#also don't @ me about flying with just two primary feathers It's Fiction

[twothumbsandnostakeincanon]

Every time you lose someone you truly love, you lose a primary feather... And Stiles realizing how few feathers he actually has left in relation to his friends, the pack, etc

oh it’s make Twothumbs cry hours huh? That’s what we’re doing tonight?? We’re making me cry??? I’m taking you all down with me. 

Scott’s feather was the first feather Stiles actually remembered growing. 

The fierce love he had for his brother-by-choice had spiked a pinfeather a year after his mother’s feather had fallen out. Once the new one reached full size, Stiles had been able to fly again. Still clumsy, still a struggle- but he’d been able to fly on his own for the first time in a year.

Sometime after that he grew a feather for Lydia too, giving him his third. He knew Lydia didn’t have one for him, but that was okay. The extra feather had given him more stability, made staying in the air a little easier, and that was enough for him to love her even more.

His father’s feather was the on the furthest tip of his right wing. The feathers he grew for his favorite deputies at the station lived on his right wing too. Melissa’s feather was on the left, in between Scott’s and Lydia’s. 

He had a total of eight primaries at the beginning of his sophomore year. Classmates laughed at his notorious clumsiness, sniggering as he banked wildly in the air, their young minds unable to make the connection of exactly why he lacked the fine control most others had naturally with ten or more primary feathers.

Stiles didn’t really care. He’d come a long way from a single feather. 

Perhaps that was why he went with Peter, though: the single primary feather hanging loosely from his wings. It was such a foreign and familiar sight; familiar from a year of seeing it on himself, and foreign for having never seen it on anyone else. 

He could have fought more. Could have argued, could have screamed, could have done any number of things on that field. Instead, he looked at that dangling feather, and went with him. 

Later that evening, he looked at it again as it drifted to the ground moments before Derek ripped out Peter’s throat. 

__________

God, he ached. 

Stiles gingerly taped gauze over the cut that Argent left in his thigh before reaching for the arnica cream. He decided to only put it on the biggest bruises, and yet ended up covering most of his body anyway.

After that, he carefully stepped into sweats, forgoing a shirt. He could put one on after he checked over his wings. 

Stiles sat down on his bed, turning on his lamp and directing it toward himself like a spotlight. Then he stopped. He needed to check them- he knew that bastard had at least ripped out a handful of coverts. 

But he didn’t look. He just sat there. Exhausted, unwilling, and alone. 

Scott was at Allison’s house. 

Just like he’d been when the kanima had trapped Stiles at the pool. 

Just like the day after Matt brought the kanima to the station, when Stiles lost three primary feathers.

Just like every other time Stiles had needed him in the last few months. 

“Well, one of us was recently dead, but by the looks of things here I’m not sure it was actually me.” 

Stiles, lacking the energy to startle, just slowly looked up at his window to see Peter smoothly duck in. 

“You’re actually back,” he said with a blink. Peter raised an eyebrow.

“You saw me at the warehouse, didn’t you?” he asked. Stiles waved a hand. 

“I got the shit kicked out of me and then crashed my car into a lizard boy,” he said listlessly. “What I did and didn’t see is up for some serious debate.” 

“Hm,” Peter said, eyes sharply taking in the bruises and cuts on Stiles’ upper body. “I can see that.” 

Stiles suddenly remembered that he’d helped kill Peter, and that he currently had all of his injured vulnerable points on display. He thought he should probably be more concerned about it than he was. 

Instead, he finally reached back and carefully pulled out his left wing, looking away from Peter and checking it over. Sure enough, he had a bloody bald patch where Argent had torn out several feathers. 

Something tapped him on the shoulder, and Stiles glanced over to see Peter holding out a tube of antibacterial. 

“Thanks,” he mumbled distractedly, twisting it open and wincing slightly as he smoothed it over the sensitive skin. Growing those back was going to itch like hell. 

After that, he carefully worked down the rest of the wing, feeling his way along the afterfeathers to check for more injuries. He found a few bent, one broken, and then just as he reached the end of the wing-

Peter sucked in a tiny breath. 

Stiles held a primary in his hand. 

He stared at it, loose in his open palm. 

There was a long moment of silence, eventually broken by Peter quietly saying, “That’s going to make flying more difficult.” 

Stiles continued to stare at the feather for another moment before forcing himself to look away.

“I still have four. I’ve flown with less.”

He carefully set Scott’s feather down on his nightstand, and deliberately turned to examine his right wing. Silence once again reigned between them, broken only by the brush of Peter handing him more antibacterial for a few more broken feathers. 

By the time he was done, Stiles was utterly exhausted. 

“Did you actually want something?” he asked. He just wanted to sleep, and he couldn’t even begin to interpret the look on Peter’s face. It smoothed out a moment later anyway. 

“Yes, but it can wait. Go to sleep. I’ll see you later, Stiles.” 

And with that, he ducked out the window again. 

Stiles watched as Peter swept his wings out behind himself to slow his fall-

Wings with absolutely no primary feathers.

__________

Stiles had so much shit to take care of. The Alpha pack was still out there fucking up everyone’s shit, and someone else was doing ritual sacrifices, and his dad had asked if he was on drugs, and he had Spanish vocab to finish-

Just, so much shit. 

And yet. And yet, here he was, opening a box from Ebay with a used pair of flight aids in it. 

They didn’t look great. And from what Stiles could remember of his childhood experience, they weren’t terribly comfortable either. But they did work, taking the place of missing primary feathers and allowing greater freedom of movement. 

Something Stiles thought was likely very desirable to a werewolf with a history of being murdered. 

Before he could think too hard about it, he threw the fight aids back in the box and drove over to Peter’s apartment. 

As he walked up to the door, hands full, he hesitated again. What was he doing here? Maybe he should just leave the box on the welcome mat- but the choice was taken out of his hands when Peter’s door opened upon approach. 

“Stiles. How… surprising,” Peter drawled. “I don’t remember telling you where I live.”

Stiles raised his eyebrow 

“I didn’t tell you where I live either, but you still showed up at three a.m.; directly into my room, I might add.” He shook his head, dismissing the question and pushing forward now that the opportunity for misgivings was gone. “Here, take the box.” 

Peter raised an eyebrow, gingerly accepting it as he scented the air. He scrunched his nose slightly in distaste. 

“This doesn’t smell like you. Whose is this?”

“Okay first,” Stiles ticked off a finger, “it’s weird for you to just casually mention that something does or does not smell like me, and two,” he ticked off a second finger, “it’s yours. I mean, now. Now it’s yours. It was someone else’s.” 

“Mm, yes, nothing says ‘heartfelt gift’ like pre-used goods,” Peter said dryly, finally stepping back into his apartment, allowing Stiles in. “What is it?” 

Stiles followed, looking away uncomfortably before answering. 

“I, uh. When I was a kid, I tried a couple of different flight aids. Just for getting to school and back, you know? This type was the best. Not great or anything, but they let you move fast.”

Peter stilled completely, frozen for a beat with his hands on the box. 

“It’s just,” Stiles hurried on, “if you get eaten by the Alpha Pack or whatever because you’re trapped on the ground, then we’ll be left with just Derek again, and he doesn’t know shit about anything, except maybe like the top ten ways to lose shirts, so you have to have something. I know they’re ugly, but like. You have to have something, and those were the ones that worked best for me, but the company doesn’t exist anymore so… Ebay.” 

He finished awkwardly, hands shoved in his pockets. 

Peter looked at him for a moment, a strange expression on his face, before saying, “Thank you.”

Stiles shrugged. 

“No problem.” He cleared his throat a little. “Anyway. Uh. Bye.” 

Stiles moved to leave, but hesitated when Peter started chuckling. He looked back over his shoulder, suspicious that he was being mocked, but Peter just smiled. 

“I’m not kicking you out, Stiles. Stay for a minute and help me try these out.” And with that, he finally opened the box and pulled out one of the flight aids, examining it. “They clip onto my primary coverts?”

Stiles watched him for a moment. 

He still had so much shit to take care of… but he could stay for a bit.

Or maybe a bit longer. 

__________

Stiles checked his primaries. Again. There were three. Still three, after the bomb at the station. After the nogitsune. One for his dad, one for Melissa, one for Lydia.

There were still three.

They just weren’t the same three-

“Any fresh word on our local hit list?” Peter drawled, entering the apartment with two cups of coffee.

Stiles hurriedly dropped his wings, tucking them behind himself and out of sight.

“Nope. It’s pretty hard to find out what’s going on when our only lead got murdered,” Stiles said pointedly, turning back to his laptop.

“As if we were going to get a word out of someone with no mouth anyway,” Peter scoffed, setting down one of the cups next to him as he looked over Stiles’ shoulder at the screen. “You haven’t been able to find any more contractors?”

“Oh no, I’ve found plenty of contractors. All with equally stupid names. ‘The Chemist,’ and ‘The Butchers,’ and ‘Bullet 80.’ It feels like a list of early 2000’s band names.” Stiles sat back, picking up his coffee for a sip. “It’s just that there’s no way to know how they’re getting job offers.” Peter reached over his shoulder to scroll down a page, leaning his other hand on Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles tried not to shiver, and as always lately, failed.

Peter was the only one who touched him so casually anymore.

Peter squeezed a bit, beginning to knead the muscle there seemingly without thought, and Stiles leaned into it.

“This is a lot of assassins,” Peter murmured as he continued to scroll.

“I mean, if the prices here are any indication, it’s a pretty lucrative career I guess,” Stiles said gesturing lightly at the screen with his cup. Peter hummed in agreement.

“Lucrative, but perhaps an over-saturated market,” Peter mused, contemplative. “However, if we were to clear out some of the competition…”

Stiles reached up and lightly flicked Peter in the ear with his free hand.

“We’re not going to start murdering for money.”

Peter scowled, pulling his hand away from Stiles’ shoulder to protectively cover his ear.

“As opposed to doing it for free like we are now? Like chumps?” he challenged.

“Like chumps,” Stiles said firmly. “Besides, you know you would hate the cleanup.”

Peter reluctantly smiled.

“Yes, I suppose that at least is right.”

With one last light stroke to Stiles’ upper coverts, Peter took his own coffee and moved to the other side of the table where his own laptop sat.

They continued searching for information long past the time the coffee was gone, occasionally speaking but more often silent. Stiles began to get more worried the longer they went without finding answers.

His fingers found their way back into his feathers again, winding around his primaries as they did so often.

And just like every other time lately, a slow sense of unease crept over him as he felt them.

“It doesn’t seem to help,” Peter said quietly from across the table.

Stiles startled, hand tightening. Peter was looking at him, and gestured at the place Stiles was gripping.

“You hold on to your primaries often lately, but it never seems to comfort you. Not anymore.”

Stiles let out a slow breath, ready to blow him off, to say it was nothing-

But.

“They’re not the same,” he murmured. “When the Nogitsune- I don’t know, made a new body for me or whatever, he didn’t quite-“ Stiles blew out a frustrated breath, knowing how ridiculous this was going to sound. “They look exactly the same, but they don’t feel right. I can’t tell you exactly what’s wrong, but every time I touch them… I start to wonder if they’re actually mine. And if they’re not mine, whose are they?”

His hands clenched around his feathers again, torn between the instinct to preserve his feathers and his ability to fly, and to tear out the invaders that grew out of whatever twisted facsimile of love the nogitsune was capable of. 

He startled yet again when hands covered his own, carefully prying them away.

“They’re yours, Stiles,” Peter said, voice calm, locking Stiles’ hands in his own. “Even if somehow they weren’t grown for the same people as your first feathers, they’re still sustained by that. They’re maintained for the people you love.”

Stiles looked back at Peter, wanting to believe.

“They’re yours, Stiles,” he repeated. 

Stiles took a deep breath. 

“They’re mine.” 

With one last grateful squeeze to Peter’s hand, he turned back to his laptop. 

__________

“I’m borrowing this book.”

“No you’re not.”

“Yeah I am.” 

Peter rolled his eyes at the kitchen table where he continued typing. Stiles could see it from where he lay sprawled in the living room, and grinned. 

“No you’re not. Borrowing implies you’ll be taking it somewhere else, and you spend all of your time here,” Peter said distractedly. 

“I do not!” Stiles protested. Peter briefly looked up at him with a dry expression. 

“In the last week, the only reason you’ve left my apartment was to go home to make dinner for your father. Last night you didn’t even leave to do that, you just made it in my kitchen and then took it to him at the station.”

“You offered-!”

“I didn’t say I don’t want you here,” Peter said, eyes never leaving his laptop, “just that it hardly makes sense to say you’re borrowing something when the thing you’re borrowing is unlikely to leave my apartment anyway.”

Stiles’ mouth hung open for a moment before snapping shut. Peter’s feathers shuffled a bit as he rearranged his wings, apparently intent on the email he was typing. Stiles thought it was probably a “fuck you” business letter. Peter always really got into those. His feathers fluttered a bit again, and something odd caught Stiles’ eye. 

A small new feather. 

A primary feather. 

His mouth dropped open again. 

He almost said something. He very, very nearly said many things. 

But Peter’s wings readjusted again, and the tiny feather disappeared. 

Stiles snapped his jaw shut. 

Because Peter had a point- Stiles was here most of the time. Almost all the time, in fact. 

So he would know if Peter had repaired his relationship with Derek, or if he’d found a new relationship outside the pack. 

Mind occupied, he absently scratched at the tip of his right wing, smoothing along the new quill there. 

Maybe he would get to keep this one for a while.