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It figures, Stiles thinks, somewhat hysterically, that he would survive eighteen years in the supernatural cesspool that is Beacon Hills without any too permanent injuries or traumas, only to find himself in a situation like this while away at college.
And for trying to help, no less!
He’d promised his dad that his nights of running around in the woods, chasing after clawed, fanged, and furred things were over, and had actually been looking forward to being a regular old student for once in his life, but, really. Stiles should’ve known better. He’s never been lucky, for one, and he’s—well, he forgets what Deaton called it, but, from what Stiles got away from it, he’s supernaturally sensitive. A little bit magical, only not enough to do anything more with his so-called gift than make mountain ash circles, and brew mistletoe tinctures.
And, apparently, play host to injured mythological creatures flying in through his dorm room window in the middle of the night.
Stiles had, admittedly, been pretty excited to find out that firebirds exist—he’d stopped thinking he would eventually get used to new, weird things popping up all over the place ages ago—although the circumstances could definitely have been better. Like, he would’ve preferred the firebird to not land half on his head, while he was sleeping, and then screech him awake while bleeding all over his sheets.
It had seemed to be sorry, as far as Stiles could tell, once they’d both calmed down, and Stiles had treated the wound on its foot. It had perched on his shoulder, making soft clicking noises, and had groomed Stiles’ hair while Stiles had put bandaids on his scratched up hands and arms. After eating its way through Stiles’ mini fridge, it had waited for Stiles to get back into bed, and then made itself comfortable on Stiles’ back, trilling quietly until Stiles had fallen back asleep.
When Stiles had woken up again in the morning, the firebird had been gone. Stiles had been disappointed, right up until he’d tried to roll onto his back, only to discover that that wasn’t possible anymore because of his brand new set of bright, fiery red wings.
Which leaves him where he is right now; pacing the length of his room while he waits for Derek to arrive, fidgeting nervously, and trying really hard not to freak out, or let his newly improved senses overwhelm him. Being able to see the mouse all the way across the courtyard is awesome, even though he has a strong urge to go hunt it, and being able to smell that the girl across the hall is having a bacon and egg sandwich for breakfast doesn’t really bother him all that much. He could’ve done without the knowledge that the grumpy guy a few rooms down likes to, uh, take care of himself while watching children’s cartoons, though.
The knock on his door manages to startle him nonetheless. He opens it only enough to peer outside, then scowls when he sees the wrong Hale standing there, unfairly beautiful smirk firmly in place, and looking infuriatingly gorgeous as always. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“It’s lovely to see you, too, Stiles,” Peter drawls as he pushes his way into the room. He sighs, faking a pout, when Stiles keeps glaring at him. “Derek sent me, obviously. This,” he waves a hand at Stiles’ wings, “is a little out of my dear nephew’s area of expertise.”
Stiles crosses his arms over his chest, even though Peter does have a point. The gesture makes his wings flex and shudder. Peter’s eyes follow the movement, wide and dark. His scent, now that Stiles is able to identify and focus on it, intensifies, grows heavier and headier, his heart beating wildly, which—
“Dude,” Stiles says, incredulous, “are you seriously creeping on my wings? Please, tell me you don’t have some kind of feather kink, or fetish, or whatever, because that’s really the last thing I—”
“No, don’t be absurd,” Peter interrupts, but his voice is scratchy, and there’s the faintest of blushes spreading across his cheeks. “So. Improved senses, I take it?”
Stiles nods, but refuses to be distracted. It’s incredibly rare for Peter to get uncomfortable or embarrassed enough to actually show it, and Stiles is not about to let this go. Peter is aroused, that much Stiles can tell now, but if it isn’t his new wings that do it for him, then—
“Me?” Stiles squeaks, and yep, he can feel it, his face is undoubtedly turning red, too. “You’re—you! And—to me? Me? How? Why? Since when?”
That makes Peter grimace. But, to his credit, he still says, “For longer than strictly appropriate.”
Stiles gapes. His wings shake, making him jump a little. “Oh, yeah.”
“We should probably take care of those,” Peter agrees, setting his bag down on Stiles’ desk. “Or teach you to control them enough to not give away everything you feel.”
“But,” Stiles bites his lips, and reaches out to brush the tips of his fingers over Peter’s arm, “after?”
Peter hesitates for a moment, but then he nods, and even smiles slightly. “After.”