Archive of Our Own ^beta

            Stiles sometimes wondered how this was his life.  Take for instance this exact moment as he limped pathetically up to Derek’s new loft with Peter “Creeperwolf” Hale pressed flush against his side.  Peter’s arm was wrapped snuggly around Stiles’ waist, while the teen’s arm was in turn draped across the man’s broad shoulders.  Stiles had no choice but to lean into the support offered by the stronger wolf – otherwise he’d be on his ass in seconds thanks to the stabbing pain that lanced from his ankle any time his right foot dared to touch the ground.

            Yep, Stiles dearly wanted to know what he had done to piss off the powers that be and bring about this miserable fate.  Ultimately, he blamed Peter, because why not?  If Peter-freaking-Hale had never bit Scotty, then none of the insanity of the past year would have happened.  Of course, if Stiles hadn’t dragged Scott into the woods that night … Nope, nope.  There would be no self-recrimination tonight.  Tonight he was going to blame fate and Peter, and wallow in his suffering and feel fully justified in forcing the other man to his aid, even if one didn’t really force Peter Hale into anything. 

            The events that led to Stiles’ current predicament had started a week ago, when the latest “oh-my-god-what-the-hell-is-that” monsters of the week had started dropping bodies in the surrounding woods.  These things were scaly, inhuman, had vicious claws and fangs, and (when they finally figured out what they were) unpronounceable names.  And there seemed to be an entire clan of them, appearing out of nowhere to converge upon Beacon Hills like it was California’s one true Hellmouth.  Knowing Stiles’ luck, hellmouths were probably real, and it probably was.

            Of course the appearance of this latest threat had set both pack and hunters alike on red alert and an offensive campaign was quickly launched.  And also of course, as usual, Stiles found himself left behind at Derek’s loft with the god-damned creeper to do “research”, aka stay out of the way.  He didn’t even have Lydia as a second, reassuringly human presence to watch his back since she and Jackson were off with her parents on some fabulous summer vacation.  Rich bastards.  Honestly though, just because Stiles didn’t have super-human abilities or kick-ass hunter training, but did have mad research skills, was no reason to keep leaving him behind with the zombie-wolf.  It was like they wanted Stiles to get eaten or something.  And the “or something” kept looking more and more likely the longer he was in Peter’s company unsupervised; the snarky psychopath was incredibly handsy.

            Speaking of hands, Stiles used his free one to stop the downward slide of Peter’s on his hip, refusing to give the wolf the satisfaction of meeting his smug smirk.  God damn the stupid monsters for putting him into this position, and Peter was most definitely included in that category, although the werewolf had actually been pretty helpful throughout the whole situation.  Nevertheless Stiles knew that if he squinted just right he could find a reason to blame the entirety of the day’s events on Peter.

            The morning had started normally enough. Well, normally for the middle of a terrifying episode of Supernatural perhaps.  Stiles and Peter were going on their third day straight of little sleep, horrible coffee and junk food, and endless, mind-numbing pages of ancient manuscripts interspersed with nausea inducing phone-calls reporting the pack’s progress on the hunt.  Basically it wasn’t going well.

            The creatures were proving surprisingly resilient; healing quickly from any injuries dealt them.  And they were fast – like crazy fast.  And strong – crazy strong.  The wolves were actually outmatched in every confrontation with the things.  And the hunters weren’t having any luck finding an effective weapon against them.  And the list of fatalities kept growing.  At this rate it was only a matter of time before one of Stiles’ friends joined that list. 

            All of which meant that what Peter and Stiles were trying to do was actually the most important thing any of them could be doing right now – if they could find out these creatures’ weaknesses then they might actually have a chance at stopping them before the entire town ended up in the cemetery.  The prestige of their task was not at all satisfying however, because they couldn’t find any freaking information!   A few measly sentences in the bestiary had given them a name, something in German that Stiles couldn’t remember on two hours’ sleep so he was calling them “slinkies”.  Unfortunately, the only other information that they had been able to glean was that the slinkies were some sort of supernatural parasite.  Not even an explanation of how that worked, just “here’s your supernatural parasite, have fun!”  Maybe not in those exact words, but as close as archaic German was likely to get.  The teen would have dearly loved to meet the author of the bestiary at that point, just so he could wring his idiotic neck.

            Late in the morning of the third day however, as desperation was setting in, their break finally came.  A footnote in the bestiary – or maybe it was the Hale files or one of the books Stiles had borrowed from Deaton, whatever, didn’t matter – a footnote mentioned some old warlock who’d once played around with summoning nasty things like the slinkies and had lived and died in their very own Beacon Hills.  And coincidently, there were, maybe, secrets of his mystical workings inscribed upon his tomb.  It was a stretch, but it was the only bite they’d had since the whole mess had started.  Time for a study-brigade field trip!

            They took Stiles’ Jeep, because hey, this wasn’t the regular Beacon Hills cemetery surrounded by the nice paved roads, people.  Oh no, this was some out-of-the-way, creepy-as-shit, ancient and overgrown cemetery on the rough edges of town.  And Peter wasn’t taking his nice new shiny sports car anywhere near that.

            Things went pretty well.  At first.  The long drive dragged a bit, but they managed to find the place without getting lost.  Then Stiles found the warlock’s tomb after only ten minutes of searching.  It was as the teen did his victory dance in front of the granite mausoleum while Peter rolled his eyes at his goofy triumph that it all went downhill.

            A slinkie suddenly reared out of the brush at the foot of the mausoleum and lunged right at the shimmying teen; apparently it had been standing sentinel against just such an arrival as theirs.  Stiles stumbled frantically back, too focused on the impending death speeding toward him to notice the pair of lopsided headstones behind him until he had run right into them.  His foot wedged firmly between the two leaning stones as he toppled over them.  A sickening wrench from his trapped leg made him see stars, and he suspected that he probably screamed.  By the time he was able to think around the pain, he’d missed Peter leaping between him and the attacking monster, but had not, unfortunately, managed to skip to the end of the confrontation.

            Peter was fully wolfed out and was grappling with the thing, but the werewolf was barely holding his own.  More than a dozen slashes decorated his clothes with vibrant dashes of crimson, and even as Stiles watched he thought he heard a sickening pop as the slinkie caught Peter’s arm mid-swing and wrenched it at an unnatural angle.

            “Stiles,” Peter shouted, barely understandable around the growl in his voice.  “Find the fucking information!”  He slashed at the thing again, this time managing to open several long gashes across its scaly chest.  Almost immediately they began to fuse shut again.  “Now,” the man emphasized, as if Stiles needed the encouragement.

            “Right, yeah.  Information.”  Stiles gripped the headstones and raised himself up, then wrenched his foot free.  He thought that maybe he blacked out for a moment then, because when he became aware of his surroundings he was bent over and panting, and was clutching the headstones with white knuckles as the battle raged behind him.

            “Stiles!”

            “Information, information.  On it!” Stiles muttered as he half-hopped, half-crawled to the weathered mausoleum.  Collapsing against the doors in momentary triumph, Stiles immediately felt his heart sink. There was a rusted, but very solid looking chain sealing the doors.  And his resident super-strong supernatural was currently engaged in battle with the other supernatural thing that wanted to rip their heads off and drink their blood – or whatever it was the current nasty was doing again.

            “Oh God.  Think, Stiles, think,” the teenager mumbled, pulling hopefully on the chain.  When it remained firmly in place, he gave in to his frustration and shook the links frantically, then banged his hands against the doors.  Suddenly Stiles froze as he finally registered the odd texture of the metal beneath his hands.  There were words on the doors.

            Stiles squinted at the tarnished, weather-stained surface.  The words were miraculously in English and they spoke of “protection from the dark forces of the world”.  Thank you Von Hoozlewoozle, or whatever the hell this guy’s name was!  The boy read quickly, his lips moving silently as his eyes flickered over the words.  “Silver,” he finally murmured.  Then louder and excitedly, “I have silver!”

            Stiles scrambled frantically at the duffle bag of supplies that he had brought for their archeology raid and had dropped beside the door when the slinkie attacked.  Pawing past the crowbar and cutters he had packed – “Stupid, Stiles!” – he finally dug out the small silver knife he had tossed in, because, why not?  It had been a gift from Deaton, and as such was likely to be useful at some point.

            “Peter!” the teen shouted and turned back to the battle in time to see the werewolf get sent flying through the air.  Luckily, the man landed almost at his feet.  “Here,” Stiles said, thrusting the knife at the stunned form.  “Silver.”

            Peter gave him a look.  “Really?  Silver?”  The irony of handing a werewolf a silver weapon was not lost on him.

            “Yes.  Now hurry please,” Stiles waved the knife a little frantically.  The slinkie was slinking toward them, and it was staring right at the boy.

            Peter sighed, struggled to his feet, and snatched the knife irritably from Stiles’ hand.  “God-damned letter-opener,” he growled, glaring at the blade that looked laughably small in his hands before he stalked toward the monster.

            The two circled each other warily for a few moments before the slinkie rushed forward.  Peter slashed out with the blade, his unnatural speed turning his hand into a glittering blur to Stiles’ eyes.  There was a sharp sizzling hiss as the dagger connected, and both boy and wolf felt a moment of triumph as a black stripe opened across the monster’s chest and stayed open while the slinkie let out an ear-splitting shriek.  Their euphoria didn’t last long however, as the enraged creature redoubled the fury of its attack, forcing Peter back.  Suddenly it caught at the wolf’s hand, twisted and sent the dagger disappearing into the brush devouring the edges of the cemetery.  Peter drew a sharp breath, his lips tightening into a thin line and his eyes narrowing.  He used the momentum of the creature’s motion to slide free of its grasp and then hastily retreated back toward Stiles.  The slinkie made no immediate move to follow, instead pacing wearily as if unsure if the wolf still posed a viable threat.

            Peter stopped at the teen’s side, his eyes never leaving the pacing creature.  Stiles' eyes were wide as he too stared at the slinkie.  He licked his lips nervously.  “So, umm...” his voice squeaked a bit and he hastily cleared his throat and tried to push his fear back.  “What now?” he asked.

            “We need to get past it and get to the Jeep,” Peter replied calmly.  His eyes flickered to Stiles and swept over the boy appraisingly.

            Stiles immediately felt his stomach drop.  He knew what the evaluating look in those cool blue eyes meant.  Peter was trying to decide if Stiles would be able to move fast enough with his twisted ankle to escape the slinkie and if it was in Peter’s best interest to help him

            If Stiles was being honest, he knew the answer was no.  There was no way he could move fast enough on his busted ankle.  And their confrontation against just one of the creatures had shown him how badly outmatched the pack would be if they didn’t get the information about the silver.  Peter had the best chance of getting away and getting that information to them without worrying about helping Stiles, a feat that would likely result in both their deaths.  Oh my god, he was going to die because of a stupid twisted ankle!

            No, calm down, Stiles.  Breathe.  The teen’s mind raced for an alternative.  He was the clever one; surely he could think of something that would get them out of this mess.  But as hard as he tried, the only thoughts that came to his mind were images of Scott, of the others in the pack, of his dad all dead because they hadn’t known how to fight these thing.  Maybe the Argents would come up with the right weapon in time to stop that.  And maybe they never figured it out at all.  Stiles fought down his rising panic and snatched the crowbar from his bag.  Okay then, so he was going to die, damn it, but Peter was going to get the fucking information to the pack.  He dug into his pocket and pulled out his keys.  “Get her started,” he ordered, holding them out and looking at Peter with an unwavering gaze.  “I’ll be right behind you.”

            Peter met his gaze with an unreadable expression in his eyes and Stiles felt his heartbeat speed up, if that was even possible with the supersonic rate his fear had already driven it to.  Abruptly the wolf broke off the stare with an exaggerated eye roll.   He gave an exasperated, “you’re an idiot, I’m an idiot, we’re both idiots” sort of sigh and stepped forward.  “Think of something,” he ordered.  “Quickly.”

            Stiles was left gaping after the battered werewolf, his keys and crowbar dangling in his hands.  As the slinkie let out a hideous shriek and charged at Peter, the teen shook himself from his shock and turned frantically back to the mausoleum doors.  Maybe he could find something else that could help them on the doors' inscription.  Another shriek caused him to drop both keys and crowbar and fumble in his pocket for his phone instead.  Forget helping himself and Peter, they were probably screwed; at least he could try to call or text the information about the silver to Scott.  Somebody ought to have a chance of surviving this mess.

            His phone had no signal.  Because they were in the middle of freaking nowhere!  Stiles thought seriously about throwing the phone at the slinkie in pure frustration as he leaned a steadying hand against the blackened surface of the door.  Then he froze.

            Slowly, he raised his eyes to look at the surface that his hand rested on.  “Silver,” he choked out.

            “Yes, Stiles,” Peter’s irritated voice floated back to him, “silver would be very helpful right now, but unless you happen to have x-ray vision, I don’t think we’ll find that knife in time.  I was expecting a better idea from you.”

            The teen whipped around in time to see the wolf barely dodge a swipe from the slinkie’s claws.  Or at least he mostly dodged, since several new lines of red opened on his cheek.  The werewolf’s strategy seemed to now be one of distraction and avoidance rather than attack.  He was dodging and darting, staying just out of the creature’s reach and keeping it as far from Stiles as he could manage.  Judging by the evidence of growing fatigue in the man’s movements, this was not a strategy that would work for much longer.  Luckily it wouldn’t have to.

            “The doors!” Stiles shouted.  “The mausoleum doors!  They're made of silver, to protect the guy in death from all the nasty things he played with in life.  That’s what the inscription is talking about!”

            Peter was still for a moment, his glowing blue eyes fixed on the creature rushing at him.  Then he became a blur of motion shooting toward the tomb.  Stiles hastily stumbled out of the way as the werewolf sank his claws into the soft metal of one of the doors.  There was a screech of protesting hinges, and then that awesome supernatural strength was sending the heavy door hurling through the air right into the hissing, fanged face of the slinkie as it leapt at them.  The door crushed the thing flat, leaving only a twitching claw visible as its body slowly began to disintegrate wherever the silver touched it.

            There was a single moment of stillness as they absorbed their victory.  Then, “Yay!  Go Team Steter!” Stiles cheered, stepping toward the werewolf, and completely forgetting his injured ankle. He went down with a very manly yelp, right into a muddy puddle that was the byproduct of that morning’s rainstorm.

            Peter came to stand over Stiles as the boy blinked painfully up at the overcast sky.  “Steter?  Really?”  He looked distinctly unimpressed.  “Why are you first?”

            “Because I’m obviously the more awesome of the two of us.”  The teenager stated unashamedly, spitting out muddy water.

            “Obviously,” Peter humored him, reaching down to grasp his arm and haul him to his feet.

            “Besides what would it be if it was reversed?  Piles?  Petles?  Just doesn’t have the same ring, I’m afraid.”

            “Petles?” the wolf sounded disgusted as he retrieved Stiles’ things and shoved them into the boy’s arms before sliding an arm around his waist and maneuvering them back across the uneven ground toward the Jeep.

            “Exactly!  Heeeyyy,” Stiles drawled, craning his neck to look back over his shoulder as he hopped along.  “You’re gonna go find my dagger, right?”  He smiled a shit-eating grin, enjoying the way the werewolf’s eyebrow slowly arched.

            Stiles had spent the long drive back twirling his rescued dagger triumphantly as he phoned in the much needed information to Scot and the rest of the pack (“Dude, I hope you have silver on you.”) and delayed the telling of his spectacular injury (“Just the usual research – nothing worth sharing.”).  Peter had been entrusted with the driving of the teen’s beloved Jeep (“Remember, she grinds in second.” - “Yes, Stiles, I know how to drive stick.” - “Cause you’ve been doing it since before I was born, eh?  Back before they had automatic? ... Ow.”) 

            The boy had steadfastly refused a visit to the hospital to tend to his injured foot, insisting that he wasn’t going anywhere except the loft until he knew everyone was okay, and anyway, he’d suffered far fewer injuries that the older man.  Of course Peter had already looked as though he were the picture of health, with the exception of the rips and bloodstains on his clothes.  Stupid werewolf healing.  But Stiles stood by his principles – no hospital until everybody was home.  His insistence had earned him an exasperated sigh from Peter, but the wolf let the argument drop.

            Now, as they entered the loft, Stiles was beginning to rethink his choice.  Not only was his ankle killing him, but he was disappointed by the echoing emptiness that greeted them as they passed through the door.  Oh sure, logically he knew that it would be hours before the others returned, since they were further out in the woods and had an entire clan of slinkies to contend with, but that didn’t make it any less frustrating.  He was tired, he was in pain, and he was still alone with freaking Peter Hale.

            Maybe Peter would take pity on him and just leave him in peace to down a few pain pills and crash on the couch until the others returned.  Yeah, and maybe Harris would suddenly nominate Stiles for student of the year.

            The teen stifled a sigh and figured he might as well try his luck.  “Sooo,” he drawled as they crossed the living-space toward the sofa, “if you could just drop me on the couch…” that they passed by completely, “…or maybe not.  Stool.  Okay.  Stool works,” Stiles continued as they approached the table and its surrounding seats.  “Not quite as comfy as the couch, but hey, I’m not complaining, and – Whoa!  Hello!” Stiles yelped as he was spun around suddenly and lifted into the air by two hands at his waist.  When the world had stopped turning, Stiles found himself perched upon the edge of the table, his legs dangling in the air.

            Peter’s head was tilted slightly and amusement tugged at the corners of his lips, as if he enjoyed his contemplation of the odd specimen that was Stiles.  “Hi,” he answered back playfully.

            “Okaay, and then there’s the table.  Why am I on the table?” Stiles allowed just a hint of snark to enter his voice.  It was really the only way to deal with Peter.

            “Because,” the older man explained in a too-patient voice, “if you’re going to insist on waiting for medical attention until the others return, then we’re going to have a look at your ankle now so I can decide if I should just knock you out and take you anyway.  I’d hate to be accused of neglect by our dear pack.”

            “Um, sure.  Okay.”  The teenager was taken aback.  He hadn’t really expected Peter to give an actual shit about his injury beyond using it as an excuse to feel him up.  Stiles watched nervously as Peter lifted his leg and slid his pant leg up his calf.  The older man deftly unlaced his sneaker and after carefully slipping it from his foot, dropped it unceremoniously to the ground.  Stiles was half expecting some snide remark about his spectacular agility as Peter peeled off his puddle-muddy sock, but the wolf remained silent, his steady gaze focused on the injured leg. 

            Stiles grimaced as he saw the beautiful purple swelling that had expanded his ankle to twice its normal size.  Peter slipped his hands around the underside of the boy’s calf, supporting his leg as he examined the ankle.  The man’s hands were pleasantly warm against Stiles’ chilled and damp skin.  There was also something about the sensation of his fingers slowly moving along Stiles’ leg that left the boy feeling uncomfortably exposed.

            “Can you move it?” Peter asked.

            Stiles tried hesitantly and managed to rotate it slightly before stilling with a half-choked whimper.  “Yes,” he ground out, “but I don’t want to.”

            “Then you’re not going to like this,” Peter replied cheerfully.  Before Stiles could ask what he meant by that, he gripped the boy’s ankle tightly, thumb and fingers pressing firmly along its circumference as he probed the tender area.  Stiles wasn’t able to stop the cry of pain from ripping itself from his throat and for a moment his vision went white as he struggled to breathe.

            Finally the torture ended, the pain receding to a steady ache instead of a stabbing agony, and Stiles came back to himself gasping frantically.  He realized that his hands were gripping Peter’s shoulders for support, strangling the fabric of the man’s shirt in his clenching fingers.  He quickly let go and straightened away from the other man.

            Peter was watching him, smug amusement on his face as he waited to catch Stiles’ attention again.  When he was sure the teenager could hear him he said, “I don’t think it’s broken, but you’ll be going straight to Melissa when Scott comes back so she can check it out.  You might have a hairline fracture or a torn ligament.”

            Stiles rolled his eyes, still feeling uncomfortably vulnerable in the werewolf’s grasp and disliking the sensation.  “Yes, Mama-zombiewolf.”  As usual, he hid his discomfort with smart-assery.

            Peter flicked his ankle, sending another wave of pain through him and causing him to splutter out a curse.

            “Behave,” Peter admonished, thoroughly unmoved by his agony.  If he ever needed proof that the man was a psychopath…Who flicked a sprained ankle?  “And stay there,” the wolf added, turning and heading for the stairs.

            Stiles was tempted to disobey, on general principle.  But the distance to the floor would require a leap, and Stiles wasn’t the most graceful person even when he had two good feet beneath him.  He was quite sure that he’d manage to flail himself flat onto the floor, probably cracking his head open in the process.  With a sigh he settled back further onto the table and watched Peter walk away.  At least he could appreciate the view.  The man had a fine ass for a psychopath. 

            Stiles blinked.  Then shook his head sharply, trying desperately to dislodge the image.  No, Stiles, bad!  Think about cold showers, dead puppies, Finstock in a speedo!  Stiles usually preferred to not think about what his admiration of certain of Peter’s … qualities said about him, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.  It had been three months since the werewolf’s return from the dead.  Everyone in the pack, Stiles included, mistrusted him and suspected that he had some ulterior motive behind his apparently penitential helpfulness.  But as Stiles found himself thrown in the man’s company again and again (and really, why did everyone think that was such a good idea?), the teen was coming to almost enjoy their interactions.

            Today in particular seemed to be wearing on Stiles’ self-control.  Perhaps it was the extraordinarily long length of time he had spent in the man’s company during this latest adventure, or perhaps it was the unusual consideration he had received from Peter since the cemetery, but something was drawing Stiles in, demanding that he examine the odd magnetism that the older man held over him.

            Let’s face it, the werewolf had a killer sense of humor, and he was drop dead gorgeous.  Puns fully intended.  And Stiles was a hormonal, bi-curious, teenage virgin with a thing for snarky, intelligent wit – was it any surprise that there might be attraction?  It didn’t help that Peter took every opportunity to tease and touch and just plain look at Stiles, until the teen thought he was about to crawl out of his skin.

            Oh god, this was so bad.  Maybe it was the pain or the exhaustion talking, but Stiles was pretty sure that he had just admitted to himself that he was attracted to a psychopathic murderer.  To make it even worse, Peter had to know, right?  He could probably smell it on Stiles thanks to his stupid werewolf super-senses.   Stiles was screwed, definitely screwed.  He buried his head in his hands.

             “Stiles?” the soft voice sounding right in front of him caused the teen to jerk his head up and almost unbalance himself off the tabletop.  Peter put a steadying hand on his shoulder and gave him a curious look.  “Do I even want to know what you were thinking about just now?”

            “No!” Stiles squeaked.  He cleared his throat and tried again, going for casual nonchalance this time, mouth pursing as he shook his head.  “Nope.  You really don’t.”

            “Okay then,” Peter replied, making a face that suggested he feared for Stiles’ sanity.  “If I can tear you away from the vagaries of your mind, maybe we can deal with your ankle, hmm?”  The man held up a couple rolls of bandages and tape.

            Stiles tried not to wince.  He knew it would be better if his ankle were wrapped, but the thought of putting any pressure on the throbbing area made him queasy. 

            Placing the rolls on the table, Peter lifted Stiles’ foot again in surprisingly gentle hands.  Then he stood unmoving, just long enough to make Stiles uneasy, before an odd sensation of warmth began to spread along the boy’s leg.  Staring in surprise, Stiles watched as the wolf held his ankle cradled carefully between suddenly black-veined hands while the pain slowly leeched from his abused limb.  Scott had told Stiles about this sort of thing, but the teenager was having a hard time processing the fact that Peter, of all people, was using it on him.

            Stiles felt the tension ease from his muscles as the pain subsided, and an embarrassing noise that was somewhere between a sigh and a groan slipped from his lips.  He felt the intensity of a gaze upon him, and when he looked up from Peter’s hands he found the man watching him, his head still tilted down toward Stiles’ ankle, but his vivid eyes gazing up from beneath his lashes.  A small smile was playing at the corners of his lips.

            “What?” Stiles asked nervously, but the older man just hummed and continued to watch him.

            The pain finally subsided to a distant, forgettable ache, allowing Stiles to flex his foot experimentally as Peter reached for the bandage roll.  Even the swelling seemed to have gone down slightly.  “Thanks,” the teenager said abruptly.  He had no idea why the older man had helped him, but he felt a sudden rush of gratitude flood him nevertheless. 

            Stiles shot a quick, almost shy glance at the man, and thought he caught a flicker of surprise in the werewolf’s eyes.  But Peter’s voice was mild and ambiguous as he replied simply, “You’re welcome, Stiles.”

            The boy watched restlessly as Peter began to wrap the bruised ankle.  He fidgeted so much that the wolf finally clamped a hand down on his thigh and gave the teenager a look.  Stiles eeped beneath the piercing gaze and stilled.  With a snort, Peter resumed his task and the loft descended into silence.

            “Why did you stay?” Stiles suddenly blurted out unable to take the quiet and stillness any longer.  He immediately felt the urge to slap a hand over his mouth, because really he didn’t want to know Peter’s motivations.  But then again, he really did.

            “Stay where?” Peter asked.  “If you mean here, I haven’t.  I don’t live in the loft.”

            “No, I-  Wait, where do you live?”  Stiles was easily distracted.

            “In an underground series of caves hidden deep in the woods.”

            “Whoa.  Really?”

            “No, you idiot.  In an apartment downtown.”  He gave Stiles that look of his that was somewhere between a grimace and a smirk, thoroughly conveying his disparaging view of the recipient’s intelligence.

            The teen glowered.  “I meant, why did you stay at the cemetery to fight the slinkie?  You could have left me there.”

            The man shot him a pitying glance.  “Really, Stiles.  What do you think the pack would have done if I came back without you?  Maybe rip my throat out?  They’d have never understood that I saved their collective asses – they’d have only seen that I left the helpless human behind to get eviscerated so I could save myself.”

            “Oh.”  Yeah, that argument made sense.  It was also kind of depressing to be reminded once again of how useless the rest of the pack viewed him to be.  Stiles stared morosely at Peter’s hands as they wound the white bandage around his ankle. 

            “Of course,” Peter continued without missing a beat, “the idiots don’t understand that you’re hardly helpless.  I was hoping that you’d think of something with a little effort.  And you didn’t disappoint.”

            Stiles’ head shot up.  He stared at the werewolf with wide eyes.  “Are you serious?” he demanded.

            Peter glanced up to meet his gaze.  An enigmatic smile ghosted over his lips, but frustratingly he said nothing.

            As the werewolf wrapped the last of the bandage and reached for the tape, Stiles was quiet, his mind racing.  He knew everything Peter said and did was calculated.  He knew the man was manipulating him.  And he still found himself tingling at the hint of approval in the wolf’s words.  Fuck, what was wrong with him?

            Finally Peter secured the end of the bandage, completing a very neat and serviceable wrap.  He smiled at the teen again, fully aware of the unsettled thoughts that had made the boy start to squirm again.  “There.  Done.”

            “Great!” Stiles immediately and gratefully launched into speech, as though Peter’s words had released a seal on his mouth.  “So am I jumping down or –” Stiles didn’t get a chance to finish as he was once more lifted effortlessly into the air.  This time however, Peter eased him down slowly, bracing the boy so he didn’t land too hard.  But the man also hadn’t backed away from the table, so in the very narrow space between the edge of the table and the werewolf, Stiles found himself sliding down the firm front of Peter Hale.  Oh.  Oh, no.  That was not good.  Well, it was fucking great.  But it really wasn’t good.  Not for Stiles’ mental well-being.

            Peter looked at him curiously as if wondering at the abrupt end of his speech.  The man’s hands were still conspicuously held at Stiles’ waist, as though to offer support.  However, there was a glint in the wolf’s eyes that seemed to suggest full knowledge of his actions and a very nefarious purpose behind them.  This was Peter Hale after all.  As Stiles had already noted, when did the man ever do anything without a purpose?

            “To the couch, I presume?” Peter finally offered helpfully and oh-so-innocently, when Stiles’ brain took a few seconds too long to reboot.

            “Bathroom, actually,” the teen finally managed to choke out.  “Bathroom would be a great detour.” He met the older man’s merrily dancing gaze squarely, determined not to let the wolf fluster him.  At least no more than he obviously already had.

            The werewolf outright grinned.  “Gonna need some help in there?”  His tone was pure, dirty suggestion.

            “Ew, no,” Stiles grimaced.  This he could deal with.  This was Peter in full tease mode, and Stiles had a couple months’ worth of practice dealing with the tease; so much easier than dealing with the odd gentleness and support of the last few minutes.  The teen finally regained enough of his equilibrium to bring his hands up and widen the distance between their bodies slightly.  And hello – chest muscles.  No!  Stop that, Stiles, concentrate.  “To the door will be just fine,” he elaborated in his most prim tones.  “You are such a creeper wolf.”

            “I have to maintain certain standards,” Peter quipped with a charming smile as he maneuvered Stiles toward his requested destination.  He’d returned his hand to Stiles’ waist, but was otherwise the perfect image of a chivalrous gentleman.  Hah!  A wolf in gentleman’s clothing more like – a gentleman whom said wolf had stole the clothing from before eating him, which explained the rips and blood stains.

            Stiles lips twitched despite everything.  Between Peter’s teasing and his own twisted thoughts, he couldn’t help his amusement – he put it down to exhaustion.

            After Peter deposited him at the bathroom door, which he gratefully and firmly closed behind him, Stiles busied himself making use of the facilities and then attempting to clean the worst of the mud from his clothes and body.  Thankfully his pain-freed ankle allowed him to hobble about in a mostly normal manner, and when he’d managed the best cleaning he thought he could hope for without jumping fully clothed into the shower, Stiles turned to reenter the living space.  He paused with his hand on the knob and stared at the door that separated him from the distracting (or terrifying? shouldn’t it be terrifying?) man on the other side.  His jumbled thoughts abruptly washed over him, and God he was overdue for his adderall.

            Stiles ran a hand through his lengthening hair in frustration and turned back to the mirror to stare at his reflection accusingly.  Ok, Stiles, you’re attracted to a psychopath, he thought to himself (because he couldn’t say it aloud or the werewolf in the living room might hear), what are you going to do about it?  His reflection sadly offered no suggestions, appearing every bit as confused as Stiles felt.  Then an even more perplexing question occurred to the teen.  What was Peter going to do about it?

            The man was the instigator after all.  He’d pretty much flirted with Stiles since the day they met.  Well, maybe not the day they met.  Or maybe yes that day.  His first words to the boy had been a very pleasant, “You must be Stiles,” while he’d leaned all casually and coolly against the wall, smiling that creepy smirk as if he wasn’t some crazy killer monster about to rip Stiles to shreds.  Practically every interaction since then, the wolf had managed to sneak in at least one innuendo, touch, or creeper stare.  Why?  What was his purpose?

            Maybe Peter was bored.  Maybe he had some plan for Stiles.  Maybe he was just a pervy pedophile.  How the fuck was Stiles supposed to know?  He couldn’t even figure out his own brain, let alone the twisted workings of the elder Hale.

            No.  This was ridiculous.  Stiles decided that he was too tired for this shit.  He could already feel a headache coming on and the confusing whirl of his thoughts would only encourage it.  He really didn’t have to do anything about his little problem; he could just go right on ignoring it.  And as for the possibility of Peter smelling any arousal on him, well, Stiles was a horny teenager who desperately wanted to get laid – he was aroused 90% of the time, and the other 10% was usually terror resulting from the latest threat to his life.  The teen figured he was safe from discovery by smell alone.  And if Peter tried anything funny … well, Stiles would just deal with that if it happened.

            The teen took a deep breath and turned resolutely to the door.  He could handle this.  He absolutely wasn’t going to let Peter get to him. Stiles flung the door open dramatically.

            “Oh my god!”  He almost jumped out of his skin when he found Peter leaning against the wall beside the door.  The man had changed out of his battered and bloody clothes and looked sickeningly fresh and amused in one of his deliciously tight button-up shirts, the top few buttons left tantalizingly undone.  “What have I told you about personal space and creeper tendencies?” Stiles demanded.  He was fully prepared to launch into what promised to be an impressive speech on proper interpersonal interactions when the wolf held out his hands, offering a glass and a couple of small orange pills.  Stiles’ mouth snapped shut.

            “Umm,” he finally said.  “What’s that?”

            “Pain pills and water,” Peter explained patiently, speaking as though to an idiot.

            “Uh huh,” Stiles answered, examining the offerings suspiciously.

            Peter rolled his eyes.  “For Christ’s sake, Stiles.  Just take the damn pills.”

            Deciding that, screw it, his head hurt, Stiles snatched up the pills and glass, then mumbled his thanks as he simultaneously shoved the pills into his mouth.  Somehow he managed not to choke on either pills or water.  As soon as he had swallowed, Peter was helping him across the room again and settling him on the couch.  Then Stiles was treated to the very bizarre sight of the older man kneeling at his feet to remove his other shoe, which he placed neatly beside the first that had already made the journey to the sofa’s side.  If seeing Peter Hale on his knees in front of him wasn’t a distracting image, especially in light of his recent epiphany, Stiles didn’t know what was.

            Peter stood and shoved Stiles’ shoulder none too gently to get him to lie down. “Sleep until the others get back,” he ordered, tossing a blanket at Stiles’ head.  “You’re starting to look delirious.”  He shoved a cushion under the teen’s foot, then pulled an ice pack out of thin air and plopped it on top of the bandaged ankle.

            “I’m starting to feel delirious,” Stiles muttered, shifting until he was stretched comfortably along the couch as he tugged the blanket up to his chin.  “I think I’m starting to hallucinate.”  Distantly he thought he heard a snort from Peter, but the exhaustion was finally overtaking him, consuming any confusing thoughts, and within moments Stiles was lost to sleep.

            A few, too-brief hours later, a spear of pain in his ankle suddenly jolted Stiles from unconsciousness.  The teen groaned and tried to ignore the sting, attempting to shift into a more comfortable position that would allow him to return to his rest.  No such luck.  Every move made his ankle ache more.

            “Here,” a familiar voice suddenly sounded above him. 

            Stiles cracked an eye open to find Peter offering him more pills and water.  Without any hesitation this time, the teenager propped himself up onto his elbows and downed the medicine before flopping back with another groan and flinging an arm over his eyes.

            “You’ll probably be happy to hear that the others are on their way back.  The Argents,” he could almost hear the man’s lips curl slightly at the name, “provided the silver weapons and between them and our dear pack they were able to take out the clan.  They should be back in about an hour.”

            “Yay,” Stiles offered in a monotone, waving an imaginary banner to demonstrate his team spirit.  He could hear the amusement in Peter’s voice when the wolf spoke again.

            “You should try to sleep a little longer.”

            “Sure thing,” Stiles replied with tired sarcasm.  “As soon as my ankle stops trying to detach from my body, I’ll get right on that.” 

            It was quiet then, and Stiles frowned.  He’d expected some sort of mocking response.  He was just about to risk a peek from beneath his arm, when he felt hands lifting his legs into the air.

            Stiles yelped and flailed as much as he could while lying flat on his back with an injured ankle that hurt every time he moved.  Propping himself up again on his elbows, Stiles stared as Peter sat down on the couch and settled Stiles’ feet in his lap.

            “What are you doing?” the boy asked in alarm.

            Peter didn’t even bother to look at the teen as he pushed his pant leg up and settled a hand on the skin above the bandaged ankle.  “Just relax and go back to sleep,” the man ordered as he grabbed a book that he had apparently left on the arm of the couch and began to read, dismissing the boy entirely.

            Stiles was about to demand a better explanation when warmth started to spread along his leg and the pain in his ankle receded.  Oh.

            He stared at the black veins standing out in stark relief on Peter’s skin, and found the words blurting out of his mouth before he could think better of them.

            “Does it hurt?”

            Peter stilled, pausing in his reading though he didn’t turn to Stiles.  His brow lowered as if he was seriously contemplating the question.  “A little,” he finally answered.  “But werewolves recover quickly, that’s why we’re able to do this in the first place.”  He finally turned his gaze toward the teen, and Stiles felt his breath catch at the things he could read in those blue eyes.  “And in the grand scheme of the pains I’ve survived …” Peter shrugged, a wry, empty smile tugging the corners of his mouth, “it seems a little thing, don’t you think?”  He turned back to his book.

            Stiles stared at him for a few more minutes, feeling the heat and the weight of Peter’s hand on his skin, watching the black coursing through the veins of his hand, and then gazing at the steady pulse of the normal vein in the man’s neck, the only other motion in the otherwise still figure apparently so absorbed in his book.  In his fatigue, the boy’s thoughts were ragged and jumbled, the day’s events mixing haphazardly with his worries and uncertainties.

            “Why are you doing this?” Stiles finally whispered.  A multitude of unspoken questions seemed to ripple beneath the surface of the simple words.  Why are you taking my pain?  Why did you tend my injury?  Why did really not you leave me in the cemetery?   Why do you keep playing with me?  Why do I keep letting you?

            Peter looked up at the teen, and his eyes and smile were warm and utterly unreadable.  “Because I like you, Stiles,” he replied as if that explained everything.  He huffed out a short laugh then returned his focus to his book.

            Stiles couldn’t really understand the words; couldn’t begin to comprehend what Peter actually meant when he said them.  Maybe they would make more sense when he was rested and clear-headed, but at the moment, with exhaustion still fogging his mind, they only made his heart pound in his chest.  Knowing that Peter could hear the hyper-active beat too was terrifying.  “Thank you,” Stiles sighed out at last, and there was confusion and gratitude and uncertainty and a horrible sort of neediness in the words that made Stiles feel even more vulnerable than he had when Peter’s hands had moved across his skin.

            Peter inclined his head slightly toward him, but otherwise gave no indication that he had even registered the words.

            The relief from the pain acted quickly on Stiles and he soon drifted back into sleep.  The next hour passed in silence, with the boy cozied up to the back of the couch, his head almost buried under the blanket, and the man calmly reading his book as he kept a hand upon the teen’s ankle and held the pain at bay.  This was how the pack found them when they finally made their own exhausted entrance into the loft.

            Each came to a halt individually; forming a ragged line across the room as they one by one absorbed the sight of the two figures on the sofa.  Peter personally thought that their expressions of confusion were hilarious, but knew that the stunned silence would not last long.  So, with a sigh, Peter closed his book, saving his place with a finger, and fixed them with a look, one brow elegantly arched.  “Oh goody, you’re back,” he said, his tone laced with sweet sarcasm.

            “What the hell happened to Stiles?” Scott predictably growled, looking torn between rushing to his friend’s side and raising his hackles at Peter’s proximity.

            Peter glanced down at Stiles, his expression one of feigned surprise, as if just now seeing the boy’s battered state.  When he looked up again, his lips were pursed in mock contemplation and he offered only, “Research?”  When they continued to stare at him, he sighed in exasperation.  “Just take him to your mother already and get him an x-ray.  He’s not dying, and so I’m sure he’ll tell you all about it before you even reach his Jeep.”  He made a shooing motion at them all.

            Glaring, Scott elbowed Isaac, prompting him to move forward with him to Stiles’ side.  They shook the other teen awake, startling him into a wild jerk.  Peter kept a firm hand on the boy’s legs to avoid receiving a kick in the face.  As Stiles woke up fully, he abruptly realized his current position.  He craned his neck to look past his friend’s shoulder, and Peter smiled cheerfully at him and gave a half-wave with the hand holding his book.  Stiles’ face turned an interesting shade of red, and he quickly agreed to Scott’s demand that they leave now to make a visit to the hospital.

            They gathered up Stiles’ shoes and things, and Scott and Isaac took up a position on either side of the boy to help guide him along.  As they were about to pass through the door of the loft, Stiles twisted around and looked at Peter.  “Thanks again, for … you know… thanks.”  The delightful rosiness again flushing across the teen’s pale skin, Stiles ducked out the door.  Peter watched him go with a broad, amused smile, ignoring Scott’s glare and Isaac’s confused look.

            When the door shut behind the trio, Peter turned back to the others, his smile receding to quiet smugness as he slouched against the couch back and raised both brows in inquiry toward the fuming alpha in the center of the room.  Erica and Boyd looked between the two older wolves, exchanged a glance between themselves that spoke volumes, and hastily made their exit to the further reaches of the loft.

            Silence stretched across the room.  Peter simply met the angry gaze that was focused on him with a careless expectancy. 

            Just as he was about to return to his book, because really, this was taking ridiculously long, Derek finally growled out, “He’s sixteen years old.”

            “Actually, he’s seventeen,” Peter corrected unrepentantly.  “Remember?  That day last month when we were dealing with those harpies and he was all pissy, because he was supposed to be celebrating his birthday instead of dodging bird-women?”  He paused as if waiting for an acknowledgment.  Derek stared at him icily.  “No?” the older wolf grimaced.  “Your people skills amaze me.  Nevermind,” he continued dismissively, “It turned out okay; the puppies made it up to him the next day with some group outing or something.” 

            Peter was actually pleased that his nephew had read the situation so clearly.  Not that he was being all that subtle, but the rest of the pack seemed almost oblivious to his interest in Stiles.  Hell, Stiles usually seemed almost oblivious to his interest.  (Though not today, he smugly reminded himself.)  The fact that Derek, supposedly lacking in the more subtle areas of interpersonal communication, had actually caught on gave him hope for the man’s continued future as alpha.

            “Seventeen isn’t much better,” Derek ground out.

            Peter settled further into his slouch.  “I’m a patient man.  I can wait for what I want.”  An odd, almost mad gleam in the wolf’s eyes was a reminder of just how long he’d been forced to wait in the past for the things he’d wanted.  He could wait for years.

            Derek shifted restlessly at this reminder, warring emotions of anger, guilt, and sorrow flickering across his own expression.  Nothing quite like unbalancing his nephew’s emotional state to distract the younger man.  Or perhaps not, since the alpha’s expression abruptly hardened and he stepped closer to Peter, fixing him with a red-laced stare.  When he spoke, his words had acquired a deeper bass-tone.  “Understand, you’re tolerated because you’re useful.  If you start breaking my pack, you stop being useful.”

            “Aww, that’s sweet.  You do care.  Be sure to tell him that the next time you forget his birthday.”  When the alpha growled at his glibness, Peter rolled his eyes.  “Don’t worry, Derek.  I have no intention of breaking Stiles.” He hesitated, lips twitching, before he added.  “Or, at least I’ll only break him in all the fun ways.”

            Peter rose gracefully from the sofa then, standing toe to toe with the alpha, his sparkling eyes examining the other wolf boldly.  Derek bristled, his instincts screaming that Peter was offering him a challenge.  The tension grew to an almost palpable level, then suddenly the older man smiled and stepped back.  He saluted Derek with the book and sauntered toward the staircase.  “Goodnight, Derek.  As I said … I’m a patient man.”  Let the alpha make of that what he would.  A chance to annoy Derek and Scott, to make the rest of the pack uncomfortable, and to subject Stiles to his tender mercies – tonight had been thoroughly enjoyable and he wasn’t about to ruin it with a physical confrontation.  Emotional manipulation was by far his preferred technique. 

            As he headed toward one of the spare rooms, feeling too lazy (and perhaps, dare he admit it, too tired) to make the trip to his own apartment, Peter felt a full smile grow on his lips.  He planned to savor the pleasure he had reaped tonight – he would be dreaming about how that deliciously fair skin had blushed such a pretty red.