Chapter Text
Tracking down Erica and Boyd resulted in the somewhat surreal experience of Stiles following Peter in the jeep while the werewolf loped along the side of the road, tracking them on foot.
How was this his life?
The trail led first to Erica’s house, but Peter hesitated, frowning at the ground. “They stopped here, but there’s a trail leading out again. They didn’t stay here long,” he said after a moment.
Stiles frowned as well. “Then we continue.”
Peter nodded and they set off again. The same thing happened at Boyd’s house a little further out. The trail indicated that they went inside, stayed for a bit, and then left again. Increasingly concerned, Stiles urged Peter on.
After a while, Erica and Boyd’s trail led to the edge of the preserve and Stiles had to leave the jeep behind to join Peter on foot. Stiles groaned as he got out. Seemed he sat long enough for his muscles to stiffen, and now they were protesting the idea of moving again. Hissing in pain, Stiles leaned against the jeep and focused on breathing evenly, willing the pain to fade enough to move.
Peter approached slowly, hands open and visible, and head ducked in a way that made the man seem smaller and less threatening. “Stiles?” he asked, concern in his tone and bearing.
Stiles grit his teeth. “A moment, please.”
“...do you want to call it a night? Try again tomorrow after a night’s sleep and some painkillers?”
Stiles fixed Peter with a glare so fierce that the other man actually stepped back, hands raised in surrender. “No,” he snapped. “Erica and Boyd are out there somewhere, who knows where, with whom, or in what condition. I’m not stopping until I find them and make sure they're okay, even if I have to drag myself or crawl. Is that clear?”
Peter ducked his head with an odd tilt that looked an awful lot like he was flashing throat, a submissive gesture that Stiles had only seen Derek’s betas give him when Derek was especially grumpy or short with them. It made no sense for Peter to do it now, to Stiles.
“Perfectly clear, Stiles,” Peter replied, sounding oddly respectful. “It wasn’t my intention to question your loyalty or dedication.” That odd light was back in his eyes, the one where he looked at Stiles with a conflicted combination of hunger, admiration, and yearning. Stiles didn’t get it.
Stiles studied Peter for a moment, but he didn’t continue to protest or try to insist that Stiles should wait at the sidelines. It was oddly refreshing to be around someone who wasn’t constantly telling him that he couldn’t do something just because he was human and thus physically weaker than the werewolves around him. Stiles nodded in satisfaction and turned away to slowly stretch out his limbs and reacquaint them with the concept of functioning properly.
Most of his muscles yielded to the idea of moving after a moment of stretching, but his ribs refused to cooperate, screaming in pain and making the simple act of breathing an intimidating prospect, much less hiking through a forest. Again.
“May I?” Peter asked quietly, reaching out one hand while still standing a respectful distance back.
Stiles shot him an annoyed glance. The combination of pain and tiredness meant that he had approximately zero patience left. “May you what?”
“Drain some of your pain.”
That was enough to make Stiles blink and turn to look at him fully. “Drain my what? That’s possible?”
Peter tilted his head, giving him a confused look. “Yes…? Has Derek never mentioned this?” He blew out an impatient breath. “Oh, who am I kidding. Of course the emotionally-repressed idiot never said anything. Yes, Stiles. Drain your pain. It’s a slightly less-known ability of werewolves. With physical contact and intention, we can drain pain from a subject. We used to do it all the time to help wolves when they got serious enough injuries that it took a moment to heal, or to make our human pack members a bit more comfortable when they inevitably hurt themselves.” His gaze went slightly distant and pained for a moment before shaking off the memories and refocusing, walls coming up again. “So, may I?”
Stiles’s expression gentled. Peter had never looked more human than he had in that brief moment with his barriers down. “Sure, I guess. What do you need?”
“I’ll need to touch your bare skin.” Peter said and gestured towards Stiles’s wrist.
Stiles screwed up his nose as he held out the indicated wrist. “Surely there was a way to say that without sounding so damn creepy,” he complained.
Peter smirked. “Where's the fun in that?” He stepped forward and took Stiles’s wrist. A moment later, black began creeping up his veins.
Stiles jumped, but at the same time, his pain ebbed so abruptly he swayed with relief and nearly fell. Peter took another step forward and caught him with his other hand, turning what could have been a graceless collapse to the ground into a still somewhat graceless slump against Peter’s chest. Stiles abandoned all dignity in the face of sweet, sweet relief and let his head thud against Peter’s shoulder. “Oh you are even better than Advil,” he groaned into Peter’s shirt. “I’m never taking pills again. This is amazing. Screw that whole 30 minute delay before a half-assed reduction in pain. Werewolf super-painkillers are the way to go. You don’t need a life, right? You can be my personal pain relief anytime I need it.”
Peter laughed softly.
After what could have been seconds, minutes, or even hours —Stiles sure as hell didn’t know— Peter let go of his wrist, and the slightly dopey feeling faded. Some of the pain returned, but more like an achy remembrance than the sharp agony of before. It was definitely infinitely more manageable than before.
Stiles straightened up with some reluctance. That was one hell of a drug. “Thank you,” he said with heart-felt gratitude. Seriously. Being pain-free was massively underrated. He was never taking this for granted again. On a whim, he reached up and gave the nape of Peter’s neck a quick squeeze as he stepped back.
Peter froze and looked completely shell-shocked at the gesture, and Stiles froze in return. Oh hell. That was a really bad move to do to a wolf, wasn’t it? He hadn’t been thinking, but the neck was a really touchy spot on wolves. Scott had nearly thrown him across the room when Stiles jokingly tried to put him in a headlock after he became a werewolf. Squeezing the back of Peter’s neck like that was probably some kind of dominance thing. Was Peter going to try and kill him now? Shit. Stiles was an idiot.
Before Stiles could figure out if he should apologize or pull out the mountain ash again, Peter ducked his head in a movement that was definitely flashing throat. “My pleasure, Stiles. Please let me know if it flares up again. I’ll happily do that again,” His ever-present smirk had a nearly leering quality, but it looked almost forced, and his eyes were sharp and intent. Not angry or even annoyed, just.. watching, with that odd light again.
What the hell.
“...creep,” Stiles complained half-heartedly after a brief pause, and Peter’s smirk widened.
Eager to put… whatever that was, behind him, Stiles determinedly set off towards the forest edge. “Which way, bloodhound?” he called over his shoulder.
Peter snorted and slipped past him to take the lead. “If I’m the bloodhound, what does that make you?”
Stiles grinned. “I dunno. Your handler? Though that makes me sound like your parole officer. Which. On second thought. Is also kinda accurate.”
Peter snorted again, shaking his head as he wove through the trees. Still grinning, Stiles followed. Pain drain and okay with dog jokes, Peter was fast becoming his favorite werewolf.
He should probably be concerned with how quickly he was coming to like Peter.
Meh. That was a later him problem.
Suddenly, Peter slid to a halt, head up and nearly vibrating with tension. Stiles stopped beside him, straining his ears uselessly for whatever caught Peter’s attention. “What is it?” he whispered as quietly as he could.
Peter tipped his head so his lips were right by Stiles’s ear. “People up ahead,” he breathed. “More than just Erica and Boyd.”
Stiles nodded. “Enemies?”
Peter shrugged and lowered himself into a crouch, claws coming out. Which, Stiles thought, pretty well answered that. To be fair, with their luck, the chance of it being a couple of random civilians out for a stargazing hike was practically nonexistent. He drew his knife and pulled the mountain ash out of his pocket with a bit of mental effort, forming it into a snake-like shape slithering along the ground beside him.
It made the mountain ash a little more readily-usable, that was all. The half-disturbed, half-admiring glance Peter shot it was just a bonus. Honest.
They moved closer at a steady pace. Stiles briefly wondered why Peter didn’t seem to be bothering overmuch with stealth before realizing that trying to move through a forest quietly enough to fool creatures capable of hearing your heartbeat from half a block away was ridiculous to the point of absurdity.
Before long, Stiles could also hear somebody moving up ahead. Peter increased his speed to the point where Stiles was struggling to keep up. A bit later, Stiles saw two figures in between the trees up ahead. They were huddled together slightly, but Stiles still recognized them. Erica and Boyd.
He almost called out to them, but Peter was rigid with tension at his side and he wasn’t looking at Erica and Boyd. His head was low and swinging side to side as he scanned their surroundings. Still, Boyd must have heard them because his head snapped over. “Stiles?” he blurted.
Erica whipped around to face them. She looked utterly shocked. “What are you doing here?”
Stiles stumbled up to them and bent over, leaning his hands on his knees heavily as he gasped for breath. “What am I doing here? I was looking for you, you nitwits! What the hell are you doing out here? Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been?!”
“Stiles,” Peter said and his tone was so perfectly even and controlled that Stiles snapped to attention and belatedly remembered what Peter had said about there being more people out here than just Erica and Boyd. He straightened hurriedly, scanning around for whatever Peter had noticed.
“What’s going on?” Erica demanded. “Who’s he?”
Stiles shushed her and grabbed her arm, tugging her half-behind him. Boyd went with her, glancing at Peter and then the surrounding forest with growing apprehension.
Suddenly, Erica sucked in a startled breath and both Boyd and Peter went even tenser than before. Stiles followed their eyes and grit his teeth as four figures melted out of the trees in a half circle in front of them. All four had claw-tipped hands, and while the dark and shadows hid their features from view, four sets of red eyes flashed in the dark.
What the hell.
Stiles was so done with today. This was ridiculous.
“Well, well, well,” drawled a female voice. “What do we have here?”
Peter was growling lowly, but there was a rigidity to the line of his shoulders that spoke of his discomfort with the situation. Stiles couldn’t blame him. There were four alpha werewolves in front of them. Against two newly bitten betas, a recently resurrected one, and a human teenager. They didn’t stand a chance. Or, they wouldn’t if Stiles didn’t have mountain ash and another trick or two up his sleeve.
Stiles stepped closer to Peter, deliberately brushing their shoulders together. Peter didn’t move outwardly, but he met Stiles’s pressure with an almost desperate pressure of his own.
The woman who had spoken tilted her head at them. “Cute. And here I thought we had hit the jackpot by finding two wayward betas to use as bait, but now we get additional prizes.” She audibly scented the air. “Hmm, a human boy and— My, my, the infamous Peter Hale. What a surprise. I heard you died.”
Peter tensed more, if that were even possible. “As you can see, you have been… misinformed.”
The woman gave a sceptical hum. “I’m sure. Now, will you come peaceably, or will we have to start removing limbs in order to convince you? Surely your pet human doesn’t need all his fingers?”
Peter snarled, and the woman made a gesture. In response, all four alphas lunged forwards. But Stiles had started moving as soon as she gave her threat, throwing out both hands in a warding gesture. The mountain ash flew out in response, forming a large circle around the four of them just in time for the alphas to collide with it headfirst. Erica and Boyd flinched back, and Peter stumbled forwards slightly in an aborted lunge to meet the attack.
The alphas roared loud enough to shake the trees around them. Erica and Boyd collapsed together in a huddled heap behind Stiles in response, and even Peter flinched back heavily under the force, knocking into Stiles hard enough that the teen staggered.
Stiles saw red.
He grabbed Peter’s shoulder, shaking him slightly until Peter straightened, and then shoved Peter slightly behind him as well, stepping forward to meet the threat.
Then he took a deep breath. He had read about this, studied it, but never put it into practice. It was the kind of thing that could have easily destroyed the house if he did it wrong. Or potentially even if he did it right. But the great weakness of mountain ash, at least at Stiles’s level, was that it was purely defensive. A barrier only. Stiles wasn’t satisfied with that. He wanted a way to strike back. And he had found runes.
Stiles focused his intent, if belief was necessary to make this work, he would damn well believe in himself. Lives depended on it, and he would not let them down. The thought was galvanizing, and Stiles slashed his hand through two sharp, precise gestures in front of him, sketching the rune “Kenaz” in the air. “The torch is known to every living man by its pale, bright flame; it always burns where princes sit within,” he recited, pushing his belief, intent, and determination into every syllable.
Technically, you weren’t supposed to invoke runes this way without a lot of experience, but, meh, Stiles had never been good at following rules, and he preferred the sink-or-swim method of learning anyways.
“Kenaz” was the rune of fire, and that was exactly what Stiles was calling upon. As soon as he finished the last word of the rune verse, Stiles felt a hard yank within his chest, like someone decided to play tug-of-war with his heart. At the same time, a wall of fire ten feet tall flared up just outside the barrier of mountain ash. The alphas yelped, and Stiles heard them backpedaling away from the flames.
Stiles swayed. This was way harder than he expected. The fire was unbelievably draining. Already, Stiles saw spots dancing in the corners of his vision. He had control, sort of, like a leash on a rhino running beside him. He could pretend he had control because the fire happened to want to do the same thing he did, but if that changed, he wasn’t sure he could stop it.
He had to finish this. Now.
Stiles shoved his hands outwards, and the wall of fire moved in response, flying out in pursuit of the alphas in an ever-expanding ring. At the same time, Stiles wrenched the vague sense of his power away from the fire, mentally yanking the tether between them as hard as he could. For a second, the tether strained and held, and Stiles feared his life would be drained away as fuel for the fire, but then the tether snapped, and the fire was on its own. It died out about 50 feet away, but the footsteps continued to retreat.
Stiles staggered back, feeling unbelievably drained, and sat down hard beside Erica and Boyd. Phew. He definitely understood why that wasn’t the recommended way to invoke runes. He would have to research alternate methods.
Erica and Boyd leaned hard into him, shaking, and Stiles wrapped an arm over both of their shoulders, pulling them in close. Like she had been waiting for permission, Erica scooted even closer, and curled into his chest. Boyd sagged against Stiles’s side, partially draped over Erica, and rested his head on Stiles’s shoulder, his relief obvious in every line of his posture. Peter stood over them like a guard dog, peering out into the darkness around them. Stiles glanced up tiredly. “Are they gone?” he asked.
Peter looked down, that odd expression was back, but there was no mistaking the hunger in his eyes. “They’re gone,” he confirmed, and Stiles gave a sigh of relief. Peter cocked his head at him. “What was that?” he asked.
“Runes. Elder Futhark to be precise. That’s the only one I know, so I’m glad it worked. Would have been a bit awkward otherwise.”
Peter snorted. “It was certainly… effective.”
Stiles frowned at the weird tone to his voice, but Peter wasn’t looking at him, attention caught on the curls of smoke drifting in the moonlight. “You good?” he finally asked. He was too tired to try and puzzle out what was going on in the man’s head.
Peter blinked and glanced back down. The corner of his mouth twitched up in a rueful smile. “Has anyone ever told you that you are incredible, Stiles?”
Stiles was taken aback. Because that was undeniably both complimentary and full of honest awe. He scratched the back of his neck in discomfort. “I’m not though? Anyone could do that. Anyone with the ability to use magic, at least. Which, can I say, is more than a little awesome?”
Peter shook his head slowly. “Trust me, Stiles. Not everyone, even those with magical ability, can do that. That was impressive.”
Stiles peered at him in confusion, but Peter refused to elaborate, so he let it go. He nudged Erica and Boyd to their feet instead. “Come on, let’s go. I would like to go to bed at some point tonight, and while I’m tired enough to sleep just about anywhere, I think my ribs might actually commit mutiny if I fall asleep on the forest floor.”
Erica and Boyd scrambled to their feet, and Stiles accepted the hand Peter offered to help him up, swaying and nearly falling back down when Peter took advantage of the contact to drain some of Stiles’s pain.
Once he regained his feet, Stiles nodded tiredly to Peter in gratitude and reached out to squeeze his shoulder. Peter preened subtly, and Stiles rolled his eyes, knocking their shoulders together. “Come on, let’s go.” he said again, and Peter set off in the lead.
For a while they staggered along —or, at least, Stiles staggered along, curse werewolf grace and stamina— in silence. However, after several minutes of that, Erica spoke. “Stiles?” she called hesitantly.
Stiles twisted his head around to glance at her. Her arms were wrapped around her torso, and she was huddled under Boyd’s arm, looking terribly small. Stiles hated it. “Yes?” he answered.
She didn’t look at him. “I don’t understand. Why did you come for us? We aren’t exactly friends, and I’ve hurt you before. We would have been goners if you hadn’t come for us. Why?”
Stiles stopped and turned around. This wasn’t a conversation to be had with his back to her. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Peter fade back a couple steps to give them the illusion of privacy. Stiles scrubbed a hand over his face and tried to organize his tired thoughts. He wasn’t nearly awake enough for this. His brain felt like overcooked noodles. He couldn’t figure out how to phrase all the emotions and thoughts he had about being tortured together, and having each other's backs then, or how he didn’t really blame her for letting the power-high of the Bite go to her head a bit. Or how common decency, and common friends, and a shared enemy played into it. He struggled to find a way to wrap up all of those complicated concepts, thoughts, and emotions, into an understandable format.
Eventually, he sighed and went with his gut. “Because we’re pack, and that’s what you do for pack, okay? You go after them, and protect them when they get into trouble. I’m not sure what else to say.”
“Pack,” Erica echoed, like she was tasting the word for the first time. Beside her, Boyd was also mouthing the word, a conflicted look on his face.
“Pack,” Stiles said decisively.
Erica nodded slowly. “Okay then. Pack.” She held out a hand like they were going to shake on a business deal. Stiles stared at it incredulously for a moment. “Oh, come on,” he muttered and pulled her into a hug instead. She twitched and then melted into the contact like it was a lifeline. “I know Derek is emotionally constipated, but really. Shake on it?” Stiles muttered into her hair, and Erica gave a suspiciously wet-sounding laugh, burrowing closer.
Stiles looked over her shoulder at Boyd, who looked vaguely envious. In a stoic sort of way. It was still Boyd, after all. But envious all the same. “C’mere.” Stiles ordered, beckoning. “Group hug.”
Boyd snorted softly but came to burrow into Stiles’s other side, nosing under his chin with a soft, relieved sigh.
Maybe it was some sort of magical exhaustion from the fire wall, but Stiles felt something twinge like a plucked string in his chest twice, leaving behind an odd sense of persistent warmth.
Erica pulled away after a moment, ducking her head like she could hide the way she was wiping at her eyes. Stiles pretended not to notice. She then grabbed Boyd’s arm and dragged him forwards as she set off in the lead.
Stiles chuckled quietly and followed, feeling more than seeing Peter fall in at his shoulder.
“I didn’t know you were joining Derek’s pack,” Peter said with a casual air so perfect it had to be forced.
Stiles glanced at him. “I’m not.”
“But you claimed them as pack.”
Stiles shrugged. “Yeah, I dunno? It just felt right? I’m not sure what will happen from here.”
“Did you mean it?”
Stiles glanced sideways again, but Peter was facing forwards so deliberately that Stiles just knew there was some sort of subtext here he was probably missing in his exhaustion. “Of course I meant it,” Stiles answered, letting a bit of offense color his tone. “Look, I might not be a werewolf, but I still know how important pack is, okay? Claiming them as pack and then going back on that would be beyond cruel. I would never.”
“But you’re human.” Peter pressed, a note of challenge in his voice.
Stiles stopped and grabbed Peter’s arm, yanking him to a halt beside him and forcing him to face him. “So? What does that have to do with this? I know humans can still be part of a pack. Just because I don’t have the instincts doesn’t mean I can’t understand them or learn them.”
“What if Derek objects to you claiming them as pack without joining his pack? They need an alpha. What will you do?” Peter challenged, eyes sharp and assessing.
Stiles glared at him and flung his arms up in frustration. “I don’t know! Tell Derek to get over it? Figure out shared custody? Dig up some ancient magic ritual that will keep them from going feral without an alpha? I’ll figure something out. They’re pack now, and that means they’re mine. I don’t let my people go. I don’t care what it takes. I’ll find a way to keep them safe and happy. No matter what.”
“Just like that,” Peter breathed, soundly vaguely awed and more than a little bitter. “No matter what they do or what it takes.”
Stiles glared at him. “Like I said. No matter what. They’re pack.” His brow furrowed harder. “Why is this such a big deal all of a sudden? It’s not like you consider them pack. I thought you didn’t care about them! What’s gotten into you?”
Peter looked away and stepped back. “I apologize. I’ll stop pressing.” His voice sounded almost empty and listless.
He made to walk away, but Stiles growled in frustration and marched forward, catching Peter with a hand on his chest and pushing him back until he backed into a tree, trapped between it and Stiles. Metaphorically trapped, of course, Peter could get free as easy as breathing, but it was the gesture that was important.
Peter froze, staring at him in unfiltered shock. Stiles stared him down. “No. Not good enough,” Stiles hissed. “I asked you a question, Peter. I expect an answer. Why is this such a big deal to you all of a sudden?” he punctuated his question with a brief, extra-hard push against Peter’s chest.
Peter stared, wide-eyed for a moment longer before hitching his chin up in a gesture of submission that even in his exhaustion, Stiles couldn’t mistake. Stiles sucked in a startled breath.
“What more do I need to do to prove myself to you?” Peter asked, nearly begging, desperation coloring his tone. More words tumbled out like he couldn’t stop the flow once started. “I tracked your enemy for you, helped you kill him, and disposed of the body afterwards. I followed you into the Argent house itself, and tracked your lost betas all the way from that blood-soaked basement to the outskirts of the preserve. I stood with you against a pack of alphas! You called them pack in the deepest of ways after one shared experience of pain and misery. What about me? What more do you want from me?”
Stiles reacted to the desperation in the question before he could think, his free hand coming up to cup the side of Peter’s neck, thumb brushing over his pulse in a soothing gesture. Peter sagged into the contact, eyes falling half-closed as his chest heaved under Stiles’s other hand.
“You’re not just asking for pack from me though, are you?” Stiles asked gently, tapping his thumb against Peter’s neck pointedly. “What’s this? Erica and Boyd didn’t do this. I didn’t think wolves bared their neck to anyone beside their alpha.”
Peter opened his eyes enough to gaze at Stiles with heavy seriousness. “They don’t.”
Stiles blinked, because, oh. Okay then. His thoughts whirled. “I’m not a werewolf though,” he protested. “I can’t be your alpha.”
Peter didn’t look away, nor did he make a move to get out of Stiles’s grip. “Human’s can be alphas. It’s rare, but not unheard of. Especially when the human in question has enough magic to anchor the pack bonds.” He flicked his gaze meaningfully to Stiles’s chest.
Stiles closed his eyes to think. Peter didn’t protest, but Stiles could still feel the way his breath hitched slightly and his shoulders twitched like he wanted to brace for a blow, but was held still by his refusal to move away from where Stiles had put him. It was a heady —and terrifying— concept.
After a bit, Stiles opened his eyes again and pinned Peter with a fierce look. “Do you mean it?” he demanded.
“Yes,” Peter said simply.
Stiles thumped his chest. “No really. Do you mean it? Because if we do this, if I do this, there’s no take-backs, okay? You’ll be mine, and I don’t accept betrayal. Maybe I’m just a human, but pack means something to me, and I won’t accept a half-assed beta just looking for an easy sanity solution. You have to mean it.”
Peter hitched his chin up a bit higher. “I mean it. I want it. I promise.”
Stiles exhaled slowly. “Okay, then. Then I guess we’re doing this. You’re my beta from now on, and I’ll figure out how to be a good alpha for you.”
The warmth in his chest twinged again, and Peter sucked in a shuddering gasp, sagging hard into Stiles’s two points of contact, eyes closed and an expression of undeniable relief on his face. “Thank you,” he whispered.
Stiles slid the hand on Peter’s neck around to grip his nape firmly in an attempt to ground him a bit. “Don’t thank me yet. I have no idea what I’m doing here.”
Peter chuckled a bit and straightened, though he notably made no attempt to shake off Stiles’s hands. “You’ve been acting as an alpha since you trapped me in the mountain ash circle back in the warehouse. I would say it comes quite naturally to you, my dear.”
Stiles laughed and stepped back, letting go. “Creep,” he accused, with unmistakable fondness in his voice.
Peter grinned. “Alpha,” he answered. There was a tiny hesitation in his voice as he said the title, like he expected Stiles to reject it.
Stiles couldn’t help smiling back. He reached out again to give Peter’s nape a brief squeeze. “My beta,” he said easily. He let his hand slide down Peter’s shoulder and arm to grab his wrist, giving it a brief tug. “Come on. Get me out of here and to a bed before I collapse and make you carry me.”
Peter gave a short bark of laughter. “As my Alpha commands.”
They caught up with Erica and Boyd, who gave them confused and vaguely concerned looks, but didn’t question their absence.
When they reached Stiles’s jeep, all three wolves visibly hesitated. Stiles glanced over them and sighed. “Alright. Choices.” He held up a finger. “Option one: I drive each of you home, and we decide when we’re meeting up tomorrow.” He pinned them with a hard look. “And I do mean tomorrow. We need to talk when my brain’s not running on pure stubbornness and an inability to know when to quit.” Erica snorted, and Stiles grinned at her. He put up a second finger. “Option two: I take you two,” he pointed to Erica and Boyd. “to Derek so you can tell him what’s going on and spend the night with him. And you,” he pointed to Peter. “either home or to my house. We’ll still be meeting up tomorrow. That’s nonnegotiable.” He put a third finger up. “Or, option three: all three of you come back to my house with me and crash in my bedroom, and we figure this all out when we wake up. What do you want to do?”
Erica and Boyd glanced at each other. “Option three,” they chorused.
Stiles snorted and turned to Peter.
“Option three,” he said, though he sent a somewhat uncertain glance at Erica and Boyd.
Stiles opted to ignore that for now. “Option three it is! Everyone pile in, the Stilinski taxi is in service!”
Once they made it to his house, there was a chaotic scramble to find suitable pajamas and new toothbrushes for everyone while also cycling through the bathroom peacefully.
But then finally. Finally, Stiles did what he had been craving doing since Gerard dumped him, and collapsed face first into bed with no intention of moving for at least ten hours, responsibilities be damned. The three wolves hesitantly squeezed into bed beside him, Erica and Boyd on one side and Peter on the other. Stiles mustered enough awareness to throw an arm over each of them and then was promptly dead to the world.