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Peter did not miss the days when the human members of the Hale pack were sick. They reeked of disease—a sort of putrid odor that he would be hard pressed to describe if forced. The best he description he could conjure was—varying depending on the symptoms—a mixture of mucus, sweat, bad breath, and such, but there was always the smell of rotting, like the human pack members were meat left outside of the freezer or fridge too long.
It was with that thought that Peter knocked three types of flu medication into his basket, and grabbed the largest pack of tissues available. Chris and Stiles were sick, and he’d be damned if he was going to let his home be overrun by that horrendous smell longer than a day or two. He didn’t care that science dictated that Chris and Stiles would need more time to heal. He was a werewolf; he defied science.
Peter marched through the soda aisle and shoved six bottles of some sports drink he’d caught Stiles drinking once into his basket, and then hefted a twenty-four-bottle case of water over his shoulder.
He stormed over to the checkout center. He dropped the case of water on the conveyor belt, startling the young cashier, who had been sneaking a glance at her phone. The girl stared at him for a moment, calculating if she was dealing with an irate customer.
Peter forced a charming smile on his face and doled out the necessary pleasantries that would get the girl moving.
Within a couple of minutes, Peter was speeding off in his car and had charmed fifteen percent off his entire purchase. All the while he thought about how he would decimate the illness that had taken his two partners.
A vein throbbed in Peter’s forehead when as he pulled up to his home. He heard the distinct sounds of video games and Stiles shouting profanity.
Peter slammed the door as he got out of his vehicle and gathered his items from the trunk. The scent of chicken soup wafted from one of the bags; he had made a pit stop one the way home.
He threw open the door of his home, the sound of cars exploding and guns being fired filled the house.
Peter took a deep breath. He would be calm about this, he told himself. There was no need to chain Stiles to the bed, yet. As stubborn and foolish as Stiles could be, given proper incentive, he could be reasoned with.
Peter headed to the living room, where Stiles was seated cross-legged in Batman pajama bottoms and one of Chris’ old T-shirts. A blanket lay strewn across his lap. Used tissues poured out the garbage bag he’d been carrying around all day like a security blanket. Two empty tissue boxes flocked him.
“You asshole!” Stiles shouted into his headset. His eyes flicked up to Peter. “Hi.”
“Even when ill, the need to cause property damage never ceases,” Peter commented as a car on the TV screen was bombed and sent flying through the air. He deposited the case of water on the ground, and went to the coffee table where he set his bags down. He riffled through the bags, pulling out three tissue boxes for Stiles and setting them within reach of the young man. He then snapped open a bottle of the sports drink and pulled out the tub of chicken soup.
He kicked the controller out of Stiles’ hands and ripped the headset off Stiles’ head.
Stiles squawked in indignation and whirled on Peter. “Hey, I was just about to kick—”
Peter shoved the lip of the drink into Stiles’ mouth, and forced Stiles to chug down a mouthful. Once Peter was satisfied, he pulled back.
Stiles scowled through his gasps for air. “What the hell? Are you trying to drown me, you psycho?” His fury sent a crimson flush through his cheeks that bled into the rosy hue of his runny nose.
“Of course not, I’m just merely taking care of you, since you clearly have no idea how to do so yourself.”
Stiles opened his mouth to argue, but doubled over and coughed. He glared up at Peter. “I couldn’t sleep, and I was keeping Chris awake, jackass.” Stiles gestured to himself and the room. “I’m resting, see.” He shook his garbage bag of tissues. “Got this with me too, and believe it or not I have had fluids.”
Peter listened to Stiles’ heart. It didn’t stutter.
“And what about eating?” Peter placed the sports drink beside Stiles and handed him the tub of soup.
Stiles shrugged.
Peter narrowed his gaze warningly.
Stiles huffed and opened the container of soup. “All right, all right. Jesus, I thought you were supposed to be the heartless bastard. Right now, I should be able to get away with eating nothing but candy.”
Peter cupped Stiles’ cheek and leaned in to press a kiss to Stiles’ lips, ignoring the heightened smell of disease on his young love. “Do it, and you’ll finding nothing but vegetables in this house for a month.”
“That’s the evil son of a bitch I fell in love with,” Stiles voice was rough, due more likely to congestion than arousal from what Peter could tell. Stiles pecked Peter on the lips.
Peter pulled away. “Finish your game, eat your soup, and then return to the bedroom.” He stood and gathered supplies for Chris.
If there was one thing Peter appreciated about Chris during this time, it was that the man was determined to make a swift recovery. Unlike Stiles, Chris followed every order to perfection. He absolutely refused to leave the bed unless it was for the restroom, sustenance, or an emergency. For the last few hours all he’d had was soup and water.
The sound of the humidifier in the bedroom was soft, and to most would be unobtrusive, but Peter found himself disliking the sound. A therapist would suggest it was due to it being associated with sick relatives; he just found that it was sound that didn’t belong in his territory—an invader.
A large lump of blankets was huddled in the center of the king-sized bed. Soft breathing was emitted from the lump—even, but not slow enough to indicate sleep. Chris was awake, and most likely aware of Peter’s presence.
Peter set the container of soup and water down on the nightstand. He seated himself on the edge of the bed, holding a tissue box he’d brought with him. He crossed his legs. “I expect you to be healed within forty-eight hours, or I will be deeply disappointed in you, Christopher.”
Chris shoved the blankets off his head. His expression told Peter just how unimpressed he was by Peter’s statement.
Peter feigned innocence. “What? Is it so wrong that I want the two people I care about most in the world to get better?”
“Try saying that with a little less saccharine,” Chris’ voice was ragged and his lips chapped. Chris snagged the water bottle of the nightstand and downed half of it. He took a deep breath. There was a slight wheeze to his breathing.
Peter didn’t like it.
“Oh, but darling, I am being sincere. If it takes you two more than two days to recover, I’ll end up snapping Derek or Scott’s neck the next time I see one of them. While normally I am a patient creature, I find such weakness aggravating and I must lash out.”
Chris sighed. “Just say you’re worried.”
Peter paused, mulling over his response. He hummed thoughtfully. “I am actually. I think we’re out of zip ties from our last adventure, and I broke the cuffs we keep in the house, so how am I going to tie Stiles to this bed and force him to rest without pinning him down with my body?”
“There are some bungee cords in the garage; although, I think both of you would enjoy the pinning more.”
Peter grinned wickedly. “Yes, and perhaps you could join us.” He ran a hand over Chris’ thigh. “You will be right next to us after all, and it would be good for your fevers if we three shared body heat.”
Chris chuckled, coughing between the sounds. “You incorrigible sex addict.”
Peter leaned into Chris, letting his lips ghost along the shell of the hunter’s ear. “Now when did I say anything about sex? You two are sick, what kind of monster would I be if encouraged such extraneous activities?”
Chris groaned.
Peter smiled against the stubble of Chris’ chin, then glided away and off the bed. He sashayed to the door and paused. He glanced over his shoulder, grinning knowingly and victoriously at Chris. “Just a little added motivation to heal faster, dear.”
Chris cursed under his breath.
Peter bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.
He was already calculating how he would properly motivate Stiles; although the idea of tying Stiles down with bungee cords was appealing to him more and more. He supposed he could do a combination of things.
Peter tugged his shirt down, making certain it showed off a generous portion of his chest, and kept up his swagger up as he entered the living room.
Stiles looked up from his soup and video game, his eyes followed Peter as Peter bent down to pick up the case of bottled water and carry it into the kitchen.
Stiles’ heartbeat quickened, and Peter knew it wasn’t because of illness.
Peter smirked.
Yes, he’d have his two partners healed in no time.