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“His body’s not even cold yet,” Peter says, looking up slowly from the book he’s reading, laid out on his couch. There’s something enigmatic about his expression, something critical and sneering and maybe scared.“Can you do it or not?” Chris demands.“I can,” Peter agrees. “I’ll need some things.”“Name them,” Chris says.Peter closes his book, swinging his legs down onto the floor to really look at him. “This is not going to be pleasant for you.”“Name them,” Chris grits out, fury filling his veins where the grief should be.Peter sends him on a scavenger hunt, herbs and talismans and hallucinogenic mushrooms. Even as Chris knows how dangerous it is to entrust Peter with this, there’s no one else. He trusts him more than he trusts Deaton, as messed up as that sounds, and he knows what a curious teenager Peter was with the whole Hale library at his disposal. He can do this.Chris stands in Peter’s kitchen, watching him brew the tea. Just the smell of it makes his stomach turn. Peter ladles it into a cup, passing it over to Chris while he grabs one of the kitchen chairs, turning it so that it’s facing away from him, so that the back of Chris’ neck will be exposed to his claws. Chris sits. His whole body feels so heavy. He can’t carry this burden anymore. He looks down into the foul-smelling liquid. Stiles is worth it. Chris would give his life for him. He’d risk the entire space time continuum.“It’s going to expand your mind, put you onto a different plane,” Peter tells him. “It can turn a memory into a physical thing, something you can change. It won’t last long, you’re going to have to make it count. Choose a good one.”Chris nods, trying to pinpoint a moment where he could make a difference. There were so many times that he should have empowered Stiles, but he was always so scared of corrupting him. He knew how deadly overconfidence could be and so he never trained Stiles to fight. He taught Allison everything he knew but it wasn’t enough to save her. He wanted to undo that, wanted Stiles to carry on being the smart kid with the books and the plans. Then he could stay behind the battle lines and Chris could protect him. They’re not always the ones who draw those lines though. He can’t stand in front of Stiles all the time. And now, if he can’t go back and give him that power, he’s going to have to put him in the ground.He lifts the cup to his lips, trying not to inhale. He gags at the first taste but forces himself to tip the cup further.“Try not to throw up,” Peter tells him. “We’ll have to start all over again.”If Chris has anything left then it’s determination. He ignores the bitterness and the taste of decay and dirt, drinking it down swallow by swallow. By the time he takes the cup away from his lips, the kitchen is already starting to move in waves around him, colours bleeding into the edges of his vision as sweat drips from his brow.“You ready?” Peter asks.Chris nods, unable to catch his breath.“Let’s find a memory,” Peter says. “This is going to hurt.”Peter’s hand lands heavy on his shoulder, seeming to curl around him like tendrils, and then Chris is crying out as Peter’s claws slide into the back of his neck like a hot knife through butter, slicing right into his consciousness.He’s not even sure who picks out the memory, whether Peter is just a facilitator to get him inside him own head or whether he’s there with him, trawling through his brain, picking out a moment to place him into. Chris finds himself standing outside his apartment door, Isaac beside him holding the triskele box, and it doesn’t matter which one of them brought him here, it’s the moment when it should have all changed, when he shouldn’t have let anyone else die, and he walked away. He won’t do it again.Isaac understands in some abstract way, or maybe he’s just used to the abandonment. He’ll be okay though, Chris knows that because he knows his timeline, the people Chris introduces him to in France, the people who take him under their wing and keep him safe. He calls them now and he pays for Isaac’s plane ticket, and then he drives to the Stilinski house.The Sheriff directs him upstairs and Chris finds Stiles in his room, sitting on the edge of his bed in his pyjamas, blankets pushed back. Chris guesses he was buried beneath them moments earlier, but now he’s sitting there trying not to shake, like he’s lost his armour.“Hey,” Chris says gently, coming into the room but leaving the door open. He wants to close the space between them, wants to wrap Stiles up in his arms so hard that it hurts them both, but that’s not who they are. Not yet. But as wrecked as Stiles looks, he’s alive, and it makes Chris’ heart swell, makes him want to cry with relief.“I thought you were going to France,” Stiles says, sounding betrayed. “I thought you were taking care of it.”“It’s taken care of,” Chris assures him. “But I’m needed here right now. I need to help you.”“I’m fine,” Stiles says, looking away.“Stiles,” Chris says. “You need to learn to fight.”“Doesn’t help when the bad guy’s inside my head,” Stiles says with a sneer, his face still turned away.“He won’t always be,” Chris says. “He won’t ever be again. But there’s going to be bad things. And you’re going to need to protect yourself. You’re going to have to grow up.”Stiles turns back to face him, tears in his eyes. “Right. Stop being such a joke.”“No,” Chris firmly. “I don’t want you to stop being funny and precocious and… everything,” he says, feeling the heaviness of it weigh down on him. He can’t lose this. He won’t be able to live. “You just need to learn to fight. I’m going to teach you.”Stiles wraps his arms around himself, his whole body tightening, and Chris realises he’s not shaking because he’s scared. He’s cold. Chris instinctively shrugs his jacket off, draping it around Stiles’ shoulders. Stiles looks at him sideways, like he’s trying to work him out, but he pulls the jacket tighter around him, accepting it. He always liked borrowing Chris’ clothes.“We should go now,” Chris says, knowing this could wear off at any moment. He has to put this in motion. Words aren’t enough. It takes actions.“I’m tired,” Stiles says, sagging in surrender. “I’m so tired. And I’m weak. And I think if you hit me right now, I might just turn to ash.”The words make a lump form in Chris’ throat. No ash.“I won’t let that happen,” he says firmly. “Stiles, I promise you, I won’t let that happen. You have to work with me here.”Stiles looks at him, at the desperation and the determination and the promise that’s in every inch of his body. They don’t know each other, not yet, not like they will. Stiles trusts him though. Chris can see it in his eyes.“Get dressed,” Chris tells him, getting to his feet. He has to seize this moment. He has to make Stiles acknowledge the decision he’s subconsciously made. “I know a place.”They go to an empty practice room at the local gym, mats on the floor and mirrors along one wall to check their form. Chris doesn’t take his eyes away from Stiles though. He teaches him the basic evasive moves, Stiles a little slow, but Chris can see him start to let go of his reluctance and self-consciousness, letting his body flow. The pride swells up in Chris. He’s going to be so good at this.They start on some combat moves, basic self-defence, and as soon as their bodies are in contact, it’s like a sense memory for Chris and all he wants to do is hold him. He forces himself to stay professional, to stay in the moment he’s inhabiting and not the one that he’s left. He pulls Stiles tight against his body, teaching him how to get out of being grabbed from behind, and then he feels everything get so much lighter, dragged out of his own body.He sees moments that didn’t happen as he’s pulled back through his memories. He and Stiles working together day after day in the little practice room, Stiles gaining competence, starting to really enjoy it. He sees them at the gun range, teaching Stiles how to respect firearms, how to shoot to kill. He sees them in Chris’ apartment, dismantling guns and cleaning them and piecing them back together. He sees them grappling in the gym, bodies pressed together, and he knows that look that’s in both of their eyes. He sees them kissing, laid out on the mats. It happens so much faster this way. They don’t have to wait for the loneliness to consume them before they find each other.The moments speed up, blending together, turning to a blur that flips his stomach over before he’s back in his own body in Peter’s kitchen, gasping for breath like he’s just surfaced from the ocean. The room swims around him and he feels blood trickle down the back of his neck as Peter retracts his claws. He couldn’t keep up, he didn’t get to the point that counts. He can’t tell if he saved Stiles or not.“That was a hell of a trip,” Peter says.“Did it work?” Chris asks desperately, looking at Peter over his shoulder.The room pulses between colour and black and white. Was any of that even real? Peter shrugs, looking at the bloodied ends of his fingers, claws retracted. Chris scrambles in his pocket for his phone, the bright light of it hurting his eyes. He squints, feeling like someone’s stabbing ice-picks into his brain. He finds Stiles’ number and dials. It rings. His heart clenches in his chest.“Hello?” Stiles responds on the other end of the line.Chris lets out a sob. “You’re okay! Are you okay?”“Yeah, I’m fine,” Stiles responds, sounding confused. “Are you okay?”“Yes,” Chris says, the sound wet with tears. “I love you.”“I love you too,” Stiles responds easily, still bemused. “What’s going on? Have you been drinking? Do you need me to pick you up?”“I had some bad mushrooms,” Chris says.“Oh, yeah?” Stiles asks with a little laugh. “Did you save any for the rest of us?”“No,” Chris says, clinging to his phone. “I’m at Peter’s. Can you come get me?”“Peter gave you magic mushrooms?” Stiles asks.“Please,” Chris says. “I need you here. I love you so much.”“Yeah,” Stiles agrees. “I love you too. So much. I’m on my way.”Chris sits with his head in his hands while he waits, ignoring Peter washing his hands, throwing pans in the sink, going back to stretch out on his couch like nothing happened. Only when he hears Stiles letting himself into the apartment does he risk lifting his head, letting his vision be flooded with strange visuals again. He’s still tripping hard. None of it matters when he sees Stiles across the room though.He gets to his feet, the room swaying one way as he pitches the other, feeling like he’s moving through molasses to get to him. He’s so warm and as he presses against Stiles, he’s even warmer, burning up, but he can’t get enough. He wraps his arms around him, buries his face into Stiles’ neck, pressing damp eyes against his flesh because he doesn’t have to cry any more tears now. He saved him. No. He gave Stiles the power to save himself. Chris is never going to take him for granted for a second.“What did you do to him?” Stiles asks Peter, holding Chris close and rubbing his back.“Only what he asked me to,” Peter says. “I’m very helpful.”“Sure,” Stiles says sceptically.“He is,” Chris says, lifting his head. “He helped.”Stiles looks between the two of them and decides to let it go.“I want to go home,” Chris says.“That sounds like a good plan,” Stiles agrees. “Come on, big guy. I’ll play babysitter while you come down.”“Will you tell me stories?” Chris asks. “About our first kiss. Our first date. The first time we had sex.”It’s all different now, he can tell that from the moments he saw as he was pulled back through his life. He wants to know every detail. He doesn’t want to have missed out on a thing.Stiles’ eyes flick to Peter who is reading his book as though they’re not even there. Stiles’ cheeks blush, seeming to radiate, but that’s probably just the drugs. He takes hold of Chris’ hand, twining their fingers together.“Okay,” he says quietly.He leads the way out of the apartment, pulling Chris along with him, and Chris can’t help reaching across with his other hand, pressing his fingers against Stiles’ wrist and feeling his pulse. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Life. Chris never wants to let go again.