the strange anomalies in Derek's consciousness, Peter had begun spying and sussing out information- Peter had put it all together. Derek hadn't been aware until Kate had been dead and Peter had been brought up on charges.

Experimental drugs seemed harmless compared to how Kate had abused the drift, bastardizing something he'd considered sacred from the moment he'd experienced it. It had been the culmination of a life time bond with Scott, of a new love for Allison, the steadying of his crush on Lydia into respect and friendship. It had taken intensity and made it something stable, something pure. It had given, and Kate had used it to- To try and deconstruct Derek, to tear him down and break him.

He'd hadn't hated Peter because Allison had hated him. He'd hated Peter for almost destroying Allison in the process of ripping apart her family. Despite his and Scott's best efforts, Allison had almost self destructed, her aunt dead and grandfather in Leavenworth while Peter remained free. Her mother had been dismissed from the corps while Peter had been allowed to stay in the rangers. Chris had been investigated so thoroughly it was a wonder they hadn't found something objectionable, related or not. He'd hated the unfairness of it, hated that Allison and Chris hadn't been able to talk about it, that the only place she could share the secret was in the drift. Some part of him was still positive the only reason she hadn't fallen apart was because the drift didn't allow for secrets, had allowed the three of them to carry the weight together instead of forcing her to endure alone.

Now though- Now he didn't just agree with what Peter had done, he admired him for navigating the fallout so neatly, avoiding a court martial and using what he knew to save his skin and Derek's. The guy had balls in spades to blackmail the PPDC.

He wondered what Allison would say, if she was still alive. Then again, it would be moot. If he hadn't killed her, he never would have drifted with Peter, would still blame him for the sleepless nights and the tears.

“Fuck.”

“It's intense,” Scott agreed. “Derek-” There was a beat, a pause where he knew Scott was weighing his morals, one against the other. Sharing memories with an outsider was taboo, he knew that, but the reminder that he had become an outsider stung. “It's why Derek couldn't drift with him anymore. It was too much.”

“Peter was too much,” He declared bluntly, empathizing completely. The memories of Kate were only the most recent; intense as they were, they weren't the worst. Peter had survived K-Day, been in San Francisco when the first alien presence had made landfall and heralded the war. He'd seen most of his family swallowed in the dust clouds of falling buildings and broken streets. He'd watched Laura die slowly from kaiju blue. Memory after memory of terror and loss, panic and rage leashed by a slow burning hatred that kept him going.

He could sympathize, and he hated it. He'd been comfortable hating Peter Hale, feeling that surge of rage every time he saw him. Now though. He just felt lost, so goddamn lost in all the new information, in how wrong he'd been.

“Yeah,” Scott exhaled.

“He kept me from chasing the RABIT. Mine, anyway.” Which made more sense, now that he'd actually assimilated what he'd seen. It was a wonder Peter could function, much less pilot a jaeger. His control was off the charts.

“Will you drift with him again?”

“I don't think the marshal's giving me a choice,” He retorted bitterly. “Fucking Peter Hale of all people,” He ground out, clenching his eyes shut and shying away from the image of Allison crying, desperately looking to them and Gamma Sentinel for a sense of purpose.

“Look,” Scott sighed, rubbing his face. He looked exhausted. “We need you. I need you. You need this. I know you,” He declared resolutely. “If it's Peter-”

“Maybe it's because we've both just lost it,” He suggested flatly. Maybe crazy people were drift compatible.

“Just, give it a shot, okay? For me.”

Stiles exhaled a heavy sound he hoped conveyed what a monumentally bad idea it was. Scott nudged him, offering a wan smile.

“Yeah, okay.”

“I expected you to hold out for at least a week,” Peter noted when they met Deaton in the simulation room.

“I know being a dick is your only joy in life, but could you just not talk?”

Peter threw a smirk over at him before settling the pons unit on his head.

Even knowing what was coming, he wasn't any more prepared for the drop than he'd been the first time, drowning in the collision of their lives.

If Peter had overwhelmed him the first time, this time his memories were being pulled to the forefront, given a cursory glance and casually dismissed. Every mortifying rejection, every instance of panic and shame, his mother's descent into madness, his father's drinking, drifting with Scott, drifting with Allison-

Allison.

Pain ratcheted in his neck snapping forward and back, the length of his spine flaring white hot.

“Steady,” Peter's voice commanded, a warm, callused hand settling on the back of his neck, bracing it. “Follow me.”

It felt like Peter was directing him, pushing him into-

Allison's funeral blended with Laura's funeral, moving in fast forward until they were over, mourners and coffins vanished, grass grown over the freshly turned earth. They'd both been buried in the corps graveyard in Hawaii. He'd forgotten that. The symbol for the Alpha Tide and Gamma Sentinel superimposed over one another on the gravestone he was looking at. Peter stood somewhere behind him, hand still on the back of his neck.

He tilted back on his heels, tipped against the hand on his neck, fell down and in, exhaled, long and slow. A simulated ocean greeted him when he opened his eyes, the screen demanding focus.

“See, that wasn't so difficult.”

His incredulity swelled in the drift, buoyant and lively.

“Not the time. Come on, it's just a video game. You're good at these.”

He gave in, resigned acceptance. He could feel Peter smiling.

They spent time getting to know the interface, moving together to test each limb of the simulated jaeger, then acknowledging the weapons. Muscles shifted in tandem, the lag between them and the machine almost nonexistent.

The scenario played out, a category two he vaguely recognized from the early days, when he'd been in the academy and so sure he'd be the perfect ranger. He felt Peter's amusement and met it with a wave of irritation. Peter actually laughed out loud, the sound registering in a dim sort of way, more a sensation in his skull than an audible thing.

They killed it. Another came out of the sea.

And another.

Three down, and Deaton ended the simulation.

Sweat soaked his hair, his sim suit chafing against oversensitive skin. He yanked off the pons and fought the urge to pull his suit off right then and there, desperately craving a shower, wanting to scrub himself clean of Peter and the drift.

“Good work,” Peter told him, walking easily, no weave or bob to his steps as he left the room.

Stiles surprised himself by feeling just as steady on his feet, none of the vertigo he'd suffered before threatening his balance.

“That was impressive, considering it was only your second drift,” Deaton told him, focusing on the pons unit. “Probably best to go decompress. He'll never admit it, but that's what he's going to do.”

“I feel fine.” He was lying through his teeth, but it was minor compared to others, barely registered.

“Give it time.”

He strode out on steady feet, hands jammed into his pockets.

Peter was already in the showers, standing still beneath the spray. He turned on his heel, resolved to get a shower later. Instead he went back to his bunk and dropped into the bed, swore he could feel the springs through the cheap pad that served as a mattress. Exhaustion didn't creep so much as fall on him, a heavy weight that gave no warning before dragging him under.

Memories of his/Peter's family dying filtered into his dreams, the roar and crash of buildings falling deafening. Vertigo made the world shudder and spin unsteadily beneath his feet until he was falling down, jerking up and awake.

Morell began cycling him off of the pills. Argent had them in with Deaton every other day. When they weren't running simulations, they were in the combat room or exercising.

Peter never stopped pushing, and he never stopped pushing back. Some part of him was afraid of being smothered, completely overwhelmed by Peter's consciousness. Some other, more tired, weary voice in his head told him to give in and let Peter drag him along. He couldn't help but envy Peter's confidence in his own actions.

The dreams didn't dim, but after the first three weeks they slowed down. He never tried to ask, knew Peter would never ask him.

The twins went out. Stiles didn't care about it until the Alpha Tide was deployed to the miracle mile instead of Proctor Tau. Denied access to the control room, he sat on pins and needles, then paced the catwalk of Alpha Tide's hangar restlessly, and ignored Peter when he joined him.

Alpha Tide came back needing minor repairs, but Scott and Derek were still in one piece. The medics converged on Sigma Havoc. Even from the catwalk he could see the black bag on a gurney being wheeled in the opposite direction of the gurney with a twin attached to IVs and oxygen. It only emphasized the damage done to the jaeger, the chest broken open and exposed.

“At least he'll never harass you about losing a partner again,” Peter mused, right before cutting into an apple he'd produced out of nowhere. Stiles briefly wondered if it was the same knife he'd used to kill Kate, then discarded the idea. That knife was probably still in evidence somewhere.

“Could you be anymore of a sociopath?”

“I tend to kill people when I care about something,” Peter reminded him in an amused voice. “Stop wasting energy pretending to care about him. No one's here to see besides me, and I'm not going to judge.”

He stalked away, booted feet tromping on the metal grill of the catwalk and echoing over the noise.

He found Scott and Derek sitting in the locker room floor, heads pressed together, legs fitting in a puzzle. Decompressing. He recognized it, stumbled back and spun, turned away from the sight.

Knowing how good it was for Scott, he couldn't help but resent the closeness and the exclusion from it.

Argent finally pinned him down and told him either he needed to move into Peter's room, or Peter needed to move into his. Or else he would have a tech move his things for him, and tell them to help themselves to anything that caught their eye.

It wasn't like he actually owned all that much. The academy hadn't encouraged personal possessions, and he'd been too dazzled and excited to begrudge leaving his entire world in his dad's care. After he'd graduated the ranger program, he'd learned enough that he begged his dad to move inland, Scott pleaded with Melissa to do the same. When they'd finally relented, he hadn't had the time to go back and pack his things, to go through any of it. Considering he hadn't even seen his dad's new house in person, he had no clue what remained of his teenage years. Living in a 'dome didn't encourage materialism, and sending a majority of his checks and hazard bonuses to his dad didn't leave him with much to spend.

Everything fit in his trunk and a single cardboard box. Sore from hours in the gym, he cheated and used a dolly to drag everything down the hall to Peter's room. Some tiny part of him was grateful for the marshal's interference, finally able to leave the room and all of it's memories behind.

Peter was lounging on the bottom bunk when he got there.

“It wasn't your fault you know,” Peter hummed thoughtfully, never looking up from his tablet.

The air stuck in his throat, a sharp bubble too big to swallow down. He'd been waiting for Peter to say something about it. That is was some sort of affirmation instead of a cruel taunt or a warning didn't change how he felt about it regardless.

“Just because we're roomies now doesn't mean you get to talk about it.”

“You analyzed the situation correctly. They did not.”

“Pretty sure I said we're not talking about this.”

“If I have to live with you I'm not going to be subjected to your constant angst. You fell out of alignment because they ignored their training and pretended they could save everyone. You knew better.”

“Fuck you.”

“I'm not adverse. It has been awhile.”

“I will kill you and make it look like an accident. Argent will probably consider it a freebie,” He mocked.

Peter's hands came up in a gesture of submission Stiles knew better than to trust.

He made his bunk in pointed silence and pulled himself up. No matter how he tried to ignore it, he could feel Peter's exasperated condescension telling him to get over it.

He ate lunch in the mess hall for the first time in months purely to avoid Peter, who always seemed to know exactly where he was going to be and materialized just after he arrived there. The mess was the one place Peter avoided.

Scott and Derek were at a table, heads bent close together.

“Hi,” Derek greeted, smiling the same sort of honest, open smile Scott bestowed on him. It was jarring, a complete departure from the Derek Hale he'd known only in passing and the one from Peter's memories.

Knowing what Kate Argent had done to him made it almost impossible to talk directly to him. All he could think about were mindfucks and experimental drugs and wrapping the guy up in bubble wrap to keep him safe from the world. “Hey man.”

“Dude, I haven't seen you in forever,” Scott said, bumping shoulders and grinning.

“Escaping. Your uncle's a dick by the way,” He declared bluntly, nodding in Derek's direction before stabbing his fork into the protein slab covered in gravy to hide the fact that it wasn't real meat. It never did.

“Stiles!” Scott hissed, looking mortified.

“Peter's just like that,” Derek shrugged, actually smirking. It reminded him of Peter, family resemblance actually shining through for a moment before the smirk shifted into an encouraging smile that he would have claimed as Scott's influence, but might have been Laura's. “But he's a good pilot.”

However begrudging it might be, he had to concede that much. “Yeah.”

“My nephew tells me I should be nicer to you lest I break you,” Peter announced when he got into his bunk that night.

Funny, he had the same thought about Derek. “I'll send him a fruit basket.”

“He'd probably misinterpret it and tell you he's sorry, but he's straight.”

“Did your parents ever ask you to run away from home?”

“Curiously enough they thought I was delightful.”

Stiles leaned over the edge of the bunk and narrowed his eyes at Peter, who was reading. “No, they thought you were a changeling and your dad said you're the reason he went completely bald.”

“Better than being arrested by my father. Repeatedly.”

“Natural youthful exuberance,” He dismissed. Peter knew he'd never been charged anyway. “You on the other hand,” He said, shifting so he could point an accusing finger at Peter's head. “Were a manipulative little shit.”

“I'm sorry, I seem to remember an incident involving hacking and planting evidence leading to someone's expulsion from the academy. But I must be confusing memories in my old age.”

He'd actually forgotten about that. “Daehler deserved it.” He'd been stalking Allison. Besides, Danny had done most of the heavy lifting. He'd just come up with the plan.

“Do you see me arguing?” Peter asked, finally looking up from his tablet. Stiles frowned when Peter's smile took on a pleasured tilt. “I'm merely pointing out the fact that you're not so blandly moral as you like to pretend.”

“It's really disturbing that you keep acting like-” he floundered, expelling a frustrated, hissing sound.

“I know you?”

“Yes.”

Peter shifted, his spine straightening and eyes flicking back and forth for a moment before settling back on Stiles. “I suppose that's to be expected. It is strange to suddenly know someone intimately when there's barely any point of reference.”

“Are you actually agreeing with me?”

“I'm not sure how it matters, it doesn't change that I do know you. Intimately,” He added, looking back at his tablet. “Probably better than you know yourself at this point.”

“You sound really creepy when you talk like that. Kind of 'wear your copilot as a skin coat' creepy.”

“I'm sure you know whether or not that's something that genuinely concerns me.”

Sonofabitch.

“I'm going to fratface your helmet.”

“Draw on my helmet and you'll wake up with no hair. We both know from experience you'll look like a q-tip until it grows back.”

“Asshole.”

Peter made a sound of agreement, something almost cheerful.

“Holy fuck,” Stiles said, staring at the jaeger.

“Atlas Omega,” Argent said, nodding decisively. “You two will be piloting.”

Stiles had thought they'd be put in the Sigma Havoc once it was operational again, maybe even inherit the Alpha Tide while Scott and Derek, an established team, got the upgrade. “You're putting us in a Mark-4? Wouldn't Derek and Scott be better?”

“The interface you've been working with in the simulations is a beta of the operating system. The chassis is also more suited to your body language.”

He resisted the impulse to pinch himself.

“I'm not complaining,” Peter said, giving them a cool glance before looking back up at Atlas Omega.

“I'll have the spec manuals dropped off. We'll do a dry run the day after tomorrow,” Argent told them, nodding once and walking away, leaving them alone to stare at the jaeger.

“Does he have anything to do with,” Stiles asked, nodding at the jaeger. “You know.”

“Yes, they're rewarding us for our indiscretions.”

That the Mark-4 was his took the sting out of Peter's casual callousness. “Huh.”

“See, piloting with a violent sociopath has it's perks.”

“You know, normally the government kills people that know too much. That includes me now.”

“They'll just wait for us to die out there. Drifters are hard to come by," Peter reminded him.

“Let's hope it stays that way,” He snorted.

“We got a Mark-4 didn't we?” Peter asked, offering a sharp grin that almost made him want to smile back.

“Initiating neural handshake,” Lydia's voice said over the comms.

He relaxed into the drift, lost the distinction between him and Peter, his quiet anxiety and Peter's fierce anticipation. Lydia continued charting their progress until he felt it, the physical sensation of being locked into Atlas Omega, it's body becoming his own.

They moved in perfect sync, the jaeger moving with them. Every check went smoothly, following Argent and Lydia's commands.

It was a perfect dry run, and when they disengaged, he could hear Scott's whooping cheers through the comm.

“Welcome back,” Argent's voice intoned, quiet and serious.

It sounded like a sentencing.

“Hey, I need you out for awhile. My dad's gonna call.”

“It is that day, isn't it?” Peter asked, already sliding out of his bunk.

“We're not talking about this.”

“It's a shame the airstrike took out the graveyard.”

“Get the fuck out of here,” He snarled, temper breaking past his attempt to control it, skin hot.

Peter strolled out, pace leisurely and hands behind his back, leaving the door to their bunk open. Stiles stomped over to it and slammed it shut, cursing whoever had decided locks weren't necessary for ranger's rooms.

Halfway through a diagnostic report on Atlas Omega's lag time, the icon in the corner began to blink. Minimizing, he tapped the screen and watched the black screen slowly fade into color, shadows shifting and vanishing as a light was turned on.

He smiled at the camera, saw his dad's face smiling back at him.

“So kid, how's LA?”

“Oh you know, too hot, blue skies, constant simulations with a prick of a copilot.”

“You're piloting again?” His dad's voice asked through the screen, brow furrowing. Already Stiles could count all the new wrinkles his dad would be getting.

He'd been hoping to avoid telling him, praying Scott would do it for him.

He scratched at his scalp, looked away from the screen for a moment. “Yeah. I haven't been deployed yet.” Which his dad had to know, when a kaiju surfaced, the entire world tuned in. “We got a Mark-4,” He finished lamely.

“And it's not Scott.”

“No. It's uh- His name is Peter. Peter Hale.”

The beat of silence made him wish he'd chosen any other day to tell his dad.

“Stiles, if this is about the money-”

“No!” He blurted, face going hot, thinking about the bonus checks he'd sent stopping, forcing his dad and Melissa to budget more carefully, making their lives even more difficult. “No dad, it's not.”

“Melissa and I can work closer to the coast you know. You and Scott don't have to keep sending us your checks.”

“We've gone over this dad. I need you inland. Scott does too.” It was an old argument, one they'd had after every deployment. It was one of the only things he hadn't missed about active duty. “It helps us to know you're safe.”

“What about you?”

“Peter's a good pilot. We're good in the drift. He's just a dick outside of it.”

They didn't talk about piloting after that, or jaegers, or the coast. The war had taught them a whole new level of avoidance and repression tactics.

His dad told him about a BuenaKai group they'd been forced to arrest after they'd bombed a recruitment office. The FBI had shown up, and for some reason Scott's dad had gotten involved, making a bad situation even worse. Stiles quietly wished the kaiju cultists had opted for the mass suicide route like the others and had maybe taken Agent McCall with them. At least they hadn't hurt his dad and Melissa. Melissa had begun their own victory garden, like something out of the forties, part of a wave of people doing so, apparently. Rationing wasn't as bad inland, but it was beginning to be felt. His dad's hands still hurt from tilling the backyard, but he looked happy to have done something to contribute to the war effort.

Stiles didn't tell him that even with the kaiju attacking, the world still spun on, that people still ran red lights or robbed banks or killed each other, that his dad was as necessary as ever.

It ended quietly, with no mention of his mother, or the decimated graveyard or Beacon Hills. Just an 'I love you', something they'd learned to say every time they spoke. The war had taught them that too.

He tossed the bag of candy corn onto Peter's lap and pulled himself up to his bunk.

There was a moment of tense silence. Then the bunk was shifting and Peter was dragging him back down, slamming him against the wall. His teeth slammed together painfully, the tip of his tongue caught between them. Regardless, he managed a smile, feeling that he finally had one over on Peter.

“Don't talk about my dead mother and I won't go out of my way to reference family jokes,” He said, voice even. “What we see in the drift stays there.”

Peter nodded slowly, eyes still narrowed. He let Stiles go, then left the room entirely, the metal door banging and clanging, dissonant to his ears.

Scott and Derek were called to deploy. He paced the catwalk in the hangar, listening to Lydia relay information via the earbud she'd pushed into his hand before shoving him out of the control room. The words 'category three' rang through the noise. Alpha's deployment echoed through the entire dome, almost blotting out the noise feeding directly into his ear.

Argent spoke through the comm instead of over the main PA. “Atlas to deploy to the mile. Get ready.”

He met Peter in the drivesuit room, hands shaking as he tugged his shirt over his head. Techs were moving in a coordinated dance around them, everyone in their place at the right time, making him feel clumsy and awkward as he stripped down.

“No jokes about popping his cherry?” Peter asked as they pulled on their circuitry suits.

“Not everyone views combat in terms of unsettling sexual metaphors,” Stiles chuffed.

The techs locked and snapped their armor into place and fell away, one by one until everything was finished. His stomach swooped and turned over, filled with thousands of manic butterflies that threatened to come out on their way to the conn-pod.

Lydia's voice charted out their progress as they bridged and then locked into the jaeger.

“Don't worry,” He said, feeling the tension bubbling under Peter's skin, almost muffled by the sharp edge of anticipation.

“That's not my fear,” Peter said breezily.

“Whatever helps you sleep better at night.”

“You're worried about Scott.”

“I'm always worried about Scott,” Stiles confessed easily, not bothering to deny it. The entire 'dome knew it, and unlike Peter, he wasn't so damaged he was afraid to admit he had a soul.

The comms in the pod opened, sound flooding the interior of the room and their helmets.

“Hey bro!” Scott's voice called out, sounding far too happy considering what they were facing.

“Focus on the drop Scott,” Stiles commanded, rolling his eyes. Amusement sparked through the drift, a smirk tugging the corner of his lips, too sardonic to be his own.

He could hear the Alpha Tide dropping into it's position. When the kaiju was spotted, he listened for the rare comment from Scott or Derek, Argent and Lydia speaking through the comm. When they engaged, his stomach bottomed out, echoing the weightlessness of their jaeger being carried through the air.

“Atlas Omega in target zone, disengaging transport,” Peter called out. Stiles braced himself, took a deep breath- They dropped, a phantom shock working up through their knees even as they rode out the true shock in the conn-podd, bodies rocking back and forth.

“Atlas Omega in position at miracle mile,” Stiles said, grateful for the steadiness of his voice.

He listened to Scott and Derek, forced himself to take measured breathes. The sensation of a hand on the back of his neck braced him, kept him from flinching every time he heard the crash and shudder of Scott's jaeger connecting with the kaiju.

“He got our caster,” Scott's voice called out, even and steady despite the news. “Nonoperational. Low on mortars for secondary canon.”

“Atlas, we're sending out Proctor to hold the mile,” Argent told them. “Engage at your discretion.”

“Got it,” Stiles said, knew a second before Peter's legs began to move that they were going out to the kaiju instead of waiting for it to come to them.

“Hold tight Alpha,” He called out. “We're coming to you.”

“Will do.”

Scott continued feeding then intel until the comm went silent.

“LOCCENT, you got Alpha?” He demanded.

“They're completely dark,” Argent's voice intoned. “Visual confirms Alpha’s still standing.”

The Alpha Tide was dark and still, nothing more than an eerie monolith half submerged in the water. Peter said nothing but Stiles could feel the stern reprimand, a hand on the back of his neck telling him to calm down and focus.

Acknowledge it, move on.

The kaiju was in the water, moving far more quickly than anything it's size had any right to move, circling the Alpha Tide too tightly to take aim at it.

“Plasmacaster to the left,” He intoned quietly, lifted their arms across their chest to fire.

They aimed, and the bright light bloomed, going left and cutting into the water.

The kaiju broke it's pattern and started moving after the blast.

After that everything felt easy, easy despite the strain and burn and sweat as he and Peter continued shooting, watched it emerge from the waves to lumber towards them. The mindlessness of combat was comforting, his entire being focused on reacting, the jaeger moving with him.

“Looks a little like Manda, doesn't it?”

“You watched Godzilla?” Stiles huffed, smirking. “This one has bigger legs.”

“I said a little. And it was Atragon, you uncultured tween.”

“Compared to Methuselah, sure,” He drawled. “And you're the one talking about a campy scifi flick from the sixties.”

It was weird, bantering in the conn-pod. He was used to silence, to feeling his partners instead of snarking with them. But he and Peter continued moving in tandem, words filling the cockpit, even ignoring Argent's voice telling them to just shut the fuck up and kill the damn thing already. The kaiju's tail clipped their side and he bit back the pain that radiated from his hip.

He reached with his left hand and grabbed the head and clenched, triggered the pulse launcher into it's skull, blasting through and instantly cauterizing the wound. It continued to struggle for the time it took for the reload, and Stiles braced himself firmly in the ocean floor, holding fast before triggering another pulse. It's head was almost completely gone when he triggered a third and final blast, caving the skull in.

“You bloodthirsty little beast,” Peter accused, satisfaction radiating through the drift.

“That wasn't my idea,” Stiles quipped, ignoring the pain in his hip.

“Keep a hold of it until we get a carrier out there,” Lydia's voice commanded through the comm. “We can bring it in for study.”

“Yes ma'am,” Stiles breathed, eyes closing. His fist was beginning to cramp.

“Good job Atlas. Engineers are on their way to check out Alpha. Hold tight,” Argent's voice crackled and faded out.

It was over. They'd survived. “Is it as good as you remember?”

“Now you're just fishing for compliments,” Peter tutted mockingly.

“Puns? Really?”

He watched Scott and Derek being pulled out, both conscious but dazed from Alpha Tide's systems failing and the neural bridge collapsing so abruptly. Peter's hand settled on the back of his neck, and for a moment he thought it was just his imagination, until he turned and felt skin tug of skin against skin.

He glanced over, saw permission he hadn't realized he'd needed. “Yeah.”

He followed them down to the medbay. Peter went to the showers.

His hands were steady.

They were deployed as backup for the Alpha Tide again, guarding the miracle mile. Peter was 'miffed' they didn't catch any of the action, his agitation souring Stiles' mouth even after they got back to the 'dome. He brushed his teeth twice knowing it wouldn't help.

Then they were deployed as first line against a confirmed category three, which lasted for almost nine hours. They came back exhausted, going from the locker room to their bunk with barely a word between them.

Jackson finally stopped glaring at them and threw a bitch fit to end all bitch fits about not getting the Mark-4. Stiles thought it was just an excuse to cut and run, the entire 'dome only too aware of how unstable he was becoming, and how unstable his drift with Lydia was as a result. His lawyer father showed up armed with a dozen legal loopholes, but it was hardly necessary; Argent let Jackson go without a fight.

He went into the city and traded rationed goods and a fair amount of money for decent whiskey, sneaking into Lydia's room and waving the bottle at her. They were both well on their way to drunk when Peter joined them, and she surprised them both by bringing up 'the incident', citing that she wasn't an idiot, and that Kate Argent had deserved to die. Peter didn't seem to need or even want approval, but he warmed up to Lydia like they'd been friends forever. Stiles wondered for a moment what it might be like to drift with both Peter and Lydia, then discarded the idea in favor of listening to Lydia and Peter speculate and bicker about potential use and abuse of neural bridging by various government agencies and the illusion of science's philosophical neutrality. What knowledge had been gained from Derek's abuse was viewed with an unflinching pragmatism that Stiles envied them for.

The night wore on, Lydia slurring and drooping until she was snoring lightly. Jackson hadn't been mentioned once. He sprawled in Lydia's bunk, her tucked safely into his side as he drifted. Peter sat on the floor, back braced on the bunk frame and head tilted back. The memory of him doing the same with Laura and Derek before made it easy to fall asleep, feeling almost safe. For the first time in months he prayed there were no attacks, that the siren wouldn't go off, that Argent wouldn't surprise them all with a drill.

The next day only changed in that Lydia began training with him and Peter.

Argent seemed content to let them alternate between acting as backup and taking point. With the Sigma Havoc still undergoing repairs and no viable pairs being found for Proctor Tau, it was between them and Anchorage to cover a majority of the North American coast.

Stiles didn't talk about how the events were coming closer and closer together, but felt vindicated in his worries when he realized Peter had observed the same. Lydia ranted about her ideas for algorithms to anticipate events or more accurately categorize each kaiju that came through and how no one was taking her seriously because she was also a ranger. The war clock reset and reset again, and they watched reports streaming in.

He and Peter never talked about what they saw in the drift. Their vow of noncommunication extended to the times they woke each other from their night terrors, instances that came and went in no discernible pattern. When Peter's thoughts began took a turn into genuine sexual interest, he ignored it, wrote it off as a side effect of the drift. When Peter began making appearances in his fantasies while jerking off, Peter never used it against him during his flirtations, merely took his brushoffs and jibes with a casual smirk.

They kept getting deployed. He called and cammed with his dad, shared his care packages from Melissa with Peter and Lydia, sent his hazard bonuses to his dad and practiced old fighting styles while learning new ones, or ran simulations, or read. Peter started joining him in the mess hall with Derek and Scott. Lydia would occasionally deign to grace them with her presence. It was repetition, over and over and over, waiting for another deployment, rinse repeat.

For the first time since losing Allison, he felt in control.

“They're talking about building a wall,” Stiles said, looking over the article in his tablet. “Like a goddamn wall's going to stop the kaiju.”

“It always comes down to money,” Peter hummed from below him. “I'd expect a rise in protests, news footage not particularly becoming the PPDC, the UN talking about the losses more often.”

“Taylor has been a more of a blowhard than usual,” Stiles admitted.

“Your father's lucky he owns his house. Property values inland are going to spike again.”

He almost asked about the house in Colorado Peter had bought the month before. It wasn't that Peter had bought a house, but that in the drift, it was always Derek's House, even though Derek didn't even know about it.

The moment passed. He let it.

“The repairs to Gamma Sentinel have been completed,” Argent said, face a mask of studied neutrality. “We'd like you to-”

“No,” He shot out, shaking his head so hard pain flared down the length of his neck. He wiped his palms against his thighs, stopped, shook his head again and repeated himself.

“Scott and Derek have already agreed.”

“I'm very happy for them. Still not interested.”

“We need someone with experience in a three pilot scenario. Two would be better.”

“Did it escape your notice what happened last time I was with two pilots?” He bit out, ignoring how Argent actually flinched. “No thanks. I'm good now.”

“It would just be a simulation.”

It was a lie. They didn't have the time or the money for 'just a simulation'. Stiles ground his teeth together, felt his jaw ache in protest. “I can't.”

He didn't give Argent the time to dismiss him, breaking protocol and leaving the office, the door slamming shut behind him.

“Argent wants me back in Gamma Sentinel.”

Peter's head canted, blue eyes narrowing. “And you don't?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

“Because you're scared?” It's wasn't a taunt, none of Peter's usual sarcasm present in his voice. It was the only reason he didn't throw a punch.

“Yes,” He snapped, arms throwing forward, back, fingers restless, body wanting to move move move anywhere but where he was.

“What are you more afraid of?” Peter asked. “The guilt of costing Scott another partner, killing your brother, or knowing it was because you were right and they were wrong?”

“Fuck you!”

“Offer's always open,” Peter shrugged. “But if you really want to get Argent to back off, make him run the scenario Allison died in. The exact same parameters.”

“You actually expect me to stay in alignment?”

Peter actually looked curious. “I'm not sure. People change.”

Argent looked ready to spit nails when he set his terms. It was only Deaton and Morrell backing him up that finally made the marshal give in. Stiles didn't count it as a victory.

Stiles ignored how foreign Derek and Scott, DerekScottHimself, felt in favor of focusing ahead at Ironsedge. Recognition and bewilderment registered at the sight of the kaiju, the first hint of cognitive dissonance.

“Focus,” He commanded, willing them to continue, emulating Peter's guidance of him, and for a moment he was stunned, realizing how lax it had become since they'd started, nothing at all like what he was doing to Scott and Derek. A shudder wracked through him, moved and jolted through muscle before he felt the dissonance fade.

Their movements weren't as fluid as it had been with Allison, but he hadn't expected better, had expected worse as they ran the simulation. His memories of Scott and Peter's memories of Derek were outdated, the pair having evolved on their own. He adjusted to them, felt foreign to himself.

He knew the moment Scott and Derek spotted the carrier with the strike troopers, a blip that appeared in the simulation at just the right moment to make him flinch.

He let his personal opinion filter through the drift, knew they heard him and-

And they still moved towards the carrier. He fought it, still resolved, still so convinced he was right-

Stiles felt himself falling out of sync, the dizziness and nausea only growing worse as black dots swelled and burst like bubbles in his vision.

The kaiju bowled them over instead of throwing them, and he felt his spine flare white hot, more memory than any tenuous connection to the simulated jaeger or his copilots. The too real sensation of crashing into the water rocked him, made him gasp. The simulation disengaged a moment later, his lungs struggling for breath.

When they were pulled out, Scott was pale and trembling. Derek was quiet, pupils dilated and jaw slack. Both had to be helped to chairs.

Peter was there, and he didn't care who saw or what they thought about it. He stumbled forward and slumped into Peter's body, trusting him to hold him up. Callused fingers braced on the back of his neck, overwhelming the phantom pain.

“Still the same?”

“Still the same,” He mumbled, refusing to look at Scott.

He was staring up at Atlas Omega when Argent found him, ignoring propriety and sitting next to him on the catwalk, legs dangling over the edge. It was a throwback to the old days, when they'd been close enough to resemble family, and he'd called him Chris on their downtime.

“You were right,” Argent told him, mouth a grim slash on his face at he stared ahead. “I never told you. But you were right.”

“Doesn't matter,” He muttered, picking at his cuticle. “More people died because I fell out of alignment than would have if I'd stayed in.”

Argent nodded, because it was true and he wasn't the type of person to to lie in the interest of kindness. “But your first instinct was correct. I can't fault you for that. And I don't blame you for Allison. You followed your training, and you were trying to save the most lives you could. It's-” He paused. “Weighing bad against bad and being able to make a quick decision, it's not a quality most would admire. But it's a necessary quality in a ranger, and in command. So I do understand.”

Understanding didn't imply anything but understanding. Stiles shifted uncomfortably, unsure of what to say. “Okay.”

“Scott won't pilot Gamma Sentinel again without you. He says he can't. There are other candidates, if you're interested. Peter's obviously among them, Lydia too. We can use the scenario as a baseline to judge suitability.”

They should use it for all pilots, just in case. He didn't mind it being the example if it saved more rangers. “I'd never thought I'd say this, but I'm good with Peter. He's not interested in a three pilot scenario either.”

“Okay.”

Boyd, Erica, and Isaac were declared the new pilots after running the same scenario. No one fell out of sync, but they saved the carrier and the strike teams. More people died in the end, but the pilots lived and the jaeger survived.

Stiles supposed it would have to be good enough, and was thankful it wasn't his call to make.

The Sigma Havoc was permanently transferred to Australia, Danny and Ethan with it. The Gamma Sentinel took it's place in the hangar. Scott didn't even speak when he appeared, face pale and eyes wet. They went to the catwalk and sat and stared at the reconstructed chassis. Argent joined them, quietly unstacking plastic solo cups and filling them with whiskey.

Peter was uncharacteristically quiet when he got back to their room. In a rare show of compassion he squeezed the back of Stiles' neck and then left, closing the door behind him. Stiles took the gift for what it was and gave in to the heavy, sinking thing pressing down on his chest.

Alone, it was easier to picture her as she had been, sitting cross legged on the catwalk, drinking a celebratory beer and staring at the Gamma Sentinel with awe and pride. He felt like he was allowed to think about her that way, alive and happy.

“What's this?”

“Open it,” Lydia huffed impatiently. “And don't react like Peter did,” She added, crossing her arms.

He pulled open the box and stared down at the jacket. In the same style that had been unofficially adopted by the North American PPDC, it was a leather bomber jacket with the corps logo patched on the front along with another, bigger one with 'Atlas Omega'. Pulling it up and unfolding it, he saw the same patch on the right shoulder. On the left was a fleur-de-lis, the same patch on the jacket Scott had hidden from him after he'd tried to throw it away.

His fingers traced it, remembered how he and Scott had bitched and moaned and finally given in to Allison's insistence and let it become their logo. Then she'd put it on everything, even gotten it tattooed over her heart. The fallout from that had left them all laughing for weeks, Chris' outraged expression coming back any time he'd seen it. Allison had taken to wearing tank tops because she'd adopted Stiles' passive aggressive sense of humor. And oh, how Chris had blamed him for that, giving him the stink eye any time Allison's smile had been a little too much like his.

He blinked back the salt sting and turned it around to examine the back. There was no name, like his old jacket, but an omega symbol filled with a spiral dominated the space. There were the standard upside down torches the entire LA branch used to designate their kills painted beneath it.

“Looks like some douchey fratboy's tattoo,” He said, earning a fist to his shoulder. He winced, even though he was sure it was a love tap.

“I've already passed the design on to the j-techs,” She said sweetly, as if daring him to contradict her. “They started painting this morning.”

“No going back now, I guess."

“Jesus,” Scott murmured as they watched the silent footage, the newscaster droning on with commentary like it was a boxing match or a football game. “We were support when they got Yamarashi, remember?” He asked. Stiles nodded tightly, hugging himself as the footage continued to roll. “They were good pilots.”

Were. The past tense chilled him, goosebumps racing along his arms. The lack of sound to the clip was a blessing or a curse, he couldn't decide, wasn't sure if he'd rather hear the cries of the brothers or deal with the sounds from his own memories that supplied themselves only too quickly.

“How did the news even get this?” Derek demanded, scowling at the screen. “This is the jaeger's feed. Only LOCCENT should have it.”

“Probably an intentional leak by someone in the UN,” Chris sighed, looking exhausted. “Cole's already making noises about this being the perfect example of why they need to divert our funding to the wall project.”

Scott made a high pitched, incredulous sound. “The giant monster takes down a jaeger and they want to cut our funding?”

“How's the pilot holding up?” Stiles interrupted, still not looking at any of them.

“Catatonic. Morrell's headed up there to try and help him through it when he wakes up. After-” The pause caught his attention, dragged his focus off of the screen. Argent looked at him, gaze apologetic. For a moment he was looking at Chris and not Marshal Argent, a distinction he'd almost forgotten existed. “She's the only one stateside with experience in copilot survival.”

The footage ended abruptly, the screen flashing back to the news anchor. He stayed long enough to hear her use the least subtle language in existence to call the jaeger program useless before turning on his heel and making for the training wing.

Peter found him in the combat room, going through silat forms. He held two rattan toya up before tossing one in his direction. Stiles spun, smoothly avoided it and let it drop to the floor before moving into the next form. He could feel the disapproving stare boring into his back before another form turned him towards Peter again.

“I'd really like it if you left me the fuck alone.”

Peter's eyeroll looked genuinely painful. “No you don't.”

“I'm fine, just winding down.”

“It would behoove you to remember who you're lying to. Pick it up.”

Knowing there was no use in arguing, he bent and picked up the staff and moved into position.

They bantered, talking about anything but the obvious. The sound of the toya clattering against each other echoed through the combat room, punctuated the sounds of their breathing growing more and more labored.

Scott and Derek walked in, dressed to practice, and it was Derek's idea to try two on two, no weapons. Soon the combat room was filled with the sounds of bodies thumping onto the mats, his and Peter's banter and taunts and Scott and Derek's comebacks.

The room began to crowd with spectators he chose to ignore, moving around Peter, switching targets from Derek to Scott, never letting his guard down.

Ten points in and they'd won, his knee in Derek's back.

Scott was beaming despite the loss, and Peter executed a deep, theatrical bow when the people started applauding. Money was changing hands with no attempt at discretion. He helped Derek to his feet, breathing heavily and grinning. Derek returned his smile, nodding and gripping his hand in a show of sportsmanship. They knocked shoulders, companionable and comfortable with each other, trading insults back and forth all the way to the showers.

Sleep hit hard when he finally got to his bunk, exhaustion and Peter's quiet approval dragging him under.

“All rangers report to the main deck for briefing,” Argent's voice echoed over the pa system, just before Lydia made a strangled sound, eyes focused on her tablet.

“What?”

“Two kaiju spotted heading west,” She choked out, just before breaking out in a dead run.

“Two, are you fucking kidding me?” Stiles shouted, moving to catch up. “How did that even happen?”

“Two separate events. One doubled back out the Bering Sea. Alaska lost Romeo Blue and in the mess the kaiju fell off the radar. They thought it just crawled off and died somewhere, like idiots,” She added viciously, coming to a stop next to him as they spilled into the main deck, looking around for the marshal. Lydia slid her finger across her tablet, frowning at it. “The other just came from the breach, and it's-” She paused, lip between her teeth. It was a distinctly worried expression, one he hadn't seen her wearing too often, and one that made him wary of whatever it was she was going to say. “It's like the first waited for the second to come through before making any movements. We weren't notified until they realizedthat there were two.”

“Shit,” He muttered, running a hand through his hair and tugging it slightly. It sounded like a coordinated attack, which was a new one on them. Worse, that Anchorage was currently struggling with it's own losses.

“That's understating it,” Lydia snapped, tugging her hair back and producing a hair tie from nowhere, movements jerky as she secured the mass in a messy bun. The lack of grace to her movements worried him even more.

Peter came running in a second later, and Stiles listened with half an ear as Lydia began to explain the information that had been dumped on her tablet. The trio scrambled in moments later, followed by Scott and Derek, both with wet hair from a shower. Lydia didn't attempt to repeat herself, simply going on despite the others demands for an explanation. She and Peter stared down at her tablet, going over the information they had.

Argent came in and the others immediately began to question him.

His demand for silence echoed through the deck.

“There's been unusual activity to the west. Two separate events are moving in tandem. We've been asked to assist. I've selected two jaegers to join on strike teams. Unless the kaiju break from the projected targets, we're going to South Korea and Russia. Gamma, you're going to Sokcho. Atlas, you're heading to Vladivostok.”

Before he'd had time to draw a breath Scott and Derek were arguing, moving closer to Argent and pointing fingers, their voices gaining volume with every word.

“Atlas and Gamma are already in transit. My decision is final,” Argent snapped, voice booming across the deck. “Wheels up in twenty. Alpha, Braden's acting marshal in the case of an event. I doubt it'll happen, but given the recent behavior, it's better to be safe. Deaton will be manning LOCCENT for you if it does. Now scatter.”

“Russia agreed to let me act as CLO for you,” Lydia added quietly, chewing her lower lip.

“Good,” He told her firmly, squeezing her shoulder.

“Dude, they're taking you to Russia,” Scott began, agitated.

“We've all gone overseas before,” He reminded his brother, knowing that Russia had nothing to do with it. The anomaly did. “We'll be fine. Now we gotta go grab our shit. I'll bring you back some snow.”

“Stiles!”

“We gotta go,” He repeated, throwing an arm around Scott and giving him a quick squeeze. “We'll be fine, promise.”

The activity echoed behind them as he and Peter and the Gammas made their way to their quarters. He could hear the gammas whispering excitedly and realized it would be their first run on the other side of the rim. That there were two meant double the glory for everyone involved.

He wanted to tell them it was a big case of hurry up and wait. Transit always took forever. Better to catch some sleep while they still could. In the end, he diodn't say anything too them, jaw working, teeth clenching together. One of the kaiju had already taken down a jaeger and managed to avoid capture.  It made his movements as erratic as Lydia's had been, queasy anxiety already building up despite his breeziness with Scott. More and more he was beginning to understand how bad it actually was. 

Peter threw his duffle at him with ease before dropping his own onto his trunk and opening it, doing a quick check.

"Don't forget your toothbrush."

"Sure thing mom."

It was the first time he'd had any reason to wear the jacket, and he didn't miss Peter giving him an appraising glance as he pulled it on. He made a face more out of habit than anything else, slinging his duffel over his shoulder and following Peter out.

Scott and Derek were waiting on the flight deck, expressions grim.

“I'll be fine,” He swore again, giving Scott one last, tight hug. “Don't call dad.”

“Too late,” Scott grumbled into his shoulder.

“Jesus,” He muttered into Scott's hair, trying to imprint everything, remember it all just in case. “I'm going to kick your ass when I get back.”

“When you come back I'll let you,” Scott promised, squeezing one last time before letting go and stepping back. “Take care of him,” Scott demanded, looking over at Peter, who to all appearances was suffering Derek's embrace more than appreciating it. Stiles tossed a smirk in his direction. He totally knew better.

“Always do.”

“Ditto,” Stiles said, glancing at Derek. “And keep my boy safe if anything heads your way.”

The trio called out their own farewells before loading onto a second jet, their words almost completely lost in the techs calling out final checks. Lydia came up to them and ushered them onto the jet, shouting a distracted farewell in Scott and Derek's direction.

“What sort of time frame are we looking at?” He asked, tossing his duffel onto the pile with the others.

"Vladivostok's already on standby, but they're not sure.”

“What about Sokcho?”

Lydia made a face. “Argent's trying to get sense out of him now. I'm working solely with you two.”

“That bad?” He asked, quietly wishing luck to the trio.

“We're not sure, but better safe than sorry.”

“Try and rest up,” Argent commanded them, working on his tablet.

He closed his eyes, felt Lydia on one side of him and Peter on another. He didn't sleep, couldn't when Lydia quietly wondered if the kaiju were heading for the locations where anti-kaiju walls had started going up.

Two jaegers had been deployed, and one was already awaiting emergency extraction when they got there. He and Peter were rushed to the drivesuit room, urged by foreign voices. Atlas Omega was already docked and waiting for them.

The stripped quickly, paying no notice to the myriad techs running back and forth, trying to sort through the crates of armor and finding the appropriate pieces. It was a complete departure from the organized procedure he was used to. He shrugged into his circuitry suit and stood straight, arms out in an effort to make it easier for the techs.

Lydia's fingers trembled, the spinal clamp chittering against his armor.

“It's okay,” He murmured over his shoulder. “You know we've got this.”

“Yeah,” Lydia said, voice wobbling. “I know.”

“If you can't line up my spine let someone else do it. It's fine, okay. Just step back and take a deep breath.” She made an angry sound behind him, and he felt her hands steady. He smiled, little more than a quirk of his lips.

“You're telling people how not to panic?” Peter drawled as a tech moved behind him, locking his shoulderplate into place.

“Eat me.”

Peter leered, exaggerated and comical.

“Oh my god. I better not get full frontal fantasy when we bridge.”

“I would never,” Peter simpered mockingly.

“You're a filthy fucking liar,” Stiles muttered, feeling the spine finish locking into place.

“Don't do anything too stupid to show off,” Lydia murmured, a hand pressing between his shoulderblades before dropping away. He looked over his shoulder and grinned at her, then added a wink for good measure. “You've gotten as bad as he is,” She huffed, rolling her eyes before spinning on her heel and leaving.

“You love me!” He called to the closing doors.

The techs were moving ahead of them, guiding them through an unfamiliar maze to the gangway.

“Pushy,” Stiles joked, trying to quell the tremor in his voice.

Peter gave him a sharp, toothy grin that made his stomach clench in anticipation. “You take right today.”

That was- He was nodding even though he wasn't entirely sure he understood. Peter always took right, even in simulations. “Okay.”

The kaiju was already on the coast when they dropped, the world shaking and shuddering, knees jolting. A massive Mark-1 was grappling with it, the spark of it's tesla nodes in it's fist bursting in flashes in the darkness like lightning.

Memories echoed below his feet, behind him, left of center, just beyond the corner of his eye.

“About time,” A heavily accented voice grunted over the comm, loud thumping bass playing in the background. “I knew Americans were lazy.”

“I resent being blamed for the red tape,” Peter said in perfect Russian.

“Bureaucracy is a bitch in every country,” Stiles added.

Deep, rumbling laughter echoed through the comm. “Too true.”

“Our turbines were damaged. We'll hold the coast,” A woman's voice said.

“As you do,” Peter told them.

The Mark-1 pushed the kaiju back. The hulking monstrosity staggered, fell into the water. The lumbering jaeger turned, moved back and they moved around the kaiju, getting between it and the coast. The sound it made was lost on him as it lunged and scrabbled, clawed hands latching on and trying to gain purchase.

“It's not going to make landfall,” Peter snarled.

“I know,” Stiles tried. “We won't let it.”

The images persisted, teasing at the edge of his consciousness.

He didn't tell Peter to focus, knew it would only make it worse. Instead he pushed, tried to direct Peter like Peter had directed him.

It was one of the shortest conflicts he'd engaged in, felt like the longest, holding Peter to the path, keeping himself in two places at once, all the time ignoring Peter's memories from reaching out to him and following them down. By the time it was over and Zduhać was dead, he felt stretched thin and in dire need of a drink.

“Cherno, we need you on carcass duty,” A voice crackled over the comms.

“Always a pleasure,” Peter said, nodding at the Mark-1. It took Stiles a moment to realize he'd been speaking in Russian.

“Vsevó xoróševo,” The feminine voice returned.

“We're done here,” He called out into the comm.

“Good. We're taking you down south. Gamma Sentinel's showing signs of destabilizing and Lucky Seven can't maintain current output much longer,” Argent's voice told them. “You've got two hours to disengage if you need it. If we're lucky, it'll be over by the time you touch down.”

It sounded like he didn't believe it.

“We're good.”

“So I never realized you could translate like this,” He confessed. Peter didn't respond.

The memories continued, a blur of sensations cycling through the back of his mind.

“They never go away,” He stated baldly, feeling the spikes fade in intensity.

“Some people can go into the drift completely empty. I can't, so I bring it all with me, acknowledge it, then move on.”

The oft repeated mantra. Acknowledge it and move on.

He let himself coast along a pleasant rise and swell of quiet satisfaction and anticipation.

“You used my own trick on me.”

“Second time. No longer remarkable,” He commented drily, not opening his eyes to see Peter's expression. Pride echoed through the drift. It was a nice sensation, something he just basked in, hoping Peter felt his gratitude for teaching him how to control, how to direct when it was necessary.

The conn podd was virtually silent, save for the sounds of the jumphawks and creaking metal filtering in for the duration of the flight down to South Korea.

“Atlas Omega nearing drop zone. How are you holding up?” Lydia's voice demanded.

“We're running at sixty percent ammo, eighty percent power,” Stiles told Lydia, checking the readings and listening to her sound of agreement. “We're fine.”

He caught sight of the hulking figures rising up out of the ocean, three giants churning the waters around them.

“Atlas at target zone. Disengaging transport,” He called out, moving to disengage from the jumphawks.

The Gamma Sentinel was magnificent, moving with speed and precision. He took a moment to appreciate that he'd been like that once, had manned it, granted differently, but even more expertly than the trio inside.

It broke away from the fray, Erica's voice shouting out a good luck, voice pitched and breathless.

“Miss it?” Peter asked, no sense of anxiety jittering, twitching like the question normally would.

“Nah. You're a hell of a lot more fun.”

“Could be more.”

“I'll take that under consideration.”

“Really?”

“You'd have to be more receptive to bottoming.”

He felt Peter's laughter covering the low thrum of sharpening interest. “I'm flexible.”

“No flirting in the conn-pod!” Lydia voice snapped.

“You're just upset you've been replaced in his affections,” Peter taunted, raising their arm.

Stiles laughed even as the plasmacaster fired.

“You're docking in South Korea,” Lydia told them. “We're on the way.”

“Where's Gamma Sentinel?”

“Already docked,” Lydia's voice crackled. “You want me to go ahead and tell Scott and Derek you two made it?”

“Yeah,” He sighed, finally relaxing. “Make sure he tells my dad I'm fine and that I'll call once I make land.”

“Got it.”

“What time is it in Wyoming?” He groaned, wishing he could stretch. Everything ached, the phantom pains and bruises only slightly outdoing the bone deep weariness in his muscles.

“I think it's close to three there,” Peter sighed, echoing his own exhaustion. “You might reach him by dinner.”

“Fuck, we've already hit the news there,” He whined. “He's going to kill me.”

“He'll be proud of you after the yelling,” Peter told him, calm assurance radiating in the drift, placating the spike of anxiety. “We got two in one day. Has to be a first.”

That there had been more than one at all was a first that would probably have the science division and the news in conniptions for weeks. Maybe, if there was any justice in the world, it would shut the naysayers up and show them how vital the jaegers really were.

“We got to the party late,” Stiles reminded him, knowing the futility even as he said it.

“Still counts.”

There was clapping and fanfare, and even Lydia looked a little awestruck.

“What?” He asked, throwing an arm over her shoulder. A hand settled on the back of his neck, fingers scratching the nape before falling back away.

“You were in the drift for almost twelve hours,” She told him. In her exhaustion, the excitement came off as slightly manic, that familiar gleam in her eye making him edgy. He wondered what tests she was dreaming up for him and Peter. “With no signs of destabilizing. The only others that have done that are the Kaidonovskys, and they held for fifteen. You didn't even break for transport.”

He blinked stupidly, then looked over at Peter, who was practically radiating smug superiority.

“Huh. Didn't feel that long.”

“Come on, your father's waiting,” Peter reminded him, a hand coming to the small of his back to direct him away from Lydia and the others. A tech gave them directions, even offered to show them where the comms-room was or to let Stiles use his computer. Stiles demurred, sagged into Peter as they navigated the corridors.

Peter left him alone in the comm-room to go find them both breakfast. He waited patiently for his dad to turn on his camera. When his face blinked onto the screen he took a long moment to just soak it in, knew his dad was doing the same.

“You look like crap son,” His dad declared, beginning their pattern. Stiles fell into it easily, smiling.

“But I feel fantastic.” Which wasn't a lie. For all the aches and phantom bruises lingering beneath his skin, he did feel fantastic. The fanfare hadn't hurt anything.

“You were on the news.”

“It wasn't as bad as it looked.”

“Two?”

“We were support. Second and third string, really.”

A long pause, time for them both to accept what had happened.

“Where are you?”

“South Korea.”

“You should bring me back a souvenir.”

“I'm kind of whomped,” He admitted, kneading the back of his neck to try and soothe some of the kinks out. It was a dismal failure. “Too many hours in the drift and the flight out to Vladivostok before that. Pretty sure after this I'm going to crash for a couple of days. Or turn into a massive caffeine fueled asshole, depending on when Argent wants to debrief.” Ugh, two incidents. One was bad enough. The paperwork for two would be a nightmare. Then again, maybe it'd turn into a double hazard bonus. That would be nice.

“And here I was hoping Peter would curb those tendencies,” His dad admitted with obvious bemusement.

He burst into unexpected, exhausted laughter. Tears burned his eyes and he gripped his side, cheeks aching from smiling. When he looked back up at the screen, the blurry visage of his dad was watching him with genuine worry creasing his forehead. More wrinkles.

“Maybe you should hit the rack.”

He sniffed, wiped his eyes and grinned at the camera. “Probably.”

“I love you son.”

“Love you too dad. Give Melissa a hug for me. And call Scott and let him know I'm in one piece. He never believes Lydia.”

“Will do.”

The call disconnected and the door opened a moment later.

“You could have come in,” He sighed, knowing Peter hadn't wanted to but feeling better for saying it.

Peter held a weighted plastic bag aloft. “Come on.”

He followed, the strange vertigo that had been absent since he'd started drifting with Peter returning. Chalking it up to exhaustion, he let Peter lead him through the dome, which appeared to be an exact copy of the LA shatterdome. Their room was in the ranger's hall, two bunks already made and waiting, their duffels stacked against the wall.

Eating too quickly to taste anything, he tossed the wrappers into the bag and crawled onto the top bunk.

A moment later the lower bunk creaked, then he felt Peter poking at him.

“No, I'm tired,” He groaned, the poking finger turning into Peter's tugging on his beltloops. “I'm not letting you in my pants.”

“I'm not going to molest you,” Peter quipped, tugging him down from the bed. Stiles barely avoided falling on his ass and glared. He doubted it was impressive, especially by the way Peter rolled his eyes and his head actually followed the motion. “Especially not in a South Korean rattrap.”

“I'm pretty sure that's offensive,” He grumbled, faceplanting on the bottom bunk. Peter straddled his back, a solid, warm weight.

“I live to offend.”

“Don't lie. You live to fuck with me.” Fingers dug into his flesh and for a split second it was agony before they started moving, rubbing in strong, tight circles. “Okay, this totally might be blowjob worthy,” He groaned, melting.

“If only I'd known that sooner,” Peter chuckled, widening the circles out.

“You like a challenge,” He mumbled into the mattress, right before dropping off to sleep.

“You look nervous.”

“Dad and Melissa are on their way here. They didn't even call ahead,” He muttered, scrubbing his face.

“Because they both know you and Scott would fight them on it.”

“That's not even the point.”

“It is,” Peter said. Though he hadn't moved, hadn't even changed his tone, Stiles knew he was pissed off.

“What's wrong?”

“Why are we doing this, if not for family?”

“Because otherwise the kaiju would kill everyone.”

“Do you actually care about everyone else?” Peter asked, brow arched and mocking.

“You're an asshole.”

“But I'm honest. You don't care about the poor innocent civilians and saving the world. You care about your father being kept as far away from the kaiju as possible, and you're willing to do whatever necessary to ensure that.”

“Is there a point to this?”

“Why bother if you're never going to see him again? Do you think he cares about a longer lifespan if he virtually loses you?”

Stiles opened his mouth to say 'wont matter if he's dead', but by some miracle remembered who he was talking to.

“That's what I thought.”

Melissa and his dad smiled, hugged him and Scott tight. He took a moment to just- Appreciate that he had this, his dad still alive, embracing him, neither caring who saw them. Machismo wasn't nearly as important as hugging his dad, and fuck anyone that said otherwise.

The last time he'd seen him had been after Allison's funeral, and he hadn't been able to let his dad touch him at all, body too sensitive to bear physical sensation. Now though- His dad looked as surprised as he felt when he let go, stood back and offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

Melissa looked even more surprised when he hugged her. He didn't fail to notice the ring on her finger.

“Hey Scotty,” Stiles said, glancing over at his brother when he let go.

“Huh?”

“I think we're finally going to be official.”

“What?”

“Dad finally stopped being such a pansy and-” His dad elbowed him in his side. “It was Melissa, wasn't it?” He grinned. When his dad's face turned red, Stiles crowed with laughter and high fived Melissa while Scott looked on, adorably confused.

“Yes, you're finally going to legally be brothers,” Melissa told him.

Scott whooped and Stiles got a second high five, this time from Scott. His dad rolled his eyes and smiled.

It set the tone for the next few hours, a good mood lightening their words as they talked about life in Wyoming and in the 'dome. When Melissa asked about Alpha Tide, Scott said she had to meet Derek, as if it hadn't even occurred to him before that moment. Stiles waved them off, said he wanted to get out for a bit, knowing that meeting would be easier with just Scott and Derek.

They decided to head off base, his dad looking comfortable as they navigated the checkpoints, his vehicle being checked four times before it was allowed outside of the gates. Stiles couldn't remember the last time he'd driven, his jeep somewhere in Wyoming, probably rusting to death in a garage.

“I always forget how empty it is now,” His dad hummed as they headed into the city.

“Better than full of assholes like it used to be,” Stiles volunteered, heading for the area of the city that openly sold contraband, just to see his dad valiantly pretend he wasn't seeing people breaking the law. Parking was actually difficult, the old parking garages ignored out of habit as he searched the side streets. No one bothered with meters anymore, which didn't help matters.

Finally finding a space a few away from the market district, he got out and stretched. They walked in relative silence and Stiles went directly for the little grocery he knew supplied fresh produce. His dad eyed the guard at the doorway and sighed, giving in with no comment.

“Scott tells me Peter's interesting.”

“Peter's something,” Stiles said, glancing at a little tofu place and wishing for curly fries. “Not sure what.”

“I thought the whole point was knowing each other.”

“We do. It's just- He's an asshole.” His dad's amusement made him frown. “What?”

“You're not exactly easy either, son.”

“I'm a delight,” He snarked.

“Chris said you're doing better.”

“Chris? You talk to him?” Was on a first name basis with him? “Is this high school again?” Where his dad had been on a first name basis with Coach Finstock, of all people.

“After-” His dad paused. “After you and Scott lost Allison, you weren't talking at all. I needed to know you'd pull through. Chris, he doesn't blame you. You know that, right? No one does.”

Stiles shrugged uncomfortably, jammed his hands into his pockets. Mercifully, his dad took that as a sign to change the subject.

“He said you and Peter are a good team.”

“We've had a good run.” A miracle run by all standards.

“Sometimes I worry.”

“I'm good dad.”

“Not about that. All that money you and Scott send. You're not saving anything for yourselves.”

“We're taken care of in the 'dome.”

“Yeah, but what about after?”

Stiles looked straight ahead, not sure how to answer. He thought about Peter, who had bought a house for someone else and not himself. Derek saw something beyond the war, and maybe that meant Scott did too. He didn't, couldn't imagine life without the threat of the kaiju looming over them, the war clock resetting and counting and resetting again.

He'd had a life before the war, and dreams, he was sure of it. But it felt like life began the day Trespasser had lumbered close enough to their home that the outskirts of their town still resembled a war zone. The inevitable conclusion would be in a jaeger, if he was lucky. The academy had prepared him for that, and years in the 'dome had only reinforced the lesson.

“See that's what worries me. It's like you don't ever expect to have a life after this.”

“They haven't showed any sign of slowing down dad.” Just coming more and more often.

“I know. Just. No war lasts forever. And there's the wall too.”

“Yeah, we should just surrender three quarters of the planet and cripple the economy for something that won't work,” He muttered.

“It might work.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “You notice they've never stayed in the ocean, right? They head for land. A jaeger barely stops them, a wall isn't going to.”

His dad looked ready to argue the point when he looked down, eyebrows almost reaching his hairline. “You hate apples.”

“I-” He looked down at the bag of green apples hanging from his hand, couldn't remember grabbing them. “I'm picking them up for Peter.”

“Am I ever going to meet this guy?”

“He's weird with families. He uh- Most of them were in San Francisco on K-Day.” Which the entire world knew. Until the Kate incident, the Hales had been at the forefront of the PPDC's propaganda, the best sort of hero story. Most of the family dead in K-Day, Laura martyred by kaiju extremists- And Derek and Peter standing firm, going to fight for their country despite it all. They'd been a PR manager's wet dream before vanishing from the public eye.

His dad made a sympathetic sound. “I remember. That's a lot of loss for one person.”

He almost said 'it's not one person', wanted to tell his dad that the drift made it easier to carry the weight. But his dad couldn't understand the drift any more than a drifter could really explain what it was.

“Peter's way is acknowledge it and move on,” He said quietly. “It's helped,” He admitted a moment later.

“Good. Still, I'd like to meet him, when he's comfortable.”

“I dunno.” He tried to soften the blow, his dad's expression dimming. “Besides, he'd probably hit on you just to make you uncomfortable.”

“Does he do that with you?”

No matter how much he would love to see his dad give Peter a sexual harassment talk, he wouldn't subject his dad to a no win scenario. “Hard to make someone uncomfortable when they know every inch of your gray matter,” He huffed, smiling at his dad's consternation.

“So. Tell me all about this double kill you managed. Scott made it sound like a big deal.”

“Your son's a certified badass, dad,” He deadpanned, and laughed when his dad cuffed him on the back of the head.

“Here.”

Peter looked at the bag of apples, mouth quirking up on one side, bemusement obvious. “I was craving one.”

“I know.”

Now Peter looked interested. “You know?”

“Don't start with me.”

“Ghost drifting isn't unheard of.”

“Yeah but-” Scott had experienced it with Allison. They'd been terrifyingly in sync even out of the drift. There had been moments he'd wondered if he had it with them, but he'd never been able to tell if it had been a product of his yearning for something that intimate, or if it had been the real deal. “I never had it with them.”

“Am I really so bad?”

“Stop fishing, you know you're not,” He retorted, dropping down onto the bunk and stretching out, his legs draping over Peter's. He closed his eyes, listened to the sound of Peter cutting into the apple. The appreciative hum rolled through him, made his lips quirk into a smile.

“My dad wants to meet you,” He tried.

“Maybe next time.”

It sounded like maybe Peter meant it.

“Please don't make me do this.”

“We're drumming up good press,” Argent told him. “You'll go, you'll smile, and you'll talk about the importance of the jaeger program.”

“Doesn't Scott fit the all American hero image better?” He tried, desperate even though he was reasonably certain it was already a lost battle. Argent didn't fuck around when it came to the press, he never had.

“Scott and Derek are good for fluff pieces, which the public is already sick of,” Argent shrugged. “You and Peter can handle a real interview. They're going to be asking about the program and it's efficacy, it's impact in relation to the wall project. Scott and Derek would drop the ball.”

Which was massively insulting to Scott and Derek's abilities, but also probably true. The media was out for blood these days. “Yeah but-” He hadn't done PR of any sort since he'd piloted Gamma Sentinel. Peter hadn't since killing Kate. Rusty was a polite term.

“The gammas get too confrontational when they feel attacked and Lydia's still in Anchorage for a candidate trial. You and Peter are the best choice and frankly, the one I'd make for this regardless. You're both smart and you know how to work people. Taylor's gunning for us. Any good press we can get would help the program.”

“Yeah,” Stiles sighed, running a hand through his hair. He'd be bald by thirty. “I'll go tell Peter.”

“I'd appreciate it.”

“Coward,” He accused, the word lacking any real heat.

“Good management is all about knowing when to delegate.”

He slung his jacket off and ripped the microphone off, making sure it was turned off before throwing it onto counter and reaching for one of the remover wipes the assistant had pointed out before he'd slammed the door in her face. Peter moved more sedately, but Stiles didn't miss the tension in his shoulders or the way he avoided looking directly at the mirror.

“Someone should feed her to a kaiju,” Stiles muttered, wiping at his face to get the makeup off. “Is this fucking greasepaint?” He snarled, wiping harder and feeling like he was only smearing it all around.

“She was tactless,” Peter agreed, plucking the towelette from his fingers and folding it before carefully wiping at his face, moving in slow, small circles. A moment later Peter met his gaze head on. “Asking about Allison was a bit far.”

“A bit far?” He sputtered before Peter grabbed his chin and tilted his head to scrub next to his nose. “She asked what it was like to feel someone die.” He'd almost asked her how long she thought brain activity continued after death just to see her flounder for a moment. Instead he'd done the 'right' thing and looked appropriately subdued while answering with something generic.

“You're one of a very small population that's survived the death of a copilot,” Peter reminded him. “And don't pretend that's all you're upset about.”

He glared at Peter while he wiped his mouth, spoke the minute the he could, words cold. “I am angry about that.”

“You were already angry by the time she got to you.”

“She had no right to make Laura’s death sound like it was her fault,” He snarled, the frames of Laura being splashed with kaiju blue still seared into his retinas and the extremists' chanting echoing in his ears. He wasn't sure what he was more pissed about, the video they'd played in front of Peter or the insinuation that Laura should have expected backlash for her speeches. “It wasn't.”

“I know that, and Derek knows it. You know it,” Peter told him, taking one final swipe at his forehead and tossing the wipe onto the counter. Stiles leaned forward, let Peter's hand cup the back of his neck, thumb tracing his hairline. “She was baiting us. You maintained your composure and did everything you were supposed to. Argent won't find anything to be upset about on our end.”

“I know,” He muttered into Peter's shoulder. Argent was probably drinking by now, but he'd also be thanking god they'd handled themselves. Stiles wanted a personal thank you from Pentecost and a bottle of whiskey. Top shelf, not the moonshine rotgut the black market was passing off as whiskey nowadays. “Not an idiot.”

“And that's why he sent us. Can you imagine how Derek and Scott would have reacted?”

He huffed out a laugh. “They'd have lost it,” He agreed, able to picture it only too clearly. “Derek would have gotten in her face the second she mentioned Allison while Scott tried to keep his shit together. Scott would have gone off the minute she brought up Laura while Derek stayed quiet. No timely commercial breaks, public relations snafu, pissed off Argent.” But they would have fought for the other when they wouldn't fight for themselves. Trusting in that as much as Scott and Derek probably did was more than he could have hoped for back when Scott had been paired with a virtual stranger.

He could feel Peter moving his arm, probably wiping off all the makeup on his face. “You don't resent it anymore.”

“Nah. They're good for each other.”

“And us?”

He and Peter both had remained calm for the interview. For all that they hadn't tried to steer away from the topic when it got uncomfortable, he'd felt Peter's silent approval of how he'd reacted. That Peter had never attempted to answer for him felt like a compliment instead of a betrayal.

“Not sure,” He lied. “I think I've adopted your homicidal impulses.”

“You make it sound like such a burden,” Peter groaned. “Thought murders are scientifically proven to be beneficial to the psyche.”

“And you?”

Peter leaned into him, and for a beat Stiles held his breath, allowed himself to savor what he knew.

“I haven't killed anyone lately.”

His exhale turned into a groan. “Well, we're all works in progress.”

When they got back to the dome, Lydia introduced her new partner Jordan, a recent graduate from the academy. Peter made a pithy comment about her tendency to pair up with Ken dolls and Stiles shook his head and stepped out of the way so he could avoid the crossfire.

“It's a pleasure,” He told Jordan, shaking his hand while Lydia began verbally flaying Peter alive.

“It's good to meet you for real. Lydia-” Jordan faltered, glanced over at his copilot, who was right in Peter's face and poking his chest as if emphasizing several very angry points.

“I know you probably saw a hell of a lot. If you slip it's fine. The academy doesn't really prepare you for compartmentalization after finding a steady partner. It's harder once you settle in with someone, but you'll get used to it.”

“Thanks,” Jordan told him, looking sheepish. “I'm not even sure how it happened. She's-”

“Intimidating?” He supplied, smirking as Lydia pointed a finger directly in Peter's face, speaking too quietly to hear. Peter smirked back at her like she wasn't emasculating him.

“A genius,” Jordan corrected. “I was just a sheriff's deputy before I was recruited.”

Point for Jordan. “My dad's a sheriff and I used to think I'd be one of his deputies,” He admitted, noting Jordan's shoulders relaxing. Common ground. “Drifting doesn't really take that sort of thing into account. It's about communicating, similar philosophies, morals, that sort of thing. IQ and personality aren't really indicators of compatibility in the drift. I mean, I got paired with a sassy asshole that loves campy scifi movies.”

“You're a sarcastic brat that still reads Harry Potter,” Peter drawled. “I hardly see the difference.”

“Our lives are a sci-fi movie. We pilot a giant robot via a mindmeld to fight aliens. I didn't get my Hogwarts letter.”

“Himantura probably ate all the owls while trampling the UK. Fairly certain he took out Diagon Alley too.”

Stiles mocked a horrified gasp, a hand covering his heart. “You're a horrible person.”

“It keeps me up at night.”

“You were right,” Jordan said to Lydia, who only nodded, looking pleased with herself. Stiles rolled his eyes.

“Creepy isn't it?” She asked. “I've even caught them wearing each other's clothes a few times and they never noticed.”

If she wasn't lying, he hadn't noticed. Huh. He wondered how he looked in a V-neck.

“Just think, any day now you'll be trying to figure out if shell pink or coral matches your drivesuit better,” He teased.

Genuine panic flashed across Jordan's features. “Seriously?”

“Most likely,” Peter added, and Stiles applauded his straight face even as he tried to swallow down the cackling laughter bubbling up and threatening to spill out. “Lydia's influence is formidable.”

Lydia looked ready to kill them both. Taking that as their cue to exit before she started quietly threatening him, he threw an arm over Peter's shoulder and shoved into him.

“You should consider summer tones with your skin, just sayin',” He tossed over his shoulder as they strode away.

They both waited in the control room while Alpha Tide and Proctor Tau were deployed to San Diego to deal with a category four. Argent's demeanor worried him, made him itch to ask if they could just go.

“Alpha's left leg is compromised,” Deaton said, voice calm even as Scott and Derek's rapid fire commands filtered through the comm. “Extraction advised.”

“Proctor, you are to hold the mile. We're sending back up. Do not engage unless necessary.”

“Atlas, you're going to try and drop between Alpha and Proctor. If we don't make it in time, you'll be running with Proctor.”

“Shit. Shit,” Stiles muttered, running for the dock.

Even the techs seemed to understand the enormity of the situation, moving at double pace through getting them suited up and into their jaeger and ready for deployment. Peter told him to take right again. Stiles did it without question, let himself lock in and tip back, down into the drift.

“It broke the mile,” Argent's voice intoned over the comm. An eternity later, “Proctor is at fifty percent.”

He focused on Lydia and Jordan's voices, Argent and Deaton droning in the background.

“He's made landfall,” Jordan's voice managed, the declaration sounding like a death knell.

The vivid dissonance of Peter's memories threatened to overtake the drift and suck him down.

“Acknowledge it, move on,” Stiles said, ignoring the flash of irritation.

“We're dropping you in the harbor,” Deaton's voice said. “Almost there.”

The port was already a wreck. Even though the bases had long since moved to the Atlantic coast, there were still enough boats there that their shapes, broken and floating aimlessly looked like the aftermath of a child's tantrum.

The kaiju was already well into the city, Proctor Tau's pulse launcher echoing.

“Atlas if you can hold him we've got enough for a full salvo,” Lydia's voice crackled through the comms.

“And if you miss?” Peter demanded.

“She doesn't miss,” Stiles promised even as Lydia shouted the same.

They stared at the city.

“Don't second guess it,” Peter commanded firmly, cold resolve filling the drift and choking his dread. “You know the right choice.”

It didn't make it any easier to trample through the city like an oversized linebacker just to head the kaiju off. Peter's memories felt more vivid, gaining color and sound that emphasized the sensation of San Diego falling apart around them. They got into position with only moments to spare, the hulking monster so goddamn close-

They braced themselves, the kaiju impacting. He raised and linked his arms in a grotesque parody of a hug, fists clenched and muscles straining. For a terrible moment he was afraid they'd tip back, fall and take out a few blocks on impact, be forced to destroy a block or three just to get back to their feet.

Someone said steady, and he wasn't sure if it was him or Peter, or both.

“Proctor we've got it!” He shouted, pain spiking in his side when the kaiju's claws gripped and tore. “Move your ass!”

Memories of bombs going off burned too bright in the drift, threatening to overwhelm it, to suffocate him in their light.

“Peter, come back,” He commanded sharply, terrified Peter would start chasing the RABIT right in the middle of a conflict. “I need you front and center!” His shoulder went numb before the ache of an open wound blossomed, flesh and bone protesting. “Peter stop jerking off, that's not me,” He snapped.

He breathed a sigh of relief when Peter shifted, engaged the pulse launcher and fired directly into the kaiju's torso.

“Are you saying you're not a biter?” Peter taunted, voice tight, a poor attempt at humor falling flat.

“Ready. Brace yourself Atlas,” Jordan warned.

The salvo hit the kaiju's back and he felt it, the world rocking back before shifting forward.

“Loccent, a reading!” Peter barked.

“Still registering life,” Argent told them even as the kaiju began to shudder and push against them. Pain dragged down his already throbbing side before it disengaged.

“We've got a ground team in place a quarter a mile west, two more moving into position. Atlas, at your discretion.”

The drift became a whorl of hopeless rage as they grappled and shot one round after another, depleting the pulse launcher and then the plasma caster. The ground team lit up the early morning with flashes of light and resonating whistles and booms. Another joined it, coming from somewhere east of them. Argent assured back up with Gamma Sentinel, and even Lima was sending a team, a promise they barely heard.

Left with nothing but grappling and swinging their fists, they shouted over the comms, Peter's determination to hold it in one place like a vice on Stiles' head, locking his arms into position. They were still holding fast when Gamma Sentinel landed and followed their path of destruction through the city to unload everything they had on the kaiju.

Argent announced it was dead after two more salvos, and to let the carcass rest where it dropped.

They pulled away, and Stiles felt curiously numb and empty, as if he wasn't in the drift at all.

“Atlas, maintain current position,” Argent's voice sighed. “Extraction's on it's way. You too Gamma.”

He felt the impulse just before the shock of Peter disengaging nearly ripped him in two. A sharp, broken sound echoed in his throat, ended in a gurgle.

“Peter,” He tried, that wash of fury still pulsing beneath his skin, only making the pain in his side and shoulder that much worse. Every part of him ached, felt raw and open.

Peter kept his eyes closed and gave no indication he'd heard. Stiles tried again only to be ignored.

“Don't,” Stiles pleaded, raising a hand to head off whatever lecture was coming. “Please.”

Chris sighed, looked exhausted, teetering on the edge of his own breaking point. “You did the best you could have in the circumstances. It didn't get any further inland.”

“Yeah,” He muttered, moving past Chris and heading for his locker. He tugged on clothes and shoved his feet into his boots without bothering to put on socks.

Scott was running towards him, Derek at his side. They were in step, expressions twin masks of anxiety. Stiles wondered if he and Peter moved like that now, if others recognized that synchronicity in them.

Except Peter had collapsed the bridge like nothing, broken away from him and left him reeling on his own. It felt like betrayal of the worst sort, even understanding why Peter had done it.

“Not right now,” He said, striding past them.

“He usually hits the showers after a rough one,” Derek called out.

Stiles bit back the snarl rising in his throat, the instinctive urge to say 'I know, you idiot'.

The atmosphere of the 'dome was subdued as he made his way to the showers, the few people he did see getting out of his way. Whether it was because of the dismal failure or because he was radiating 'fuck off', he wasn't entirely sure, didn't really care.

The showers were equally deserted, only Peter beneath the spray, hands braced against the wall like it could keep him from falling down. Clothes were a haphazard trail on the floor. Stiles toed off his boots, shucked off his clothing and stepped in behind Peter, wrapped his arms around his middle and rested a chin on his shoulder.

“This is new,” Peter said, voice monotone. “If I'd known that this is all it would take I would have-”

“What?” Stiles challenged when Peter didn't continue, pushing and pulling at him until they were facing each other. “You would have what?”

“I'm fine.”

“Liar,” Stiles countered, crowding him up against the tile wall, smirked when Peter hissed. “Cold?”

“I don't need a pity fuck,” Peter bit out as Stiles pressed himself into Peter, bracketing Peter's legs with his own.

“Maybe I'm not fine,” He suggested before biting into Peter's shoulder, hard enough there would be a bruise in the morning, a physical reminder of what the kaiju had done. “Or maybe I just really want to see if you're going to deliver on all that shit inside your head.”

“Both but neither.”

He hummed into Peter's neck, felt muscles twitching against his face in response. “You left.”

“You didn't want to see.”

“I always see,” He admonished, punctuating the reprimand with another bite. “Pretty sure I'm old enough to make my own decisions too.”

Peter huffed in bitter amusement, the sound ending in Stiles' mouth, humming against his teeth. In contrast to the tepid water, Peter's mouth was almost scalding, tongue wet slick heat that made his skin feel too tight. A hand clamped on the back of his neck, kept him pinned. Fingertips dug in, would leave bruises before it was over. His hands moved restlessly over skin, trying to figure out where to touch, whether to grab Peter's hair or scratch at his shoulders or grip his hips.

“Oh my god!” Scott's voice shouted, echoing in the perfect acoustics of the showers. “Okay you're fine! They're fine Derek! Don't come in here!”

He broke the kiss, panting against Peter's mouth. Teeth nipped his lower lip in protest, tried to cajole him back into the kiss.

“What're the chances he tries very, very hard not to think about this the next time they drift?” He managed, breathless and already beginning to laugh.

Peter laughed, and Stiles felt it rumbling where they were pressed together.

They became another example of how the jaeger program was 'failing the people'. The news coverage was only the beginning. There were reports, psych evals, and night terrors, those culminating in a hearing where Argent defended the LA teams with everything he had. He felt a surge of gratitude for Chris when Allison was brought up, when Kate was mentioned in thinly veiled double talk, when Jordan's inexperience was pointed out and Lydia's suitability was questioned. They were all dragged through the mud and Chris never blinked. Stiles bit his tongue, wished he could do more than stand between Peter and Scott, tried to find support in their shoulders pressing him in from other side.

His marshal didn't back down, protecting all of them with equal fervor and eloquence. They came out of it with their ranks intact. He breathed a sigh of relief for the miracle.

They confined themselves to base, if only to avoid the multitude of cameras and protesters that had begun camping outside of the 'dome's perimeter.

He had his first panic attack since being paired with Peter when he made the mistake of reading the final report and saw the estimated death toll. A sense of futility settled, the weight of all those lives bearing down like a stone on his chest. Scott couldn't even reach him, and it was Peter that got his dad on the phone, both of them talking to him quietly as they waited the attack out with him, never budging.

Budget cuts started to be felt, in the slowly dwindling employee population, in the rations, in Chris' increasingly wrinkled face. Minor and aesthetic repairs to the jaegers were delayed, put off. Hazard bonuses were reduced by half and every department complained about being forced to stretch their supplies to the breaking point.

Peter displayed true panic for the first time when he and Scott came back into the base, blue paint dripping from both of them after an ill advised attempt to go into the city. He let himself be scrubbed roughly, to red and raw, Peter's movements jerky and frantic despite assurances it was just paint, wasn't even the right shade to be kaiju blood. He also let himself be talked into letting Lydia examine him, because Lydia was the only person Peter trusted to do it. He and Scott were subjected to one test after another, blood sample after blood sample being drawn until he was sure he'd need a transfusion. Peter and Derek both paced restlessly while he tried not to think about the seething hatred on the protester's faces.

Even when Lydia came back hours later with the all clear, Peter was almost suffocating in his need to touch. He took to practically dragging Stiles back to their bunk at odd times to strip him down and run his hands over pale skin, as if he couldn't quite believe the stains weren't just below the surface.

Two events occurred on the other side of the rim and everyone had their own way of dealing with it. Peter and Derek tore into each other in the combat room, blowing past the line of true violence within minutes. Lydia verbally eviscerated Jordan for being so unsure of himself, Scott comforted Jordan and he holed up with Lydia in the science wing, listening to her steamroll Deaton as she suggested more and more fantastical weaponry.

Their particular brand of hell continued, threatened to break them all until they were deployed again. The category four didn't get close to the coast, was in two pieces by the time Alpha Tide and Atlas Omega were finished. After, he and Peter didn't even make it out of the hangar before they were fucking, emotionally scarring a decent portion of the tech population along with Scott and Derek.

The new footage was aired more than the old, but there were still reports of the dead being found under rubble in San Diego and grotesque pictures of the carcass picked clean in the center of a developing bone slum.

There was minor fallout when Derek and Braeden began sleeping together and Derek panicked. In the middle of that snafu Scott came to him in tears because the new engineer had caught his eye, and he felt like he was betraying Allison's memory.

He and Peter managed to convince them both the world had been on the brink for years, and the women were nice and more importantly, sane; so they should probably go for it before the world got around to actually ending. Stiles may have said something about Allison wanting Scott to be happy, and Peter may have mentioned spiting Kate's memory, but it worked. Derek fixed things with Braeden, Scott began spending time with Kira, and even Argent looked like he was happy for everyone.

Lydia's mom came for a visit, ran into Chris, and decided LA needed another teacher. Stiles high fived Lydia, her knowing smile making him suspect. He didn't ask, but he didn't really need to.

They were deployed along the rim, to Anchorage, to Mexico, to Japan and Australia.

Two K-Science guys came to the 'dome to conference with Deaton. One of them, a kaiju groupie, made the mistake of ignoring Lydia, even when Deaton deferred to her. His second mistake was saying the rangers were little more than bullet sponges. His third and final fuckup came when he wouldn't shut the hell up about the kaiju, specifically mentioning Ironsedge and showing off the tattoo of it on his stomach. Derek hauled off and decked him, snapping his glasses cleanly in two. No one tried to stop him. The other scientist shook his head, muttered clipped epithets and spoke to Lydia about algorithms.

They left, the groupie's eye black and swollen. No one was particularly sorry to see him go.

His dad and Melissa eloped to LA to get married by a military chaplain. His dad finally met Peter, giving him a firm handshake and thanking him for keeping Stiles safe.

Peter didn't flirt with the bride or the groom; not because he agreed that it would be creepy, but because he thought it was bad form to flirt with the newly wedded. Stiles decided he would take what he could get.

His dad was still in the 'dome when LOCCENT announced an event.

He and Peter were deployed as part of a strike team to Baja, where the wall was going up. Proctor Tau joined, and Puma Real deployed from Panama City.

Atlas' left shoulder was crushed, but they made the kill two miles away from land. When they got back, he only had to see his dad and Melissa's faces to understand that they'd been listening in the whole time. He sagged against Peter even as he tried to muster the strength for a smile.

The embrace was uncomfortable because he was still caught in the vestiges of the drift, Atlas' body more real to him than his own. It was strange because he hadn't stepped away from Peter, and his dad hadn't tried to make him, instead hugging them both. Looking over at Peter, he saw stunned disbelief that was quickly morphing into panic.

He couldn't help it. He laughed so hard his shoulder throbbed and his eyes burned from tears. Peter was not amused, and his dad kept saying he needed to get his head checked.

When his dad and Melissa were getting ready to leave, he quietly agreed to start saving half his checks and every other hazard bonus.

“Tokyo's down two jaegers after Gaikotsu. They want a temporary team over there until they get back on their feet.”

“Can't they just harass China?” Scott asked cutting into his baked potato. Stiles lamented the lack of curly fries.

“China never loans out their own,” Chris muttered dourly, as if he'd made the argument, which was entirely possible. “Management thinks we can spare a team for a few months, considering our success rates lately. Besides, you don't say no to Pentecost, and he made the request personally. He specifically mentioned Alpha and Atlas as strong preferences.”

“We're not good enough?” Lydia huffed as her mother passed her the plate of steamed vegetables, courtesy of the urban garden Natalie and Jordan had started as part of a community outreach program.

“You are, but Pentecost wants you here, we've still got the better lab equipment and we're closer to Anchorage in case he wants to call you in.”

Lydia looked mollified, even a little pleased that Pentecost had taken her skills as a scientist into account.

“How many months is a few?” Derek asked, frowning.

“Six to twelve. Extra pay too, on top of hazard.”

Stiles looked over at Peter, knew immediately that he was going to be packing his trunk. He turned back to Chris and grinned. “We'll do it.”

“Thank god,” Chris muttered, leaning back in his seat. “No more complaints from the techs.”

“Or me,” Scott chimed in.

“Or me,” Derek added sourly.

“That was one time-” Stiles began.

“Four! Four times,” Scott reminded him, jabbing the air for emphasis. “And that's not counting the times Erica showed me what she managed to film! You totally winked in one.”

“You watched closely enough to catch a wink?” Braeden teased.

“No! She- He-” Scott sputtered, flailing and pointing at Stiles. “I focused on his face!”

Peter snorted even as Derek palmed his face, covering his eyes like he could block out the mental image. Chris' long suffering expression was hidden behind his glass. Everyone else at the table seemed to be tittering, Kira patting Scott's shoulder in mock sympathy.

“She sends us copies,” Stiles shrugged. “Not my fault she can't get her gay porn fix with Boyd and Isaac.”

“Thank you for that,” Chris sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I cannot begin to explain how lucky you both are that the corps never instated don't ask don't tell.”

“You're welcome,” Peter told him, completely unrepentant. “Just do us a favor.”

“I'll consider anything within reason.”

“Neglect to mention any particular incidents that might give the marshal pause.”

“Why would I want to give Pentecost a reason to reconsider?” Chris intoned flatly, just before unbending enough to smirk. “Also, a weeks leave. I can get you on a flight to Wyoming. Go see your family.”

“That's a good idea,” Peter agreed, cutting an apple into quarters and handing a slice to Stiles.

“You look happy,” Stiles observed. “Gonna tell me, or make me wait?”

“Scott called. Gerard Argent died yesterday.”

“That is wonderful,” Stiles all but purred, straddling Peter's lap.

“Have I told you how much I love it when you're spiteful?”

“I got it from you,” He huffed. "You're the king of passive aggressive."

“Posing for the fujoshi just to piss off the marshal wasn't my idea.”

Marshal Yamashita was a homophobic asshole that needed his head screwed back on right. Or off completely. “Totally worth it. They love us.”

“We're all over the news. Yamashita's eating antacids like candy.”

“Mission accomplished. Yamashita's that much closer to a nervous breakdown and Gerard Argent's probably being cremated or buried in potter's field. Now all we need is a kaiju to murder and it's a great day.”

Agony wrenched through him, his vision whiting out even as Peter's angry bellow of denial vibrated in his skull, a counterpoint to the sound of metal tearing, piercing his eardrums.

“Atlas!” Yamashita's voice crackled through the comms.

He'd expected to go out this way, but not so soon. Not before he got to hug his dad again, not before he got to see inland again, or get back to homebase in LA, where they fucking belonged.

An iron will wrapped around him, stubbornly refusing to let him give in to the relentless waves of pain.

“We've got to eject,” Peter's voice shouted, bright and furious, an anchor in the multitude of sensations. Muzzily he felt himself continuing to move with Peter, going through the motions of deploying into their escape pods.

The neural bridge collapsed, Peter still inside his head, barking orders. He forced himself to continue, ejecting the pod into the water, away from Atlas, away from the kaiju-

The pressure change barely registered before he blacked out, Peter's voice still shouting at him.

“They're sending him to Oblivion Bay,” Pentecost told them. “The damage was too extensive and I can't justify the cost of repairs.”

Considering an entire leg was sitting in multiple pieces at the bottom of the China Sea and the chest looked like a HR Giger nightmare had burst out of it, he couldn't really fault the marshal, even if he knew Peter did. They were lucky to retrieve the chassis at all.

“That's twenty three down,” Stiles bit out. Unlike most of the other pilots, at least they'd survived Atlas' destruction. Like goddamn cats, the both of them. “You know the wall's not going to stop them.”

“I know. But it is what it is. If we come up with a position for you, we'll call.”

“Yeah,” Stiles muttered, not really believing any such call would happen.

“Dismissed.”

He followed Peter out of the office and through the 'dome.

“On the plus side, we won't be court martialed for murdering Chuck,” He tried. “I'd really hate to see Herc cry.”

“How's your leg?” Peter asked, pointedly changing the subject.

“Probably as bad as yours.” They had matching limps to prove it. “It's not how I wanted this to end,” He admitted a moment later. “But they'll be glad to have us back.”

Peter leaned into him, his hand coming to rest on his neck. Stiles tilted his head back into it, kept walking.

“This is our house? How the fuck did you pull this off?”

“Life insurance payouts, family money, savvy investing of our hazard bonuses,” Peter drawled. Stiles knew all of it, but he'd never actually thought about it, the house and the money all vague concepts he'd never really believed he'd live long enough to care about. Close to a decade in various 'domes and the house felt like a fucking mansion, looked like kindling waiting to be stepped on after the comforting metal walls of the 'domes.

“I have no idea how to do this anymore,” He admitted, still staring at the house.

“We'll figure it out.”

After years of being perfectly in sync, he and Peter had their first fight in years over a list. A list of things they needed to buy for the house, which Stiles had goggled at because it was a massive list. A fridge, washer, dryer, plates and silverware, curtains and beds and duvets, televisions and tupperware, a goddamn salad spinner. It went on and on, some of the items he wasn't even sure existed.

The blowout was impressive, made all the more for how their cursing and pointed cruelties echoed through the massive house, carrying through every room, His jeep, the only thing he wanted to own anymore, the only thing it felt like he owned (no matter that his money had helped pay for the house) sounded too loud in gated neighborhood, but not loud enough for him. Small and unimpressive, not nearly loud enough to drown out the cacaphony of sounds in his skull, not big enough to comfort him, hisbbody aching for the familiar rock and rumble of a jaeger.

He checked in at a motel, wondering if he and Peter could exist without the drift, how he could become an adult when the only thing he could remember was playing action hero. How to be a person when he'd spent years living out of a single trunk.

Peter found him. He didn't ask how, just let him hack the keycard lock without moving and watched him close the door and lean against it, a world of space between them. It took twenty minutes to find the words and admit that he'd rather face a kaiju than figure out how to fill a house with things he hadn't thought about in years.

Pushing a cart through a Bed Bath and Beyond was the most surreal experience of his life, and it was only the first store they visited.

The longer they walked, each store growing progressively smaller, the more he realized how small he felt, his real body scrap metal in Oblivion Bay or being welded to other bodies for other rangers. He was never going to pilot again, stuck forever with a small, squishy human body, a mere six feet of flesh and bone.

The beginnings of a panic attack started to needle and claw him, tearing at his composure.

He felt a hand on the back of his neck, looked over and saw Peter staring blankly at a rainbow wall of towels. He reached past him and grabbed a handful of blue ones, pulling the whole stack free. For some reason, it was hysterically funny, the both of them cackling in the middle of the store while a confounded employee wrung her hands nervously.

Two more jaegers were destroyed, including the Proctor Tau, the last of the Mark-2s. Lydia and Jordan survived, though just barely. Peter invited them out to Wyoming to live with them until they figured out their lives. Lydia demurred, said she was staying on in K-Sciences. Jordan took them up on their offer, mostly because Lydia told him to.

Jordan joined him in the sheriff's department. Everyone gushed about two rangers becoming deputies, never seeming to grasp that Jordan had been a deputy before, that he'd even had a life before becoming a ranger. The odd hours helped them adjust to civilian life. Having Scott and Derek nearby helped too.

She called after Mammoth Apostle was destroyed, telling them that they were decommissioning the rest of the jaegers and closing the 'domes. She was following Pentecost to Hong Kong to work in the remaining shatterdome. They were no longer sanctioned, becoming Pentecost's private army.

Two days later Stiles got called to a scene and was forced to arrest Derek and Peter, along with the kaiju groupies that weren't being carted off in ambulances.

The judge heard about the groupies cheering the kaiju on for destroying Apostle when footage replayed and then physically provoking Peter and Derek, two recognized and decorated rangers. The groupies got ninety days in county jail, Peter and Derek got community service.

Later, his dad said the judge's daughter had been in Sacramento, taken out by the airstrike. Stiles was selfish enough to be thankful for the circumstances.

One day, the wall in Sydney crumbled.

And then-

Then the last of the jaegers were falling, the news coverage rolling in with constant updates. Derek and Scott came to their house, and they all sat glued to the television, calling out from work and barely eating or drinking, dozing fitfully on the couches. The news only came faster and faster, barely able to keep up.

Chris called him from Quantico, a preemptive strike against another panic attack, and explained what was happening, all about Pentecost's final crusade. Natalie called him because Jordan was already sitting next to him, white knuckling it like he was there, fist tight around a ring on a chain he'd worn ever since arriving.

Any attempts to contact Lydia were stalled; Lydia was too busy, they were told over and over, until they were sick of hearing it.

Stiles reminded them more than once that too busy meant she was alive.

“Guys?”

“God Lyds, are you okay?” Stiles choked out, feeling like he could breathe for the first time in days. Jordan was quietly struggling for breath, taking a moment, one Stiles understood as earth shattering relief. He heard Natalie and Chris let out shaking, watery exhales. Conference call, then.

“It's over,” She declared, voice wobbling over the phone. “We just got confirmation. Pitfall worked. The breach is closed.”

He gasped for breath, felt a hand settle on the back of his neck. When he looked up, Peter was staring him down, hands at his sides. “Yeah,” He said, nodding. “Holy fuck.”

Everyone was silent, taking a moment to- He wasn't sure, maybe to make themselves believe it.

“You guys, it's over,” Lydia repeated. “We won.”

Over a decade of war and constant threat, and it was over. They'd won. “When're you coming home dollface?”

“Sooner, now that I have to kick your ass,” She huffed, the sound wet even through the static of their connection.

No one laughed, no one cried. Lydia had to end the call because someone else was waiting to call their family to share the good news.

The news hit the rest of the world less than six hours later, despite the UN's attempts to keep it quiet until every test had been done to make sure the breach really was closed. But it hit hard and fast, spreading like wildfire until every channel and radio station was ringing with the same words on loop.

It's over. We won.

No one mentioned the fallen or the lost, but Stiles and Jordan had to flee to the sheriff's station, too many 'thankful' citizens dropping by their house. Even that proved fruitless, people swarming the station to find them until they resorted to hiding out in the back room of Derek's garage with Scott, Peter joining them, looking particularly hunted. People were celebrating everywhere, lining the sidewalks and dancing, the sounds of music filtering in from the streets.

Kids that had grown up knowing the kaiju as a way of life, who probably didn't understand the significance of it all ran and shouted and screamed that the war was over.

He kept his head down, trying to imagine a world where the walls were useless monuments to a war he never thought would end. Nothing felt real.

“You really think people will come back?” Stiles asked, looking at the memorial that had been put up in place of the graveyard. His mother's name was engraved somewhere on the monolith, lost among a multitude. He didn't want to know what had been done with the bodies and coffins that had been ripped up from the ground.

“The midwest isn't for everyone,” His dad grumbled. He'd be close to retirement age soon, but Beacon Hills welcomed it's old sheriff and new deputies, considering how incredibly shorthanded any California town had become. Stiles wondered if he should cut off the spiel before it began and tell his dad Jordan would make a better sheriff.

“Including you?”

“I belong here.”

“It's not going to be the same.”

“Never is.”

Land prices were still cheap. Even he could afford to buy one of the empty houses to lease out while people came back and looked for something permanent. He decided to invest. Peter approved, then one upped him by purchasing an apartment complex. Derek bought a building and moved into the loft. He too had had more than enough of the midwest. Scott promised to follow once he finished vet school, and Kira came out to buy his childhood home back.

The town began to fill back up, slowly at first, people slowly making their way back, or new people desperate to get away from the cities that had sprung up in the midwest. It went from a ghost town to becoming busy enough to seem charming, even a little idyllic. It wasn't a 'dome, and Stiles found himself acclimating to the steady, sleepy drone of a small town.

“You ever think about kids?” Stiles asked one day, popping the cap off of a beer.

“Can't be any worse than a kaiju,” Peter reasoned.