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As if his night couldn't get worse.
Roscoe wasn't starting no matter how much Stiles tried to coax the engine, and in a fit of rage he'd tossed a wrench—the wrench—right across the dark, empty road. It was still raining and Stiles was soaked and his chest hurt from breathing, from thinking of Scott and thinking of Donovan and thinking of fucking Theo—
Exhaling harshly, he got back in his Jeep and sat in the driver's seat. He couldn't think of who to call. The mechanic, he guessed, but they wouldn't open for hours. Malia? Not after they'd broken up just a few days ago. And Scott, his first port of call—
God. Stiles could still see his face when he'd turned away; could still see his expression when he'd said, "We can't kill people!" He closed his eyes and couldn't think of anything but Scott rejecting him, Scott choosing to believe Theo over Stiles, Scott just assuming Stiles had had a choice, had had any other option, never even wondering how Stiles got hurt.
It made him feel so, so stupid. That he'd tried, that he'd asked, that he'd known what Scott would say and Scott still said it, that even when he begged, Scott turned away. Maybe Scott was right after all; maybe they couldn't fix this. Maybe whatever friendship Scott and Stiles had had, all those years and trials and danger, really couldn't survive past Stiles killing Donovan.
Or maybe, a small part of him thought, whatever friendship they'd had couldn't survive past Scott never paying attention to him, past Scott assuming the worst of him. Would he have even tried to call Scott, even if they hadn't fought? Probably not. Scott had never been good at answering the phone. Scott had other things to worry about. Hayden. Lydia.
Fuck. Stiles put his head in his hands and scrolled through the pitiful list of contacts on his phone. Derek and Cora were a nice thought—days away in South America, they were free of Beacon Hills and all its strife and he wished they could stay there, safe and sound. Parrish? They barely knew each other, and he would be looking for Lydia right now. And his dad—god. How could Stiles explain it, after what had happened with Scott? How could he face his dad right now?
There was one name on the list that caught his eye. Stiles' thumb hovered over it. Would Peter Hale pick him up and take him home? Peter had never hurt Stiles, but after he'd tried to kill Scott a few months ago… could Stiles assume he'd still be offered that same leniency? Stiles had spoken up against him being put into Eichen and Scott had taken some convincing, but once he'd been faced with that ultimatum Peter had caved surprisingly easily. The last Stiles had seen of him had been Peter glancing back at him before he walked away, defeated but free.
Peter still lived in Beacon Hills, but entirely separate from them. Stiles didn't know how he was faring, a werewolf without a pack, but he hadn't gone on a feral rampage across the town and Stiles had had so many other things to think about. But they'd never really hated each other; and Stiles could always frame it as returning the favor, couldn't he?
He pressed Peter's name before he could overthink it, though as the phone rang Stiles started to doubt himself all over again. If Scott heard he'd called Peter—
But Scott already thought the very worst of him. Getting help from Peter wouldn't change his mind.
"Stiles?"
"…Uh, hey," Stiles said, feeling strangely awkward, immediately regretting all the decisions that had led up to this very moment. "Peter. Good to hear you."
"…You called me, Stiles," Peter said. Over the phone, his voice was tinny; he was nearly drowned out by the rain pounding down on the roof of Stiles' jeep. "Has something happened? Do you need help?"
Stiles closed his eyes. Suck it up, he told himself. Just get it over with. "Yeah, actually. Um, could you… pick me up? Give me a lift?"
"At this time of night?" He could hear the faint rustle of Peter moving. "Where are you? Send me your location."
"Yeah," Stiles said, "…yeah. Thanks."
"Don't thank me yet," Peter answered, and Stiles hung up to pull up his location app and send it over. Then he sat there, his mind empty, shivering slightly as he stared out into the dark.
Bright headlights veered into view with the roar of a sports-car engine, and as it pulled up next to him Stiles got his first look at Peter's fancy car. He'd always vaguely wondered why Derek lived in the ruins of his old house, and then a train depot, and then that decent-but-needs-work loft when they apparently had millions stashed away; he wasn't that surprised that Peter, at least, used that money for luxury. Stiles couldn't really tell the car's color in the dark and was still blinking away the glare as he hopped out of his jeep into the persistent rain, turning back to lock the door. Peter had the passenger door propped open by the time Stiles turned back and he stepped into the car, falling into the seat as he shut the door behind him.
The rush of heat from the AC was strange but welcome, and Stiles stretched out his legs and reached his hands towards the vents, his fingers prickling with the warmth. "You look like a drowned rat," Peter said, not unkindly, as he pulled back to the street. "Where am I taking you?"
"…Uh." Stiles really hadn't thought that far ahead. "The station?"
"Sweetheart," Peter said, giving him a sideways look, "you need a shower. And fresh clothes."
Stiles couldn't exactly deny it. "Fine. Then take me home. You know where it is, right?"
"…Your father is at work?"
"Yeah. Of course."
"Then I have a better idea," Peter said, turning onto the main street, "you're coming back with me."
"What?" Stiles said, bewildered. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that I'm taking you with me," Peter said, implacably, "and you're having a shower and getting out of those clothes and drinking something warm. Have you eaten?"
"…I don't know," Stiles said. "Wait, is this a kidnapping?"
"If you want to call it that," Peter said easily. "Do you want to tell me what happened? You hurt your shoulder—how long ago?"
Less than a minute in the car with him and Peter had noticed; but of course he had, werewolf senses and all. Stiles huffed—and then found himself laughing, almost hysterically, his chest aching for breath as he covered his face in his hands. "Fuck," Stiles gasped, "fuck, of course—it's just Scott, it's just—"
He couldn't look at Peter, who must have been thinking Stiles was going crazy again; crazy like he had been when he was possessed, losing time and losing his mind, when Scott had been trying to help but couldn't. When Scott had cared, at least a little. When Stiles hadn't been completely, utterly alone. Stiles was still laughing; he couldn't stop. He might have been crying.
"Stiles," Peter said. He'd reached out, his hand, warm and sturdy, settling on the gap between Stiles' neck and his shoulder. The ache of Donovan's bite was seeping away as Stiles pressed his hand to his chest and tried to catch his breath, wiping at his eyes. He hadn't even noticed that they'd already stopped, but now that he was looking he saw Peter had pulled into a parking spot in an enclosed garage. "…Let's get you clean and dry."
The next few minutes passed in a curious haze as Peter helped Stiles up out of the car and took his elbow with an uncharacteristic gentleness, leading him to the elevator. The shiny chrome walls glared back at him and Stiles could see the blurred reflection of himself in it, his damp hair and damp shirt and Peter hovering right beside him. Peter's body heat radiated from him like a furnace, or so it felt; his hand was burning against Stiles' skin. Stiles looked at the vague shape of him on the wall and then looked away as the elevator doors opened.
Once, what seemed like years ago, Stiles had wondered where Peter lived. Peter had said 'an apartment downtown' and Stiles had snooped far enough to get the address, but he'd never investigated further; he and Peter weren't friendly enough—or antagonistic enough—for that. He still hadn't expected it to be like this: the homey decor, the wooden furniture, the warm lights.
Peter herded him into the bathroom before Stiles could even think to mount up a protest. Stiles avoided looking at himself in the mirror; he knew what he'd see, his red eyes and shaking hands. Past him, Peter started the shower and the fan. Stiles could feel Peter's gaze on him and managed to look up, meeting his eyes.
"You'll be fine on your own, I assume?"
"…Yeah," Stiles said. "I'm fine."
Peter didn't say anything, but in his face Stiles could see a startlingly genuine concern. Still, he left Stiles there, gently closing the door behind him. The hot water rapidly fogged up the bathroom as Stiles slowly peeled off his clothes; naked, Stiles stood there for a long moment, watching the dark shape of himself in the mirror. The shadow he'd never lose.
Then he got in the shower and let the hot water fall on his face, his eyes closed. It wasn't quite washing all his sins away—Stiles' hands were still stained red with blood—but it did help. After a few minutes, Stiles felt like himself enough to investigate Peter's soaps and shampoos, all in small, fancy bottles and smelling of not much at all, and cleaned himself off as best he could. Once he was finished, he dug around in the cupboards and liberated the top of a set of fresh, fluffy towels, and then, feeling even more out of place, he wrapped it around his waist and trepidatiously eyed the door.
Peter knocked, once. He must have heard the shower turn off. "I left clothes by the door."
"…Thanks," Stiles said, and waited a few seconds before opening it a crack and pulling them into the bathroom. The strangeness of it all hit him again, as he dressed himself in what must have been Peter's clothes. They were comfy and soft and fit him loosely; the v-neck gaped a bit, made to fit Peter's wider shoulders, but Peter was about his height and the sweatpants weren't too long.
As he stepped out into Peter's apartment Stiles couldn't help but wonder what he was doing, accepting clothes from Peter like they were friends, accepting Peter bringing him back to his place instead of just taking him home. Scott would vilify him for it—but Stiles had already lost Scott, hadn't he? If they weren't pack—if Scott didn't want him—were they even still friends anymore?
Peter met him at the kitchen island, passing him a mug, and then led him to the lounge. The drink looked to be hot chocolate, but after a sip Stiles could tell it was nothing like any he'd ever had before; it was rich and warm and a little spicy, the only familiarity the mini-marshmallows bobbing on top. Peter examined him with a critical eye as Stiles sank down into the couch, feeling overwhelmed and knowing he'd have questions to answer that Peter was inevitably going to ask.
"Do you feel better?" Peter said, instead, and Stiles managed a wan smile.
"Yeah. I…" He shook his head and decided to change the subject. "What are you doing?"
"I thought it'd be obvious," Peter said, raising his eyebrows. "You needed help, so I'm taking care of you."
"Yeah," Stiles said, biting his lip, "that's what I mean. You, 'taking care'? I didn't think that was in your vocabulary."
Peter studied him. "…If you don't want to talk about it, you don't have to, you realize."
"And what, you'll just… let me wash here and borrow your clothes, feed me hot chocolate and let me go?"
"Yes," Peter said, "if that's what you want."
Was that what Stiles wanted? Stiles couldn't even fathom it; but neither did he want to share the whole terrible, sordid mess. There was a reason he hadn't told anyone. But Peter, of all people, wouldn't come out and judge him for what happened with Donovan.
"I killed someone," he said abruptly. "Not that long ago. He was the one who hurt me."
Peter's eyes gleamed, but then realization and something like sympathy crossed his face. "I assume Scott found out and didn't take it well?"
"…Yeah," Stiles said, pressing his lips together. "Close enough."
Peter met his gaze steadily, then reached out and set his hand on Stiles' knee. "You know Scott shouldn't define who you are, Stiles."
"That's easy for you to say."
"Well, I nearly fell into that trap myself, if you remember," Peter said, mildly. "Thinking the True Alpha spark meant something; thinking Scott could be convinced to change himself. But he won't. And if he can't see you past your actions at your most desperate, if he can't see you as you are—you can do better, Stiles."
"…Of course you'd say that," Stiles said, but a faint warmth bloomed in the yawning chasm in his chest, where he thought his pack might have once been. "You hate Scott."
"And I like you," Peter said, with surprising sincerity. "You know that, don't you?"
"…I mean," Stiles started.
"I've liked you since we met," Peter said. "Since that first moment—since you trapped me and taunted me, since you begged me on your knees and then couldn't stop being sarcastic when you thought I was threatening your life. Your loyalty, your cleverness, your compassion, your strength. You've always been willing to do what it takes to protect the people you love." He spoke with a candidness that shook Stiles to the core. "And if that meant killing me—you did. And if that meant not shutting me away—"
"You'd have preferred we kill you," Stiles said. "I know that much."
"Yes," Peter said, "I would have." His eyes were shining, supernaturally blue. "You understand me, Stiles. And, I think, I understand you."
Stiles took a long, slow breath. "Is that what this is? You want me to be your pack?"
"It's a good start," Peter said warmly. He took Stiles' hand in his, leeching away his lingering pain. "But I'd help you even if you didn't agree, Stiles; I like you enough for that."
In a sudden epiphany, Stiles realized what that look in Peter's eyes meant. What that look had always meant, for as long as Stiles had known him. "Oh," he said, startled, "you like me."
"I said that, yes."
"No, I mean—" Without thinking, Stiles moved over, clambering onto Peter's lap; Peter's hands shifted to hold Stiles' hips as Stiles leaned in, looking into his radiant blue eyes. "You like me."
"…I do."
When Stiles wet his lips, Peter's gaze darted to his mouth; then Stiles leaned forward and kissed him, a soft press of lips until Peter deepened it, his hands sliding up under Stiles' shirt as Stiles clutched at him. They were both breathing hard when Peter pulled away; Stiles couldn't help but watch his wet mouth, his glowing eyes, the slight peek of his fangs through his teeth. Stiles had done that. He felt nearly drunk with it: with being wanted.
"We shouldn't. Stiles—"
"I broke up with Malia," Stiles blurted, "Scott kicked me out of the pack, Peter, I don't have anyone—" His voice choked in his throat.
"Sweetheart." Peter's voice was achingly gentle. "You've had a long day. Stay here tonight; ask me again tomorrow."
Stiles couldn't help but search his face. He wasn't sure what he was looking for. "Peter…"
"Come here," Peter said, pulling Stiles in until they were chest to chest, his arms closing around him in a tight embrace, and Stiles pressed his face to the curve of Peter's neck and closed his eyes to stop them from burning. "I'll still want you tomorrow, Stiles. And the day after that. And every day forward."
"You promise?"
It was stupid, childish; Stiles knew just how flimsy promises were, how easy they were to break. Hadn't he and Scott promised to be best friends forever, once, long ago?
But Peter pressed his lips to Stiles' temple and assured him: "I promise."