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Summary
Peter totters into view as if he were drunk, a pair of sweatpants barely pulled over his hips.
Stiles knows, though, that Peter physically cannot consume enough alcohol fast enough to get drunk, and that there are very few things that can make Peter stagger around like someone’s tossing his inner ears around in a dice cup. Wolfsbane is out, unless a hunter was hiding in the dirty laundry piled on the bathroom floor, which leaves only one alternative. Stiles had really been hoping they’d get a few more weeks before Chris had to take a sick day. And that he’d be home when it started.
But Peter is already glassy eyed and breathless, and they’ve done this before. Stiles shoots off a quick text to Chris not to bring any company home, then sets his phone on the side table, crossing to Peter. He doesn’t bother speaking because Peter’s beyond words at this point. The only thing that will get through to him is touch.
Series
- Part 2 of Countin' verse