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It’s a full moon, and the light streaming through Stiles’ open window is bright enough that he doesn’t even need his desk lamp. He’s exercising his usual very-important-and-scientifically-proven research technique: wearing his favorite Star Wars pajama bottoms and eating an entire batch of cookie dough while curled up in his chair and watching the computer screen like it’s his god at 3AM in the morning on a school night. Works every time.
He hears the telltale clicking of claws on the windowsill and the light thump of someone landing on his bedroom floor and he doesn’t even look up.
“Sorry Scott, I’d share but chocolate’s bad for dogs.” He says, lifting his bowl of delicious dough in a taunt for a moment before continuing to spoon it into his own mouth.
“Stiles.”
…And that growl is definitely not Scott.
“Peter?” Stiles asks in disbelief, turning to look at the man—well, sort-of man, because he’s wolfed out now, and not in the usual way. His features are swelling and shifting with each breath, nose flattening and unflattening and teeth retracting and unretracting in a morbid rhythm. His face is covered in sweat and he looks paler than Stiles has ever seen him.
He looks rather like a glitchy horror film, caught in a morbid loop of contortions.
“Woah, creeper wolf, what’s up?” He asks in alarm, putting his cookie dough aside and hurrying to the man’s side.
Up close he can see the shudders wracking Peter’s form as he changes back and forth from man to beast, seemingly unable to stop.
“Can’t. Hurts.” Peter slurs, and his voice sounds so wrecked that Stiles really wants to hug him. They’re not that at that stage though, at least twenty more steps on his grand Peter Plan before he gets to the Spontaneous Bro-Hug Stage, and he’s not sure what to do. He settles for letting one fluttering hand alight on Peter’s shoulder. The skin under the thin V-neck is shivering and far too hot, even for a werewolf’s elevated temperature.
“Can’t. Can’t what? Shift? Are you stuck?” He’s never heard of this happening before, so of course lucky Peter would be the one stuck with the malfunctioning superpower. “Should I call Derek?” Derek is the only other born wolf Stiles knows, and he must know more about this than Stiles does. Peter nearly howls, however, before doubling over in pain in a movement that ends with him resting his forehead against Stiles’ shoulder. The boy swallows, patting the rippling back of his friend (yes, he can finally say 'friend', and damn it feels good) and thinking. “Okay, no Derek. Just you and me, okay? We’ll figure this out together.”
Somehow. Why don’t they have a handbook for this sort of thing?
“Please….” Peter whimpers, and Stiles is scared, and Peter must be able to smell it. He’s not scared for himself, though; he wonders if Peter can smell that, too.
“Okay, so. You’re stuck. We’ve just got to get you unstuck. Mental WD-40, okay, I can do that. Let’s lubricate. Um. Just forget that last bit.” Okay, Stiles, use your carefully acquired werewolf lore and general badass-ery to make this better. “Uh… are you thinking wolfy thoughts?” He asks, at a loss, and Peter huffs in what might be a laugh and might just be a gasp of pain.
Peter Pan. Peter’s got razor sharp teeth playing Whack-A-Mole in his mouth, and Stiles comes up with Peter Pan. All he needs is some freaking pixie dust and he’s found his true calling. Wait, are pixies real? Do they actually have magical flying glitter dust? Can he get some?
…Focus.
Stiles sighs, decides to hell with his bazillion step plan, and begins towing Peter backwards towards his bed. When his knees hit the side, he carefully lowers himself down, pulling an unresisting Peter with him so that they are leaning against the wall, Peter’s face still hidden in Stiles’ neck.
“Okay, creeper wolf—Peter. I need you to look at me, okay?” Peter shivers. “Come on, big guy, let’s see those big baby blues.” God, this is not a porno. Stop watching late night pornos, Stiles, for the love of god, or next you’ll start calling yourself Dr. Sexy Stilinski and asking where is hurts.
Luckily werewolf ninja skills don’t extend to mind reading (that he’s aware of), and Peter can’t hear his inner tirade. Slowly, achingly slowly, Peter’s head comes up. His eyes are about as screwed up as the rest of him, glowing neon electric blue one moment and then darkening back to cobalt the next like a miniature light show.
They’re really very lovely eyes all the same, and they look at Stiles with so much hurt and hope, hope that Stiles can make the hurt go away, and god he wants to, wishes he could pull it all out in spider-black veins like Peter could, Peter would if it was Stiles in pain.
But he’s not a werewolf and he doesn’t want to be (liar) and so instead he takes Peter’s head in his hands, presses their foreheads together and doesn’t look away.
“Okay. Breathe with me, alright? In,” He breathes, “And out.” Peter complies, shakily. This continues for a few breaths until Peter’s doing it without the prompting. Stiles grins at him, ridiculously pleased with even this small victory. “Good. Now, close your eyes.”
Peter jerks in alarm, and every predator instinct in him must be screaming not to, not to leave himself so vulnerable to attack. His hands fly up and grip Stiles’ upper arms, claws drawing in and out like a cat’s, needle-sharp pain spiking through Stiles’ skin and he tries not to cry out.
Instead Stiles stills him with his hands, shushes the growl rumbling in his throat. “It’s okay, Peter. It’s just me. No one here but you and me, and I’m going to keep you safe. Promise. Now close your eyes.” Peter hesitates, and Stiles can see the war in his eyes for a moment before they slip slowly closed. Stiles wants to do a victory dance, that Peter trusts him this much, but he’s not done yet, and he still has no idea what he’s doing. He just knows that Peter is too tense, too tightly wound, and he needs to relax if they’re going to get anywhere.
“Great. Thank you. Now, listen close.” He whispers, keeping his voice as soft and low as possible. Wolf Whisperer indeed. “Can you hear my heartbeat? It’s slow and steady, right? I’m not scared of you, Peter, and I’m not angry. I’m not going to leave you alone. Just listen to my heartbeat, and stay here with me.” Peter’s still shivering, but it’s slowing down, now just an odd shudder here and there, and his harsh panting has quieting to shallow, shaky breathing. His eyes are still screwed tightly shut, like he’s afraid of what he’ll see if he opens them.
“Good. You’re doing so good, Peter.” And oh god he’s cooing, like some doddering old granny watching a baby take its first steps, and he wants to smack himself, but decides that can wait. “You’re drifting, Peter. You’re caught between two harbors and they’re both home, but you need to pick one. Not forever, just for now. And I’ll be right there with you, no matter which one you choose.” He remembers what Derek said, about finding an anchor, and there’s kind of a lot of nautical lingo in werewolf-dom, isn’t there? Oh well, whatever floats their boat.
…Heh.
Unfortunately for Stiles’ arms, Peter appears to be choosing the wolf side of things. The claws come out, and this time they stay out, and Stiles gives a little gasp as he feels them draw blood. He willfully keeps himself still. Peter gives a panting little whine, almost a howl, the warm air gusting across Stiles’ lips, and he licks them, suddenly very glad that Peter’s eyes are closed and he can’t see Stiles’ expression.
“Okay, good. Wolf howling at the full moon, not stereotypical at all.” He clears his throat. “You’re almost there, but you’ve got to anchor yourself in this form. Think about…” Hell, what do wolves think about to anchor themselves? Scott thinks about Allison, but Peter doesn’t really have an Allison, so what does that leave? He decides to turn to the Holy Bible of all things magical. “Think of a happy memory. The happiest memory you can. Then take a deep breath, let the happiness fill you, and say ‘Expecto Patronum’.”
Peter freezes for a moment, and then he’s shaking again. Stiles panics for a minute, thinking he’s screwed it up and they’re back to square one, and thanks a lot JK Rowling, but then he realizes that Peter’s shaking with laughter, sees the irrepressible grin twitching at the edges from keeping it in (and his teeth are out and here to stay, which must be a good sign, and also looks hilarious, like a bloody Smilodon with those chompers), and he grins back.
“A Patronus, Stiles? Really?” He says, and his voice is hoarse from forcing himself not to scream and he sounds so entirely worn, but he’s there and he’s happy and his eyes are open and glowing so freaking blue, and—
And Stiles tackles him tight and falls sideways so they both tumble-sprawl on the bed, his way of roughhousing, and Peter growls again (controlled, happy, and Stiles doesn’t feel an inch of fear) and glares and Stiles laughs and laughs.
“If it works for Dementors, it’ll work for you, And it did, didn’t it?” He asks, eyes wet and cheeks warm from laughter, and Peter’s face softens into an honest smile. Stiles is still surprised sometimes, how nice Peter’s real smile is (not a smirk, not a sneer, but an honest-to-goodness smile) and this is no exception. He finds himself looking at the upturn of lips a moment too long and drags his eyes back to Peter’s bright, intelligent ones. “So, what happened? You forget you were a werewolf halfway through?” And he immediately regrets it, because Peter’s smile dims a little and his eyes flit away to the wall over Stiles’ head.
“It’s been like this since I… woke up.” Came back to life using some sort of freaky-deaky Moon Magic, he means, but Stiles doesn’t correct him. “Only on full moons, but it’s still been… difficult, to complete the shift. I believe my body is still recovering its full equilibrium, and this--" He gestures to his disheveled form, "--is the result. It's been rather problematic, actually.” He says, deceptively light, and Stiles gapes at him.
“Problematic? Peter, do you have any idea what you looked like? I thought you were dying or something!” Peter looks a little startled at that, and a thought hits Stiles. “Wait, since you ‘woke up’? Then this isn’t the first time…? Jesus, Peter, what did you do the other full moons?” And Peter looks beyond uncomfortable now, and just a little bitter.
“I hid in the woods until the sun came up.” He says flatly, and Stiles is... He can’t even picture it, Peter all alone, screaming himself hoarse alone in the woods and no one hearing, no one caring, all night long.
“But Derek—“
“Has his own shift to deal with, and isn’t very kindly disposed towards me at the moment, as you well know. I don’t think I’d trust myself in any impaired condition to his tender mercies.” Peter finishes, a touch coolly. And oh, Stiles knew that things were bad between the two Hales, but not that bad.
“Why didn’t you come to me, then? I’ve helped Scott with his changes.” Only when he and Allison were on the outs and Scott was being a big girl about it, but still, he’d helped. He’d mostly just been a human-sized teddy bear for Scott to cuddle while he bitched and moaned about how awesome Allison was and how much he missed her, but it counts. Really! Check his resume!
Peter snorts.
“Until a few weeks ago, I was under the impression that the only person who hated me more than Derek was you, Stiles.” When Stiles huffs indignantly, Peter just raises an eyebrow, and the boy deflates. Right, Molotov cocktails; not the best overture of friendship.
“Yeah, well… that was before. Before Pop-Tarts.” And it’s like a line in the sand, before and after. Before Pop-Tarts and coffees and inside jokes and movie nights. Before thumb wars and hi-fives and shoulder bumps and fragile fingers brushing (and that feeling in his chest like his heart’s a helium balloon, but that’s normal for friends, right?). Before Peter was Peter. And after.
“And I came to you this time, didn’t I?” Peter tells him easily, and Stiles stops, considers that.
“Does that mean you trust yourself to my tender mercies?” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively and Peter laughs, brushes a hand through his hair and oh, yeah, they’re still lying together on Stiles’ bed and snuggling.
He doesn’t move. Hey, he’s a little chilly and Peter’s a squishy, furry furnace. So sue him.
“Always, Stiles.” Peter tells him with mock solemnity, and then he adds, with unusual candidness, “Thank you. This is the first time that I’ve managed the full shift on a full moon since…” Since. Stiles flushes at the honest gratitude in Peter’s face and squirms a little awkwardly.
“Yeah, sure. That’s me, Stiles the Wolf Whisperer.” Peter just keeps smiling, and his eyes are soft in a way that Stiles wouldn’t have thought him capable of, a month ago. Stiles looks away, clears his throat. His heart feels tight and too big and he feels a bit like he’s choking on it. He wishes Peter would stop looking at him like that (except he really, really doesn’t). “So, um… Original Series or Next Gen?” Pathetic.
And Peter looks at him like he knows exactly what he’s doing, but instead of calling him out on it he smiles easily and drawls, “Do you even need to ask?” And Stiles breathes and feels the vice grip on his heart slowly loosen its hold. Yeah, this is okay. This is normal, all part of his plan to get Peter used to touch and friendship. And if he doesn’t move from Peter’s arms and the wolf edges a little closer over the next hour or so, so that their chests are pressed together and Stiles’ head is tucked under Peter’s chin, who’s to know?
Soon Stiles is drifting, breathing in deep the smell of sweat and musk and spicy cologne that Peter likes, and he can’t seem to keep his eyes open. Peter has stopped talking a long time ago, and now the only noise is the steady ticking of Stiles’ alarm clock and the mingled sound of their breathing. Still in unison, in, out, in, out, like a song.
“Peter?” He asks, before he can forget, and the man hums back in question, the sound reverberating in the non-space between their chests and making Stiles shiver and curl just a little, impossibly, closer. “What was your happy memory?” Peter huffs a laugh, the breath ruffling Stiles’ newly grown hair and tickling over his scalp.
“My Patronus, you mean?” He asks in good humor, and Stiles snorts, flushes, refuses to be embarrassed into silence.
“Yeah, that.” And there’s quiet for a moment, and Stiles thinks Peter’s not going to answer, and maybe he should apologize for being so nosy, but he’s already slipping into sleep and he can’t make his lips move. And then Peter’s sighing and tilting his head so that his nose is buried in Stiles’ hair, and he breathes deep and slow and something in Stiles aches but he can’t tell where or how to make it stop, and Peter answers.
“This. This makes me happy.”
And Stiles wants to frown and answer that he can’t have thought of this moment, because this moment hadn’t happened yet, and why is he lying, but his tongue is too heavy and instead he just sighs, and a few moments later he is asleep.
And he doesn’t feel the claws tracing nonsense words so tenderly over his back and his neck. He doesn't feel the bittersweet smile curving into his hair, or the greedy breaths in and out, memorizing the scent of his shampoo and sleepiness. Be he hears the whisper, and in his dreams, silvery soft like a moonbeam in flight, he smiles and says it back.
Only happy memories, here, and so many more to come. He'll make it so.
"Expecto Patronum."