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“I can be very persuasive, Stiles,” the patient, nonchalant voice sounded from somewhere beside the teenager. The edge of the laptop pressed uncomfortably into his cheekbone, the clawed fingers prodding at the back of his head and neck as Peter’s hand held Stiles in place. The trunk of the car was cool against his palm and for a brief moment he considered trying to kick at the alpha. “Don’t make me persuade you.” His voice had moved closer, his breath warm in Stiles’ ear and the human could feel his breath quicken, gaze pointed somewhere in the distance of the parking garage.
Stiles licked his lips nervously, knowing damn well Peter was having no trouble knowing he was drowning in fear and apprehension. Hell, he was probably getting his jollies off with this whole situation. His long fingers arched against the car, his eyes rolling up to look into the werewolf’s face. “Uh, yeah okay so I really would love to help you and all that fun stuff but I keep trying to tell you that I don’t—“ Stiles began, enunciating his words with pointed taps on the trunk. He didn’t get to finish his sentence before the grip on his neck readjusted. It tightened, Stiles cringing and wondering if Peter would just rip his throat out and figure it out on his own. He couldn’t be that lucky. The trunk rushed away from him, though that wasn’t the only thing that did. His feet were no longer planted on the solid ground and his arms flailed as he arced through the air.
Stiles wasn’t quite sure which way was up and which way was down as he flew through the small space and crashed into the cement. His shoulder jarred viciously, a cry of pain clawing its way up his throat as he bounced and came to a stop against a pillar, smashing into it none too gently. He lay there in a pile of his own limbs, his back on fire and Stiles was afraid to see if his shoulder was broken. The pain wasn’t that bad, right? It couldn’t be broken. That would just be absurd. He could barely make heads or tails of what the hell was happening when a shadow fell across him. He looked up, blinking against the harsh light as his brain screamed at him to roll away or leap up and start running. He just couldn’t seem to work up to that.
Peter kneeled in front of him, sweeping at the edge of that stupid leather coat until it flared behind him as it had on the lacrosse field. Stiles curled his leg beneath him and pushed up until he was sitting against the cool cement, not caring anymore about hiding the pain, his face scrunching up as he gripped his shoulder and gasped.
“Jesus, man, that was totally not necessary. You know, I’m not gonna heal with all that werewolf mojo, okay?” He snapped, his eyes searching the parking garage frantically for some way out. Even a place to hide would be fine with him if he could actually accomplish hiding from a werewolf.
“I’m not going to be so nice the next time, Stiles. You’re supposed to be smart, remember? Use that intelligence and choose the less painful ending,” the alpha chided, claws still protruding from his fingers as a hand hung between his knees, tapping at the cement.
“Well that sounded sufficiently creepy. How about you just make like a wolf and howl or something. Isn’t that how the communication thing is done with you creatures? It worked before. You’re supposed to be a werewolf, remember? An alpha, at that. You just do that and—“ Peter’s hand shot forward, fangs protruding from his peeled back lips as a growl rumbled in his chest.
Stiles flailed as his breath was cut short, fingers clawing at the man’s wrist. Peter pushed himself up, pulling Stiles with him as he made pathetic choking noises and tried to relieve the pressure currently painting his face red with the lack of oxygen. Once more the air was rushing around him, hissing in his ears as the weightlessness grabbed his body and he was at the mercy of gravity. The bumper of the sedan seemed to come out of nowhere. Stiles smashed into it, the whole vehicle jerking at the impact. Stiles’ arm swung wild, slamming into the tail light with enough force to shatter it. He couldn’t bite back the scream that leaped from his lips as blood gushed from the wound.
The back of his hand exploded with pain and was feeling very sticky as he flopped onto the ground and cradled it. Blood oozed from between his fingers, his arms trembling and he was sincerely surprised nothing was broken, as far as he could tell. Maybe he was in shock or something and totally overlooking some serious injuries. His head was pounding; his breath caught in his throat and his chest heaved as he tried really hard not to hyperventilate. Tears burned in his eyes and he blinked them back rapidly, seriously not wanting to sit there and cry. God knows he could do without that in this fucked up situation.
Stiles visibly shrank away when Peter strolled over to him again; his neck uncomfortably bent as he rested his head on the dented bumper and looked up at the alpha. That smug, casual look on his face was really getting under Stiles’ skin and for a moment the pain was drowned in a wave of anger and the urge to lash out at him was overwhelming. As the cut on the back of his hand continued to weep he thought better of it, jaw clenching and only fueling the skull-splitting headache that was assaulting him at the moment. Peter moved uncomfortably close this time, a hand pushing against Stiles’ upraised knee until his torso was nearly pressed into the younger man’s body. Stiles tried to pull back further until he felt that he might actually melt into the car.
“Now, unfortunately I don’t have all night to… persuade you. Hopefully that will suffice,” Peter said, his smooth voice barely rising as if he hadn’t just been incredibly annoyed all of thirty seconds ago. His hand was reaching forward, claws curling beneath the un-tucked hem of his dress shirt and brushing along the pale skin of his stomach. Stiles tried to steady his heartbeat but he could feel it thundering in his chest, back arching and trying to put space between his stomach and those deadly daggers. When the claws tilted and fingers pressed into his soft belly Stiles tensed, the cut abandoned as his bloodied hand slapped forward and tried to push Peter’s hand away. Pale blue eyes pierced into Stiles’ gaze when the werewolf looked back to his face, a low growl building in the back of his throat.
For all the sarcasm and wit Stiles generally had he could not find anything to say. The silence was murdering him, though, so when Peter started to growl it was like the crack of a whip and the boy pulled his hand back. All he had to do was give him the username and password. But by giving him that he would find Scott and drag him into some weird werewolf shit. Worse than that Stiles was certain he would start killing people again.
“I’m going to give you to the count of three before I gut you and get back the time I am wasting with you.” Peter’s voice cut through his thoughts and Stiles was vaguely aware of the inflamed gash on his hand and the way his very bones seemed to ache with whiplash. All he could think about was the hand on his stomach. His skin felt hot and the boy wondered if that was some new werewolf power thing. If it was he definitely did not like it.
“One,” the alpha murmured, his breath washing across Stiles’ face before searing pain erupted from his abdomen. Peter dragged his index fingers down his stomach, the claw slicing into his flesh. Stiles tried jerking away from the pain, hissing through his teeth. “Two,” the werewolf chimed in again and another claw dragged over his skin. This time it was closer to his waist and he was thanking God for the belt cinched around him. “Okay, okay! I get it, oh my God. Get your hands off of me,” Stiles yelled, trying to focus on the anger somewhere inside of him rather than the intense burning blossoming along his gut.
Blood trickled down slowly, staining into his shirt and pants. It was warm and uninviting and Stiles winced as shaky fingers prodded at the wounds. They weren’t that deep but holy hell they hurt. Peter smirked and pushed himself up, the claws slipping back until very human fingernails took their place and his hand balled into boy’s shirt and pulled him to his feet nearly effortlessly. Stiles cringed, his whole body protesting in spurts of fatigue and nearly crippling waves of discomfort. His muscles ached and he felt like someone was stabbing needles into his skull as he tried to keep up with Peter’s pace as he pulled him along.
“Now let’s do this again, shall we?” Peter sighed, shoving Stiles forward until he was back against the trunk once more, leaning heavily onto it and pecking at the laptop’s keyboard. He was very aware of Peter’s presence at his side, invading his personal space until the hairs stood up along the nape of his neck. “What happens after you find Derek?” Stiles chanced, nostrils flaring and eyes fixated on the screen. “Don’t think, Stiles. Type,” Peter snapped curtly, leaning in towards him. Stiles flinched, bouncing on his heel and trying to focus on what he was doing with the Mac. “You’re going to kill people aren’t you?” he muttered, eyes rolling as he turned to look at Derek’s uncle. “Only,” Peter responded, pausing as his eyebrows rose, “the responsible ones.” He was explaining himself yet the line seemed rehearsed to Stiles and it was in no way comforting.
“Look, if I do this… you have to promise to leave Scott out of it,” Stiles pleaded past the pain, his voice trembling and his eyes locked onto Peter’s face as he stared past the car. His shoulders rose and he sighed softly, looking as if he was putting a lot of effort into remaining calm next to the agitated boy.
“Do you know why,” he started, speaking lowly and slowly and his eyes shifted to look at Stiles, “wolves hunt in packs?” Stiles rolled his eyes, his whole body seeming to sag as he looked back at the computer, already knowing what Peter was going to say.
“It’s because their favorite prey is too large to be brought down by one wolf alone. I need Derek and Scott. I need both of them,” Peter continued, his voice strained as he stared at Stiles, pressing dangerously close into his personal space. He was tapping the computer anxiously, navigating to the site and letting the mouse hover over the text entry box.
“He’s not going to help you,” Stiles retorted, nostrils flaring and jaw working before he turned to look at Peter again, wondering how long he could tolerate standing up when his legs felt ready to give beneath him. “Oh he will,” Peter chided, eyebrows rising again and head tilting as he spoke, “because it’ll save Allison.”
The impending threat on everyone Stiles cared about was dawning on him. Not that the danger hadn’t been running through his mind incessantly since he walked off the field and left Lydia bleeding on the grass. Stiles was beginning to feel defeated at this point, bouncing again on his heel and focusing on the screen once more even though he could feel Peter’s gaze stabbing into him.
“And you will,” there he paused again, the older man’s face coming closer as he turned his body to his captive, “because it’ll save Scott. Your best friend, whom you know so well that you even have his username and password.” Stiles drew in a breath, fingers still hovering over the keys and shoulders sagging. He pulled the laptop closer, the gash on his hand begging for attention and he was well aware that he was bleeding all over the computer.
He highly doubted that Peter cared, considering a corpse had been hanging onto it in the trunk for God knows how long. He was beginning to type when the hand cramped, his fingers refusing to work and stiffening painfully as a fresh wave of pain shot up his wounded arm. Stiles grimaced, his whole body jerking when warmth spread throughout his side. Peter’s hand had made it under his shirt again, fingers pressed gently against his skin and palm laid across his side. He didn’t even notice when the werewolf had gotten closer and managed to do that. That was certainly not a comforting thought.
“What are you doing?” Stiles asked lowly, not even thinking before he was pushing against Peter. His hand was on Peter’s chest when he felt the growl. It vibrated against his palm, claws poking into his side harmlessly. It was a subtle warning but Stiles wasn’t ready to find out if he was all bark and no bite this time.
Reluctantly he pulled back, returning his grip onto the trunk and desperately wishing his dad and the entire police station would come rolling up and gun Peter down. He would be pleased as hell if anyone showed up at all who might be able to help, even if it was just getting Peter to stop touching him. “You are seriously bad touching me right now, dude, and I am not all for that,” Stiles hazarded, eyes flicking back and forth between Peter’s stretched out arm and his face.
He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to think of the fact that his hand was invitingly warm against his chilled skin. He definitely didn’t want to think about that at all, actually. Peter said nothing, settling for a fierce glare that made Stiles swallow and he started typing again. He gasped gently in surprise when the warmth seemed to spread throughout his body. It soaked into his muscles, seeming to wash away the dull ache before traveling to his shoulder, pulling the pain in his bones away. The agony from the cuts and bruises seemed to ebb away and the boy wasn’t sure what to make of that. The username was typed and he felt Peter lean forward, eyes glued to the glowing screen and squinting in disbelief.
“His username is ‘allison’?” he muttered, the muscles in his cheek twitching. Stiles kept typing, moving slowly and saying nothing as he hit the ‘enter’ key. “His password is also ‘allison’?” Peter drawled, eyes rolling to Stiles and the younger boy returned the look. “You still want him in your pack?” he inquired nonchalantly, giving a small shrug when Peter looked away.
He wondered if something as menial as that might turn Peter off to the idea of Scott being in his pack. Then again, knowing the little he did about Derek’s uncle he highly doubted it. The pain had faded at the werewolf’s touch and he was grateful for that. As much pain that Peter had inflicted he was surprised that he even wanted to take any of it back. He found himself leaning into his hand without thinking about it. When the older Hale had finished digesting that piece of information his attention was back on Stiles, his eyes searching his face and his hand beginning to move. Chills danced down Stiles’ spine as his palm brushed along it, moving to cup around his other side.
This only served to bring Peter closer and the smell of his leather was overpowering. His stomach was pressed against the trunk, trying once again to become an actual part of the car with how hard he was pressing himself into it. “Okay I’m super glad you did the whole weird, freaky werewolf thing and helped me out with the pain, which you started by the way, but is it really necessary to keep touching me now?” Stiles asserted, trying really hard not to piss Peter off again but also getting bad vibes from this whole situation. And not the bad vibes one might get when danger was imminent.
“Stop worrying about me and pay attention,” Peter growled gently, one hand bracing the trunk as he leaned against it. The claws were out again, dancing along the surface of his body around his side and up his ribs. Stiles was breathing hard again, the chill of the night air caressing the bare skin that was revealed when Peter’s arm lifted the shirt. Gooseflesh rose along his back and Stiles was adamant about believing that it was the cool air and not something else. Peter was in the process of running a clawed finger over his nipple when the GPS finally pinpointed on the location. Stiles instantly forgot about the serious issues going on with being touched by a man twice his age, hand rising in confusion. “Wait what the—that’s where they’re keeping him? His own house?” he said incredulously.
Peter’s hand retreated from beneath his shirt, the pain dulled down but definitely still prominent in Stiles’ body. There was an instant regret that the hand had left, replacing the comforting heat with coldness. He hadn’t realized how chilly it had gotten until that moment. Peter was silent beside him, searching the screen as his mind worked. A small, knowing smile touched his lips as realization dawned on him. “Not at it,” he replied, beginning to pack it all back up, “under it. I know exactly where that is.” He stopped, pausing and turning to look away as a heavy howl rolled through the parking garage. It sounded more like a roar than a howl, though, and it sounded quite familiar. “And I’m not the only one,” Peter murmured absentmindedly, still gazing off into the distance before he snapped to attention and returned back to what he was doing.
Stiles watched him, moving a few steps away from the car. He filled the space Peter was standing in as he shoved the laptop into the backseat and slammed the door. Another howl lifted into the air, the alpha werewolf hearkening to it way before Stiles even heard it. “Give me your keys,” he demanded, startling Stiles.
He sighed heavily, fishing around in his pocket, yanking the keys out and holding them out. “Careful, she grinds in second,” he muttered, watching Peter pull them into the palm of his hand and ball his fist. The metal grinded gently and when he uncurled his fingers the keys hung on their ring completely useless. Stiles’ lips were parted, his jaw slack as he stared at them in disbelief. Peter looked mildly amused when he took them back and continued studying them as if they had turned into some strange creature. That seemed to be the end of it as Peter twisted on his heel and made his way to the driver side door.
“So you’re not going to kill me?” Stiles called out, still holding the keys. The werewolf turned sideways, his eyes cold as they fell on Stiles. The young man felt his muscles tense, which was the last thing he wanted. His whole body was protesting every move as it is. The aloof and pleasant look Peter had been wearing faded into something menacing as he stalked towards Stiles. The keys were clamped tight in his hand as it dropped to his side and he retreated, instantly regretting having said anything. He was muttering to himself, gaze locked on the predator wearing a human face.
“Don’t you understand yet?” Peter asked, stopping beside the rear wheel with his face pinching in confusion. “I’m not the bad guy here.” He seemed genuinely surprised that Stiles was still pursuing this train of thought.
That anger was coming back to Stiles and he was gripping it tight and not letting it go this time. “You turn into a giant monster with red eyes and fangs and you’re not the bad guy here?” he retorted flatly, meeting the alpha’s gaze with impunity. Peter’s head tilted, the serious look still plastered upon his face.
His gaze searched Stiles’ face, almost analytically as if he was trying to pick the younger man apart. His jaw was set, bulging as he clenched and unclenched and took in a breath before releasing it in a gentle sigh. “I like you Stiles,” he finally said, head moving pointedly. Stiles released a breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding, shoulders relaxing once more as he swayed on his feet. His eyes rolled in frustration, tearing away from his gaze that had him trapped like a bug under a microscope.
“Since you helped me, I’m going to give you something in return.” He was saying, pausing once again. For all the little time he apparently had he was certainly wasting a lot of it in Stiles’ company. Stiles stood there knowingly, staring at the ground some ways away as he waited for him to be done talking and do his part. “Do you want the bite?” Peter offered casually, eyebrows rising once again. Stiles faltered, eyes flicking back to the werewolf and searching his face, as if this was some sort of practical joke.
He was at a loss for words once again for the second time this night. “What?” Stiles uttered, the word sounding distant. He was still put off by the entire situation.
“Do you want the bite?” he asked again, this time the patience had been dropped. Stiles stared at him, slack jawed and for a long moment he seriously considered the offer. He would be faster and stronger and actually be able to do something for himself for once. For one, he sure as hell wouldn’t find himself in situations like this.
“If it doesn’t kill you, and it could, you’d become like us,” he explained as if Stiles didn’t know the meaning of taking on the bite. “Like you…?” Stiles murmured stupidly, absentmindedly, his thoughts on other things as he tried to take it all in. Peter was growing more agitated by the second, beginning to second guess his biting of Scott in the first place.
“Yes, a werewolf. Would you like me to draw you a picture?” he replied snarkily, taking a step toward Stiles. The boy stood his ground, shifting slightly but refusing to give Peter the satisfaction. It was not that Stiles wasn’t a hundred percent positive that Peter knew he scared the crap out of him; he just wasn’t going to show it as much as possible.
“That first night in the woods I took Scott because I needed a new pack. It could easily have been you,” Peter was saying, taking another small step forward. Stiles said nothing, staring him down as he once again hovered at the edges of his personal space. “You’d be every bit as powerful as him. No more standing by his side, watching him become stronger and quicker, more popular. Watching him get the girl,” he pressed, Stiles looking away in that defeated, uncertain way.
He would be able to do so many things he had been incapable of doing before. The confidence he falsely wore certain times would be completely real and he wouldn’t second guess himself so much. His jaw clenched, nostrils flaring as he looked anywhere but Peter’s face. “You’d be equals,” the alpha was saying, pushing through his thoughts as he had been doing the whole night. “Maybe more,” Peter tacked on when Stiles glanced at him again before looking past him.
There was a hopeful look in the werewolf’s eyes, as if he would want nothing more than for Stiles to say he wanted it at this very moment. The leather creaked as the jacket flexed along the man’s shoulders, his arm stretching out and fingers lacing themselves around Stiles’ wrist. It was gentle at first, and deliberately slow to catch the boy’s attention. His grip tightened, however, hard enough to bruise and Stiles winced, his body jerking forward unpleasantly when Peter pulled against his arm.
He had just begun to relax around him, for some reason, and this was definitely not what he had in mind. His heart rate began to increase, lips still parted and eyes widening and Stiles was sure that this would be the end for him. Maybe it was all a ruse and he would just rip his throat out and call it done. Within a span of a few seconds Stiles was pressed up against Peter, a hand braced on his chest and his other arm pulled somewhere to Peter’s side.
He could smell his cologne, the scent thick in his nose and mixed with the pleasant smell of his leather coat. The dress shirt was stained red along his arm, the blood soaking along his forearm and hand though the wound had mercifully stopped bleeding. Stiles barely had time to try and pull himself away from Peter when they were moving, the werewolf slamming Stiles against the side of the car. The boy cursed through the pain, Peter still holding his wrist as his other hand came to rest on Stiles’ hip. Peter pressed into him, a leg stretching forward until his knee pushed between Stiles’ legs and braced on the car. His thigh was rubbing into Stiles’ groin before he stopped moving, searching his pale features as his lips pressed shut and he swallowed hard, trying to focus on Peter’s face.
Something tugged low in his body and he tried not to think about it, chest heaving and gaze unblinking. Those piercing blue eyes never left Stiles’ as he pulled his head back, raising his arm and pressing his nose into the younger man’s arm gently. Stiles couldn’t tear himself away, watching his lips brush against the fabric of his dress shirt before hovering over his wrist. “Yes or no?” he murmured, breath warm against his skin as it slipped through the threads. His lips had parted again, only this time not in an absentminded way. The pressure of his leg against his body and his close proximity was overwhelming and Stiles found himself pressing back, leaning into the older man.
This was the moment of truth and Stiles knew it. He was more focused on the fact that Peter was seriously violating some personal space and the fact that he was actually not minding it as much as he knew he should. He licked his lips, watching as Peter raised his brows and lingered for a moment. Some part of him wanted the werewolf to do it; to sink his fangs into his flesh and make him into something better than he was. Yet there was that piece of him…
Peter’s teeth had elongated, beginning to press the cloth of his sleeve to his skin when Stiles yanked his arm back reflexively. It was a gut feeling and he was listening to it this time. Peter looked insulted, his nostrils flaring and hand lingering in the air where he had been holding his wrist. He didn’t move away though, his grip tightening on Stiles’ hip as he turned his head to look at him from where he had him pinned. His eyes flashed red, bleeding into that brilliant scarlet color and Stiles swallowed again, head moving back away from him.
“I don’t wanna be like you,” Stiles spat, shifting his weight as much as he could as he squared his shoulders defensively. His heartbeat was erratic, breath coming out in shaky waves but he clung to that anger like an anchor. He didn’t want to lose himself. Peter leaned in closer until his stomach pressed into the boy, his face inches from Stiles’. Those red eyes stared into Stiles’ brown ones, lip twitching in small amusement. “Do you know what I heard just now? Your heart beating slightly faster over the words ‘I don’t want’,” he punctuated the words by moving in closer, his gaze roaming over Stiles’ face and drinking in his features.
His lips were dangerously close to the boy’s and Stiles was beginning to question his own sanity for actually finding it insanely hot. “You may believe that you’re telling me the truth but you are lying to yourself…” Peter murmured pointedly against his lips and just as they brushed against one another he pulled away so abruptly Stiles gasped. “Good bye, Stiles,” was all Peter said as he turned away to get into the car. Stiles stepped away from it, drawing in a shaky breath as if he was about to call after him but he said nothing, standing there stunned and speechless. He really hoped that wasn’t going to be a natural occurrence to him. He was talkative by nature and it soothed his nerves and he was severely unsettled that he couldn’t muster up the words.
He licked his lips uncertainly, deflating as Peter started the car and pulled out nonchalantly, driving off as if nothing at all had happened. As the taillights disappeared around the corner he sank to the cold cement, knees buckling with exhaustion and arms falling limp beside him. He sat back, subconsciously cradling his wounded hand again and wondering what the hell he was going to do now. He needed to check on Lydia, that was for sure, but he couldn’t bring himself to stand back up. He didn’t know why he refused the bite, or why he didn’t refuse Peter when he was pressing up against him. His thoughts were racing and his body aching and he had nothing to show for any of it except some bruises and cuts and some sleepless nights no doubt about to come.