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Stiles doesn't know how long he sits on the edge of his bed in the darkening room. He's quiet, so very quiet. He doesn't know what to say. For the first time in a long time, he's quiet and everything around him is quiet.
He can hear his heart pounding, though.
Looking down at his right hand he watches his thumb flip open and closed the fire blackened lighter. Beneath one finger he can feel the rough edges of what were once inscribed initials. He wonders what hers had been. He hadn't asked.
Looking back, he shouldn't be surprised that there was a mate, maybe even children, in Peter's past. He was somewhere in his thirties, could easily have been a father.
Stiles' heart pounds a little faster at the thought of losing a child in any way let alone before your eyes to flames. He'd watched his mother die slowly, but medicine kept most of the pain at bay and she'd been as ready as she could be.
The fire had come from nowhere, destroying quickly but probably not quickly enough that there hadn't been pain.
Fear.
Horror.
Peter's still a psychopath but maybe Stiles can understand why now.
The lighter flicks open again and this time he spins the wheel and a flame emerges. He watches it for a moment, then shakes it out and closes the silver box. Setting it down on the bed next to him he rubs his hands over his face and wonders what the Hell he's doing.
He should turn on the lights, close the blinds, tuck the lighter into his bag to return the next time he visits the Hale House. He should skype Scott, play some WOW, do anything but sit here and contemplate lighting the candle currently sitting on his open windowsill.
Turning his eyes to it--a simple white candle used for power outages--he sees past it to the rising moon. It's a sliver tonight, as far from a full moon as you can get, but Stiles feels out of control.
Lighting that candle will be the stupidest thing he ever does. There are dozens of reasons he shouldn't do it.
But there's one big reason why he should.
He's lonely and Peter acknowledges that. Peter acknowledges him.
And Stiles can't forget the feel of those two fingers under his chin just a couple hours before, holding him still, the threat of claws there, the threat of so much in that touch.
He's been aroused ever since and he knows how twisted that is, to be aroused by fear, by a man over twice his age, but that man...he wants Stiles. For some reason, he cares and he wants, and Stiles is...lonely.
Picking up the lighter, he slowly rises to his feet and crosses to the window.
And lights the candle.
Outside, a wolf howls.
End