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Common colds will be the bane of Stiles' existence, he thinks, blowing his nose into a tissue and adding it to the thousands of others that overflow in the trash can next to the couch, where he's staked out for the night. His dad is working the night shift tonight, so Stiles is left all alone when he least wants to be, with T.V as his only company, but what's new? Nothing, that's what. He's about to click on the next episode button when he feels... something. Something supernatural.
It makes his head whip around to windows.
Stiles Stilinski has gone through enough werewolf bullshit to know when there're wolf eyes on him. There's a definite hair raising moment, where he feels like the prey, like the victim of a horror movie that's about to get brutally slaughtered. Which wouldn't be too far a stretch, given their recent adventures with the supernatural.
The tell tale signs of anxiety begin - heart thumping faster (which does nothing but alert the predator and make everything worse, thanks for nothing, evolution), breathing hitched, dread squeezing his chest tightly, heart in his throat. The mountain ash circle is up, but they've learned, oh god, have they learned that it isn't a failsafe. That any werewolf can have a human on their side to break it. Or just do it themselves, like Scott supposedly did. He has his, but he isn't fit to defend himself. Not when he can barely stand without getting dizzy and he has to pause every minute and a half to blow his nose or cough. Hell, even on a good day, Stiles isn't really fit to defend himself.
If he squints, he can see two neon blue dots a little ways away, a little past the tree line. The rapidly fading light is just enough for him to see an outline of an ominous shape. The blue by itself to have Stiles worried, because blue means death, blue means killer. (Not that Stiles can judge, though.)
Against his better judgment, he makes his way to the front porch, all the while sliding his hands across the walls for support. It's dumb, so dumb, and later he'll blame his sick, sleep deprived, newly self reclaimed brain, but for now, he's curious and reckless and doesn't care if he gets hurt. Doesn't care if an arrow were to whiz by and suddenly penetrate the thin, fruitless material of his father's old police academy shirt, he doesn't care.
He flings open the door, a hand on his hip. The night is frigid and unpleasant, which is a strikingly accurate metaphor for Stiles' life at the moment. Out here, the streetlights better illuminate his surroundings, and Stiles isn't really all that surprised to find a wolf. Don't get him wrong; it's definitely a surprise, just one he was expecting. The weirdest part about it is the shape - he's seen a human looking werewolf, a monsterish one, and now this one. Almost mistakable for a real wolf, to anyone who's oblivious to the existence of werewolves and doesn't know what to look for.
The wolf glances up, looking surprised to find Stiles staring straight at him. Stiles watches interestedly as it seems torn between fleeing and pretending this never happened or puffing out it's chest and raising it's chin defiantly.
Stiles snorts, folding his arms and leaning against the doorframe. There's only one person he knows that can shapeshift.
He waits, but the wolf just stares, like it's unsure or maybe doesn't want to lose the staring contest. After another thirty seconds, Stiles decides there's no shame in losing the competition when it's fucking freezing outside and he's actually shivering. After all, the other dude has a fur coat on him, and Stiles has a pajama shirt and loose sweatpants that slide down his hips uselessly, exposing his skin to the harsh breeze.
"Well?" Stiles says impatiently, sniffing. "Are you coming in or what?"
A wolf face should not be so expressive, Stiles thinks. But it is, something akin to disbelief on it's narrowed, judgmental eyes as it hesitantly approaches. Stiles breaks the barrier with his hands and the air around him, not bothering to lean down and do it manually.
He thinks the wolf looks surprised, but that doesn't really make sense, because the dude's seen him break it before, a couple years ago. Or has the kanima in the nightclub experience not been memorable to him?
Stiles shuts the door behind the wolf and locks it.
Stiles meanders into the kitchen, swaying a little. Maybe he should eat. He did promise his dad, after all, that he wouldn't starve himself. "I was kind of wondering when you'd be back," he admits casually. Or, as casual as a Stilinski can be.
Faintly, he can hear the little clicks Derek's claws make on the tile as he follows him, looking around the house like he's never seen it before. Which is probably about right, considering his stay here consisted of lurking in Stiles' bedroom like a creeper, and pushing him into doors to intimidate him. In hindsight, it's kind of hilarious and kind of child molestor-y.
"I mean, you did just disappear. Not that I blame you. I would, too, if I could. Huh, maybe go somewhere exotic, like Fiji. Or, y'know, anywhere that isn't here.We could pack up and go to Alaska, for all I care. Which is saying something, because I hate the cold." He gestures to the goosebumps on his arms. "I'd take literally anywhere over this. Even a child labor factory job in China.
"Hey, do you like mustard? ...Wait, never mind, trick question. You can't answer me. So I'm gonna go with yes, then," he interrupts himself absently. Derek seems like a mustard guy. He smears it on with a blunt knife - the only kind in the house that aren't in child proof drawers, in case Stiles sleep walks again. Or doesn't. He knows what his dad's thinking, even if neither of them said it out loud. Admittedly, he's been in a bad place recently.
"Considering all the murders around here, I'm surprised anyone still lives here at all. Dude, I'd be gone, like, months ago if I were just some random civilian. Honestly, who would look around and be like, "wow, honey, look! don't you want to send our kids to this school? it has a swim team, art club, and thousand year old fox demons that like to possess kids!"
He finishes the sandwiches, making sure to load them the fuck up with meat, and carries the plate to the living room, jerking his head for the wolf to follow before plopping down on the plushy old couch, instantly relieved to be off his feet.
"Not to mention your very own real life Hunger Games, where your kid is a name in a hat for things like virgin sacrifices. Jesus. I wish I could just, like, erase Beacon Hills. CTRL + delete the shit out of this town."
It would save so many fucking lives if they could just transport it to hell, back where it came from. He wonders how anyone would feel safe here, when their neighbors are dying left and right. How many disasters can happen here before people stop believing it's all a coincidence?
The wolf is just staring. Stiles rolls his eyes. "Dude, you're not actually a dog. You can sit on the couch, if you want," he pats the sofa cushion next to him, and tries to rub the goosebumps away. It doesn't work, because his hands are like ice and the world hates him. "Speaking of which, how did you become," he gestures wildly, "all that? It kinda came out of nowhere." Well, Scott did tell him Derek "evolved", but all that did was remind Stiles of pokemon.
Stiles stares expectantly, but the wolf just blinks. "You're such a poor conversationalist, honestly," he mutters. "Don't think I'm not prying the answer out of you when you're human again, because dude. You're so fluffy. And somehow less intimidating this way, actually. That bipedal thing before, from a few years ago, was much scarier than this. You're like a husky. And logistically, wouldn't that form be better for slaying enemies, or whatever it is werewolves do in their spare time?"
Well, maybe not, considering that a few teenagers and a molotov cocktail or two had destroyed Peter.
The wolf looks annoyed, and Stiles is yet again impressed with the facial expressions. Maybe eyebrows transferred from human to werewolf?
Stiles' stomach grumbles, so he reaches forward, tearing off a piece of chunk of sandwich and pops it into his mouth, tears another for Derek. He wonders if things taste the same as a human as they do in wolf.
The wolfy eyebrows draw down a little, nose twitching as he takes in the scent, gaze flickering between Stiles and the sandwich like Stiles eating is somehow out of character. Stiles rolls his eyes, "what, you think I poisoned it, while you were standing right there, watching me make it, and then ate some of it myself? Dumbass. It's bologna. What werewolf doesn't like meat?"
He thinks he gets an eyeroll in return but that might be physically impossible. But hey, werewolves are too, so maybe it isn't all that unlikely. If anyone could eyeroll as a wolf, it'd be the Hales. Talia was able to shift like this too, right? Maybe she was an equally sarcastic asshole. Stiles wishes, not for the first time, he could've met all the Hales.
The wolf glares, but opens his mouth anyway (after waiting a solid minute to let Stiles know that it was his idea and not the bossy human), leaning forward. Stiles' eyes bulge, pulling the bread out of reach instinctively. "Whoa, holy shit! Your teeth are like the size of my finger! Jesus. Perfect for ripping the throats out of defenseless little bunnies and baby deer, huh?"
The wolf snorts what could possibly be translated into a laugh. Or a chuckle. Though he doesn't see Derek doing either of those things, really. The guy's smiled all of, like, once around Stiles? Maybe? Perhaps a scornful scoff. That seems the most realistic.
Stiles cautiously lowers his hand back down, maintaining eye contact with the glistening white canines. "The phrase: "don't bite the hand that feeds you," comes to mind right now," he warns.
The wolf closes his teeth around the sandwich bite slowly and carefully, and for some reason, the action seems more mocking than it does kind. Stiles scoffs, which turns into a cough halfway through.
"Laugh it up, Fuzzball," Stiles mumbles bitterly. The wolf is just staring, but Stiles can feel the smug amusement radiating off him. "You've obviously never experienced the torture of the common cold before. Can werewolves even get colds? Geez, I'm freezing,and I hate everything."
Stiles takes turns between eating some and passing a bite to the wolf, who pointedly exaggerates being careful with his teeth every time, the drama queen. The domestic action becomes almost absentmindedly, really. All he can think about is his stuffy/runny nose and how much he'll never take a clear nose for granted ever again. This is the stuff of nightmares and before he knows it, boom, he's just finger fed Derek Hale, which isn't even the weirdest part of his year.
When the sandwich is finished he turns back to black wolf, because annoying people is another one of his favorite past times.
"Did'ya know wolf eyes aren't actually blue? I mean, the puppies are, sometimes, but they change as they grow older," he informs smugly. "So, this proves my theory. You're really just a big puppy, after all, aren't you?"
He's actually majestic as fuck, and Stiles is supremely envious and equally in awe of it, but he can't tell Derek, for fear his ego will swell to the size of the moon. It was bad enough when the dude was alpha.
The wolf bares his teeth to show how much he does not agree, but after hand feeding the dude, Stiles thinks any danger of getting eaten has passed. He grins and jams his feet under the wolf's furry, warm chest like they belong there. "Holy werewolf, you're hot," he says, toes wiggling experimentally under him, before he freezes, eyes going wide. "I mean - like. Temperature. Not, like, hot hot, that would be weird. - not that you're not hot hot! Or because I'm a guy and you're a guy! But also not that you not, not hot hot because, like, beastiality, gross. I'm just saying, like, you're cozy. Wow, okay. Uh. Your... fur. It's good. Warm and... all that jazz."
Stiles is his own enemy, dear god. He clears his throat, stares at the wolf seriously. "We are pretending that that never happened, and if anyone asks, I won't admit under the pain of death that I called your werewolf bod hot and mentioned beastiality in the same sentence. Now shut up and watch Gossip Girl with me."
So they do. He's actually kind of surprised how long the wolf sticks around, given Stiles' constant sniffling and coughing and running commentary about the actions of Manhattan's elite. His dad and Scott are the only ones able to endure that, usually, and even then it's a challenge.
By the second episode, he's inched forward without realizing it, drawn to the heat of the werewolf. Damn it, it's unfair that they get so much insulation and Stiles gets approximately none. They're shoulder to shoulder, and Stiles is petting his back. It's soft, so soft and Stiles has always wanted a dog...
He wonders how long it's been since Derek's had somebody touch him in a non-malicious way. Cora, maybe? But then again, Cora was pretty violent.
.
He's in the middle of a rant about Chuck Bass and romanticized abusers when a massive coughing fit strikes.
"Goddamn it," he says between wheezes. "It's like Satan's trying to choke me. My body's all for fighting freaking kanimas and hosting an ancient fox demon and running from psychopathic, murdering alphas, but a cold is where it draws the line?"
Derek looks over like he's just been the victim of a titty twist.
"Don't look at me like that, of course I'm allowed to complain. None of that "my injuries are worse than yours," bullshit. You get shot with a wolfsbane bullet one time and suddenly everything is about you."
Stiles they blow through another episode of Gossip Girl, and they watch it in silence until he speaks up, for reasons unknown. Maybe it's the embarrassment of watching a show called Gossip Girl.
"It was, um, Ally's favorite show. Before..." his throat goes dry. Before I killed her, is what he doesn't say. He doesn't think he needs to. The wolf understands, of course he does, and lays over Stiles' lap. He doesn't fit more than his paws and head, and Stiles hesitates before stroking down the fur on his back again. He doesn't know he's allowed to touch his neck, even the back of it. It's a vulnerable area, and the trust and intent behind leaving it exposed to Stiles feels misplaced, so he ignores it. Pretends that isn't a huge step. Wonders why he'd purposely leave himself open like this after Stiles just mentioned a death he caused. "She, er, always tried to make Scott and I watch it, but we never listened. I think she'd have to tie Scott down to get him to watch this, though."
And so they sit until Stiles' throat stops feeling like he swallowed a frog and can make smartass comments about the show again, the wolf huffing and puffing ("and blow the house down," Stiles will mutter) when the characters make dumbass choices and unrealistic things happen. Which Stiles finds terribly ironic coming from a creature of the night that isn't supposed to exist.
"Do you ship Serena and Dan as a couple?" he asks. The wolf's ears press flat against his head, a little grumble vibrating through his chest and shaking Stiles a little. He fights a grin and loses."Okay, so, not a romantic then. Chuck and Blair?"
The growling cuts off, ears returning back to their usual upright perch. Stiles laughs, partly amused and equally surprised the big bad werewolf has deigned him reply. "Right? Dan's kinda fishy to me, and Serena's seems like backstabbing bitch."
They converse easily, Stiles snarking and the wolf snorting or grunting - it's oddly expressive - before Stiles, naturally, ruins it.
He hums thoughtfully as the credits roll and the tv gives them fifteen seconds to decide if they want to stop now or spend the rest of their lives withering away on this very couch.
"You know, if someone told me, three years ago, that I'd be watching Gossip Girl with Derek Hale, werewolf extraordinaire, on my lap, I'd probably send them to Eichen House," he teases.
Said wolf locks up, tense and stiff, and Stiles automatically glances towards the window. There's nothing there. That his weak human eyes can see, at least, but if it were immediate danger, he thinks Derek would be chasing after it or warning him rather than just sitting here, looking like he's been slapped in the face with a fish.
The wolf removes himself from Stiles like he's got cooties, backing into a sitting position to stare in Stiles' eyes.
"Dude, you okay? You look like someone just insulted your grandmother."
The wolf chuffs, hopping down from the sofa.
"Wait, where are you going? You're warm!" Stiles says. "Dude come back. Derek!"
There's a little growl, more annoyed than the feral, monster-y noise Stiles is used to hearing.
"Er, come back...Not Derek?" he says unsurely, glancing towards the corner, behind the door where his bat is stashed in case of emergencies.
The wolf, who is decidedly not Derek, grunts, ears flicking irritatedly, like they do whenever Chuck or Blair miscommunicate with each other. Stiles is growing increasingly more nervous. "But I don't get it. I definitely called you Hale at some point and -"
It clicks immediately, Stiles straightening his back and sitting upright, body tensed. "Peter." His voice is colder automatically, wary. Peter glares, but nothing about his posture screams threatening or aggressive. Then again, Stiles clearly knows nothing about body language, otherwise he'd have been able to recognize that this is definitely not Derek.
Stiles isn't sure if it's the cagey, cornered look or the way his eyes keep darting to the exits that gives everything away. Peter wasn't here to strategize, or devlope an evil plan or something, was he. No, Stiles barely told him anything useful at all. He didn't come here pretending to be Derek - Stiles had just assumed that himself.
He didn't do anything besides sit outside like a creeper.
The apprehension on his face when Stiles caught him looking into the window flashes back to him, and Stiles frowns.
"What were you doing outside my house?" he asks, both curious and because the pack Must Always Remain Vigilant, according to Scott, "Were you just sitting there, watching me? I can't decide if that's creepy or not. Oh wait, yes it is! Very creepy. Stalkerish. What is it with the Hales and lurking outside the Stilinski home?"
Stiles' lips press together when a more serious thought crosses into his mind. "You know I'm not actually suicidal, right? ...Anymore. I don't know if the werewolf of Beacon Hills society has decided that you have to keep watch over me or something, but if Scott put you up to this - ugh. He's such jerk. Don't listen to him. About me that is. He's okay as an alpha, at least I think. I'm not quite sure how to tell. Do you have some werewolf rubric or grading scale that I should be going by?"
Stiles huffs, waving his hands frustratedly. "Look, it'd be really helpful if you could switch back to human when I'm trying to interrogate you, y'know. Carrying the conversation is one thing. All you're doing now is giving me those crazy eyed looks and I'm really not digging the flashbacks."
Peter's eyes dart away briefly at that. Not a flinch, not really, but not pride about it, either. He supposes that's Peter's version of shame. Stiles can feel his resolve crumbling down around him. He sinks back into the sofa, tired and now cold again without his little giant werewolf space heater.
"Nevermind -" he starts to say, but frowns and opens his eyes when the little "clickity clack" of Peter's nails on the floor start. "Wait, where are you going? You can't even open doors. Wait, what's that look? Peter? Stop staring at the windows like that, I will not allow you smash through them. Your life isn't actually a hardcore action movie. Besides, There's mountain ash outside."
Peter's head swivels around in what looks to be annoyance. "Look - I didn't say you had to leave," he mutters. He feels awkward now, like he's laying all his cards out when he isn't sure what the cards even are. "I was surprised. Nobody's heard about you in months, and Derek was the only one we knew of that could do... that. Which you are so telling me about when you shift back, by the way. But for now I am freezing and sick and you happen to have a fur coat, so get your ass back here." he says, shivering. It's like a heated blanket, that wolf.
Peter stares, likes he's expecting Stiles shout "sike! April fools!" in the middle of a freezing February. Stiles just pats the cushion next to him impatiently, and Peter reluctantly hops up.
"Okay, you can stop staring at me like I'm gonna sucker punch you," Stiles mutters, side-eyeing him. "There are so many things wrong with that. First: you could easily eat me if I tried. Don't you scoff at me, I saw the way you inhaled that sandwhich. Second: Animal abuse is wrong - hey!" he laughs out of surprise when Peter huffs and flops down on him so Stiles is laying down on the sofa, head pillowed by the arm of the chair.
It's kind of awkward at first, Peter's wolf body stretched over his, head on Stiles' chest. He tries not to think of the logistics. Or how Peter was once on a murderous rampage and killed his own niece to kill other people and bite Scott in the process. Of how if Peter were human, this would have a negative 0.17% chance of this happening. Or how weird it would be if Peter were to shift back right now; he doesn't think werewolves can take clothes with them as they shift - which is a thought he is putting out of his head right now immediately, oh god have mercy.
His nasally sniffs are slowly dying out, twitching limbs slowing as his eyes flutter, feeling surprisingly sleepy for having such a fierce, heavy predator on his chest. His fingers are buried in the warm fur of Peter's shoulders, but as he loses consciousness, it kind of stops becoming weird. He wonders what he'd say if Scott walked in right now. Or worse, his dad.
"This doesn' mean I forgive you," he informs drowsily, because being a cuddly teddy bear doesn't just automatically fix everything, Stiles will have him know, "for what you did to Scott n' Lydia. You have to 'ctually apologize f'r that to happen. But maybe you c'n start by not ripping my throat out while 'm sleeping."
It sounds like a good start.
Peter won’t disapoint.
...
(Stiles is kind of disappointed he never actually got Peter to roll onto his back, because belly rubs. They'll work up to it.)