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Stiles woke with a strangled gasp and the feeling of being watched. He reached over to turn his lamp on, except... nothing. Of course the bulb was blown. And there was a storm. Could tonight get any more cliche? Really? He rubbed his hands over his face and took a few deep, shuddering breaths to try and calm his heartbeat down; he could still feel the nightmare on the edges of his mind, and the howling wind and pitch black night were decidedly not helping. He closed his eyes and focused on his fingers where they gripped his arms; on the feel of the soft fabric of his shirt and the slight give of his skin under his hands. The feeling of being watched was getting stronger, and for the first time, Stiles wondered if he hadn't woken up because of something other than his nightmare. He squinted into the darkness of his room, but couldn't make anything out. He fumbled for his phone on the table beside his bed and dropped his eyes to unlock the screen.
"Gah! Too bright!" Stiles blinked rapidly through tears at the sharp stabbing pain and tried to locate his flashlight app. He finally found it and turned it on, looking up to peer around his room. "Holy mother of god!" He fumbled the phone and it landed on his floor, the flashlight casting shadows around his room.
There was someone standing over his bed. A very particular someone.
"What the hell, creeperwolf?!"
"Stiles, lovely evening, isn't it?" Peter's voice was casual, like he wasn't looming over Stiles' bed in the middle of the night.
"Why are you in my room Peter?" Stiles meant it as an accusation, but it somehow came out small and tired.
Peter regarded him for a long moment, expression unreadable, before he moved to sit beside Stiles on the bed. Stiles pulled his legs up to his chest and hugged them close, eyeing Peter warily.
"I heard you scream." He said it so matter-of-factly. "Nightmares again?"
"Okay, ignoring the fact that you were even close enough to my bedroom to hear me scream," Stiles's fingers flexed against his legs, "I fail to see how that gives you the right to break into my house, if I did in fact scream. Which I didn't."
"Stiles."
"Peter."
Peter sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, as though Stiles were the absurd one in this little tête-à-tête.
"Nightmares are nothing to be ashamed of-"
"I know that." Stiles hissed, cutting Peter off before he could finish. "I don't need you of all people coming in here and... what are you doing?"
"Giving you a massage. Now hush."
"Peter-"
"I said hush." Peter continued his assault on Stiles' shoulders. It didn't feel good. It didn't. "You're very tense, Stiles. Whatever have you been getting up to?"
"You know damn well what I-ahhh, what I've been getting up to, asshole." Stiles closed his eyes and tried not to relax into Peter's hands, biting back a moan when Peter's deft fingers worked out a particularly stubborn knot. "You're straying dangerously close to bad touch territory, zombiewolf."
"You know a massage does nothing if you don't relax." Peter's hands had moved from his shoulders to run down his back, and Stiles found himself leaning over to give Peter better access. "When was the last time you slept through the night without nightmares?"
Stiles didn't think he could handle that gentle tone, so he moved, turning his back fully on Peter to avoid having to meet his eyes.
"I'm in college, I'm not supposed to have a regular sleep schedule." His attempt at joking fell flat.
"Stiles..."
"Please don't." Stiles whispered, squeezing his eyes shut against the tears suddenly threatening to spill over. "Just... please."
The hands on his back stilled as Peter fell silent, and Stiles wondered if Peter would let it go, or if he would try to force the issue. He focused on his breathing, on forcing the tears back before they could fall. Peter didn't move for so long, Stiles wondered if he had in fact left, and the hands he could feel were merely a figment of his imagination. Then he wondered if he hadn't dreamed the whole thing. He held his hands up in front of his face and counted his fingers; his breath was hitching and his heart was thudding so loud even he could hear it. He didn't realise Peter had moved until gentle hands closed over his and he felt the warm press of a body at his back, strong arms bracketing him as he struggled to breathe. Peter's voice, when he spoke, was quiet.
"Oh darling boy..." Peter sighed and just pulled Stiles tighter against him.
"I'm so tired Peter." Stiles whispered.
"I know sweetheart."
Peter rearranged them both so they were lying down, Stiles tucked against his chest with his face pressed into Peter's neck. Gentle fingers dragged through his hair, scratching lightly across his scalp and Stiles melted a little at the touch, clenching his fists in Peter's shirt. They lay like that for a long while, Peter's steady breathing soothing Stiles.
"Years." Stiles' lips brushed against Peter's throat when he spoke.
"Hmm?" Peter sounded like he had been a hairsbreadth from falling asleep.
"How long it's been since I haven't had a nightmare." Stiles said quietly. "It's been years."
"Since the night I bit Scott?"
"No." Stiles surprised himself with his answer. He had thought Peter was the cause of all his problems, but apparently not. Or at least, not in the way he thought.
"The nogitsune, then?" Peter tightened his hold on Stiles, as if he could protect him from the past.
"No. No since the night I threw a Molotov cocktail at you."
"Yes, well... not everyone has the stomach for murder." Peter huffed a laugh. "I'm special that way."
"No that's not it." Stiles pulled back and looked Peter in the eye. "Helping to kill you didn't give me nightmares. I would do it again if I had to."
"Not a lie." Peter frowned. "What then?"
"The way I did it." Stiles chewed on his lip. "We had to kill you, but I didn't have to do it that way. I'm sorry I did that to you."
"Don't ever apologise for doing what needed to be done, dear boy." Peter leaned forward until his forehead rested against Stiles'. "Besides, I was really quite impressed with you. You were quite ruthless."
"But... but it was an awful thing to do!"
"Yes it was." Peter's voice was mild and it confused Stiles.
"Well then why didn't you kill me when you came back?"
"Now really, how many times do I have to tell you?" Peter smiled at Stiles and turned to reach down to turn the torch off on Stiles' phone.
When he turned back, his eyes were blazing blue and Stiles could practically feel the smirk that he was sure was on Peter's face. A shiver ran down his back and he pressed himself closer, almost subconsciously. A hand ghosted down his cheek and he leaned into the touch, closing his eyes.
"I like you, Stiles."