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Stiles had not slept in three days.
The blue light from his computer screen was the only thing keeping the room illuminated. His bloodshot eyes stared intently at the screen without registering any of the information presented to him. He stayed awake under the pretense of research. He hid a yawn behind his hand as the window creaked open behind him. He didn’t turn to look, he knew it was Scott checking up on him again. He refused to feed into the obsessive paranoia that told him it wasn't.
He closed his eyes briefly and sighed. He knew why Scott was paying him such a late night visit. His brother was worried, the entire pack was. He could barely keep his eyes open during pack meetings, and he spent most of his time downing energy drinks one after the other. He was slipping, and they all knew it. Even Peter commented on the amount of cans slowly piling up by his feet.
He tried to sleep, he really did, but the threat of something sneaking through his window – aside from the usual wolves - kept him up at night. In his brain he saw flashing images of all the supernatural threats he'd yet to face, and it was driving him crazy.
The figure behind slunk forward and hovered over him.
Stiles willed himself once again not to look back and fuel his insomnia induced fears. He could keep himself from looking back, but he couldn't keep his heart from pounding or his fingers clenching tightly into fists. He let his head loll against the hand that propped it up.
“Sandman? I don’t think that’s the answer to your problem,” a voice purred low in his ear. It did not belong to Scott.
Stiles jumped. The eyes he’d barely been able to keep half-lidded were now wide with terror as he whirled around. Peter stepped back, holding his hands up in a gesture of good will. “Easy now.”
“What are you doing here?” Stiles hissed. Peter was not exactly his favorite person, having been dragged forcefully through a parking garage hadn’t exactly imprinted good memories. He slumped back down into his chair once he realized he wasn’t in immediate danger.
“You don’t look so good, Stiles,.” Peter tilted his head to one side and brushed his cold hand down his cheek. It felt almost comforting. He didn't try to move away from the hand that caressed him. He was just so tired.
“Thanks,” he mumbled. “You look like shit too.” Peter rolled his eyes.
“C’mon, we’re getting you into bed.” Before he could protest the wolves hand enclosed around his shoulder and pulled him to his feet.
“W-wait. What are you doing?” He stumbled as he was dragged through the darkness. His knees hit the edge of his bed and he was pushed down onto it. When he turned around Peter was invisible, save for the faint blue outline of his eyes. Stiles squinted, hours of staring at the computer screen had done no favors for his vision.
“Getting you some much needed rest. Now pipe down and close your eyes.” The blanket was yanked out from under him and swiftly pulled back up. Stiles head hit the pillow a second later, unable to help himself from caving to even just the possibility of sleep. The little piece of his brain that still worked fired off messages telling him that this wasn't right, that he shouldn't trust the werewolf shrouded in darkness before him.
“I can’t,” he said weakly.
“Why not?” Peter sounded annoyed. Only the glow of his faint blue eyes were visible in the darkness.
“Because,” Stiles sighed. “Did you know that the sand man originally stole peoples eyes after they went to bed? He stole them, Peter. Plucked them right out of peoples heads.”
“Stay on topic.”
“That was on topic,” Stiles couldn’t suppress the yawn that escaped his throat just then. “What if my eyes get stolen?”
“You're afraid of getting your eyes stolen?” his tone was purely incredulous as he stood above the human. Stiles could just start to make out the faint outline of his features.
He nodded grimly.
“Or a vampire sneaking in here and getting drained of all my blood, a fae replacing me with a duplicate, or yet more werewolves sneaking into my bedroom to kill me.”
The words rushed from his mouth like a waterfall. It was the first time he’d brought up his fears to another, even Scott could only put together bits and pieces of what troubled his friend. He expected Peter to hit him with a cruel remark or a sarcastic response. He did not get one. The man listened with cold calculation, his eyes flashed blue at the mention of other wolves, but in his sleepy state Stiles believed he might have imagined it.
“There are a lot of things to be afraid of, Peter.”
“I suppose that’s reasonable. You are incredibly fragile.”
Stiles scoffed. His eyelids were starting to close a little more. Having Peter there put him at ease, he had his doubts whether Peter would protect him should something slither into the bedroom, but he would protect himself and in most cases that was enough.
“Thank you, but that’s not helping.”
The bed shifted weight suddenly. An arm or a leg leaned down on it. Stiles moved back instinctively.
“Well then, I suppose Ill just have to stay here and make sure nothing can get to you.”
Stiles was ousted from his spot a second later, displaced by Peter crawling in next to him. He was easily manhandled onto his side as Peter ignored the yelps of protest.
“What are you doing? This is weird, I don’t-”
“I’m helping you get some rest, Stiles. Pipe down and be still.” Peters arms snaked around his shoulders and held him tight. The pressure and heat of the position made him relax. It made him feel safe. It also made him scoot a little closer to the werewolf. Neither of them commented on it.
He groaned a little, too embarrassed to admit to himself this was happening. He was really being cuddled by the evil werewolf.
“Why?” he demanded to know. The question was asked more towards the gods above, but he didn't try to stop Peter from answering either.
“Because you need it. Because you’ve been staring at a computer for three days, and because you're the only one of those idiots I can stand to talk too. So please, just rest.” He sounded just as exasperated as Stiles felt.
Reluctantly, and without much choice Stiles laid down his head and went to sleep. It did not take very long for him to fall. As his breathes evened into the slow, deep, rhythms of sleep he heard Peter make a noise that sounded almost like a purr. A large, smooth, hand massaged his back and worked the tension out from between his shoulder blades. Stiles sighed contentedly.
*
In the morning he blamed delirium.
Peter was gone without a trace. The side of his bed was empty and cold. He frowned and curled up underneath the layer of blankets. As he stuck his nose into the side of his fluffy white pillow he smelt a faint trace of Peters aftershave, and he smiled.
He saw Peter at the pack meeting later that day. When they made eye contact Peter commented that he looked marginally better, and Stiles thanked him. He still worked two or three energy drinks into his system, but he didn't have to fight off the encroaching exhaustion every five minutes.
That night when he found himself crawling willingly back into his bed, he left the window wide open. He didn't have to be afraid tonight, because he knew what would be sneaking through the window wasn't something he should fear.