[Fic] baby, it's cold out tonight (Teen  Wolf)

29 Oct, 2026

baby, it's cold out tonight

Stiles takes one look at Peter Hale, and knows it’s all over.

Which is to say that there’s no way he’s getting out of this intact, being as he was kind of instrumental in the whole ‘killing Peter in cold blood’ thing. That, you know, they did. A while back. Before… a whole host of other trouble, honestly.

Like, on the scale of things? Peter’s hands down the least complicated, the most straight-forward issue Stiles has had in a while. He’s kind of attached, even, he realizes as he sits on the floor of a cold warehouse and Peter walks up to him and says, “Fancy seeing you here.” What an asshole, Stiles thinks. Then he rasps as he breathes—because his ribs are probably cracked if not outright broken—and Peter frowns. “You don’t look very good,” he adds, and Stiles groans and flaps a hand at him. Whatever. He has more important things to worry about than Peter being miraculously back from the dead—like what he’s going to do about all these injuries.

He can’t go to the hospital. Melissa will ask a thousand questions, Dad will find out and look at Stiles like he’s a giant disappointment for not staying out of trouble and also ask a million questions, and, and, and—and. So many _and_s. Stiles has never had so many ands at the same time before. It’s kind of dizzying.

“Go ‘way,” mutters Stiles, and pushes himself to his feet just to show him. And then he pitches forwards because the showing off failed and it was a stupid decision, and if not for Peter catching him Stiles would have brained himself on the concrete. So that’s fun. New adventures is what life’s all about, you know.

“Ugh.” Stiles every bone and muscles aches, and the pressure Peter’s putting on him—inadvertently, probably, Stiles can be generous and give the benefit of the doubt—doesn’t help. “Must you?” he mutters, and Peter gathers him close, holds Stiles to his chest. Stiles hides his face in the nook of Peter’s neck because he can and he deserves it and everything sucks and he wants comfort, even if it’s from the dude that arguably started this whole mess, way back when. Like, Scott just ditched him without even noticing anything, and okay, everybody else ditched him, too—including Lydia, who he literally drove here for—so like, it doesn’t feel super personal. Honestly, par for the course, Stiles can deal, he’s a big boy and he’ll get over it.

But damn, he wants a hug.

Glomping onto Peter like a koala, Stiles hugs him so tight his own ribs burns and aches and he whimpers in pain. “Fuck,” huffs Peter, catching him, and there’s barely a second before the pain is just—gone. Leeched from him. Taken, and Stiles’ eyelashes flutter as he moans, and Peter laughs a little.

“You’re going to be fine, sweetheart,” says Peter almost right into his ear, and Stiles shivers.

“What’s it to you?” he manages to ask, mouth dry and body boneless.

Slowly, Peter moves to sit them both down, and Stiles goes with it because he is, you know, boneless. It’s a strange sense of being; he’s not been totally and completely boneless. It’s nice, actually. In a weird way.

“You’re mine,” says Peter, and Stiles inhales too sharply, sparks of pain shooting through him before Peter manages to take it. Stiles whimpers, and Peter shushes him. Stiles had no idea Peter is a shushes. It’s a soft shush, too. What the hell?

“Seriously,” says Stiles. “It’s been a shit day, if you’re going to kill me. let me sleep first.”

“I’d never kill you,” says Peter, and that is very much not a reassuring thing, actually. “That’d be an escape. No, I want you well and whole for a long, long time.”

“Sounds like you’ve got a lot of torture planned.”

Peter laughs. He runs his hand up and down Stiles’ back, and it’s unfair, how nice it is. How warm, and present, and alive.

“And also, we need to go back for Erica and Boyd,” says Stiles. Wetting his lips, he clamps his legs tight around Peter, ignoring the little feeling in the back of his head telling him that this position should hurt—that it does hurt—but somehow the nerves aren’t fully connected and it isn’t going to his brain.

“If you wish,” says Peter.

Stiles manages—somehow, and don’t ask him how—to pull back just enough to peer into Peter’s blue eyes. He’s got the intensely funny werewolf half-shift on, and his eyes aren’t Alpha-red. He looks—well.

Irony, huh.

Here Stiles is, the one who ostensibly won in their conflict, and he feels like shit, has been beaten black and blue in a dingy murder basement owned by monomaniacal genocidal-wannabe. No offense, Allison. But also, a little offense, because she did hunt down Boyd and Erica like dogs, and Stiles isn’t going to let that go. She owes them an apology, and honestly her and Chris should pay for therapy. For all of them. These last few months have been so fucked up and if you think about it, it all goes back to the Argents and their prejudice and vigilantism. Like, literally everything. Argents’ poison is at the root of it all.

Sighing, Stiles hides his face in Peter’s neck again. He bites a little at the skin, just because he can and he’s earned it, and Peter doesn’t stop him. Just stills, hands holding tight to Stiles’ sore body, and lets him bite it out.

“You’re scheming something,” says Stiles. “You totally are. But I am too tired for this right now, so just… slow it down, please.”

“Alright,” says Peter. And so for a time there, they just sit. Stiles languishes in the relief of being painfree, even though he knows it’ll all come back as soon as they stop touching. And that’s a thing, too. That touching Peter is granting him this comfort.

Like, it’s on purpose. It’s not just in his head, not just the normal comfort a human gets from touch. Peter is actually, literally taking the pain away.

“You’re definitely scheming,” mumbles Stiles. Peter just pats him, and Stiles lets it be. Whatever Peter is planning, Stiles will deal with later. For now, he’s going to just take this. Even if it’s selfish. Even if there are ulterior motives. Stiles will still take it.

Then his stomach rumbles, and Stiles blushes so fiercely he can feel it in his marrow. Not that marrow is a thing humans can normally feel. Probably. Maybe they can. Stiles isn’t really sure.

He’ll have to google that.

Peter pulls him up, and Stiles groans the whole way. “Keys,” say Peter, and Stiles blinks at him. But Peter seems like the kind of pretentious man that likes cars, keeps expensive ones and handles them with care, make them nice and clean and make sure they stay in one piece and probably doesn’t even think of ducktaping the engine when it breaks—like, this guy just came back from the dead and he’s wearing a V neck, come on—so Stiles hands over his keys. His ignores his shaking hands. Peter ignores it, too.

“Come on, let’s get something to eat.” Peter drives slow and carefully, holding Stiles’ hand the entire time. It’s late, the middle of the night, really, and the drive-by is calm and quiet. Stiles is too tired to even pay attention to which burger joint they’re hitting up.

He’s not been safe—truly safe—in days. He loves his dad, but Dad doesn’t know how to keep Stiles safe from this. From any of it. And that’s Stiles fault, because he hasn’t told him anything, and it only makes it worse.

The guilt and the lying, and he’s going to lie about this, too. He already knows it.

That hurts, too.

But he’s still going to do it.

Peter tears the burger into small pieces, handing him one at a time. Normally, Stiles would be pissed at the babying, but he’s tired and the lack of pain is kind of worth the lowkey humiliation. “Thanks,” Stiles croaks when he’s eaten what he can. Peter can remove the pain, yeah, but not the feeling of a bloated stomach or the nausea crawling up the back of his throat.

“You need a hospital, darling,” says Peter.

Stiles glares at him. “I’ll be fine. Let’s go get Boyd and Erica.” Peter looks him over, one brow raised, and Stiles bristles. But Peter starts Roscoe again, and off they go, traveling down dark roads. Stiles watches Peter, mostly. It’s calming. Peter drives with purpose, with intent, and Stiles doesn’t even protest when it’s becoming clear they’re heading to a whole other part of town then where Stiles lives. He might very well get murdered tonight.

“Boyd and Erica,” reminds Stiles, frowning.

Peter squeezes his hand. “I haven’t forgotten, fear not.” Stiles eyes him suspiciously for a moment, but lets it go. He does trust Peter to actually go after them; for all of Peter’s fault, breaking his word isn’t one of them. He let Lydia go. He let Stiles live. He didn’t even bite Stiles, turn him, even though he clearly wanted to and Stiles was the puny human with the audacity to reject what is objectively an amazing gift.

In hindsight, knowing what he knows now, and how little the Argents care about collateral damage, he really should have taken Peter up on his offer.

Maybe he still can.

But—no. Peter isn’t an Alpha anymore. And after what Scott did tonight, has been doing for months, there’s no way Derek would want to turn Stiles.

“Where are we going?” asks Stiles, as Peter parks the jeep.

Peter smiles, a little mockingly. “You waited until we arrived to ask that?”

“Well, I’m not getting out of my car if it’s somewhere weird. Or creepy. Or like, a murder-den.” Stiles frowns. Peter raises his eyebrows, and Stiles tries to cross his arms over his chest but is hampered by the fact they’re holding hands, and Peter doesn’t do him the favor of letting go.

Actually, Stiles whole body is a mire of pain and agony and soreness during the brief lapse when Peter lets go to get out of the car and circle to Stiles’ door. So maybe it was a favor, holding on.

Stiles whimpers, when Peter grabs him again. He’s not even ashamed to admit. “Fuck, I could get addicted to that,” he mutters as he steps out with Peter’s help. He leans more on Peter then he’d like to, but he also knows he needs to if he’s going to get there—wherever there is—in one piece. And not making things so much worse he really will need a hospital.

They end up in Peter’s apartment.

It’s quaint. Not precisely homey, not really cozy, but it’s not cold or minimal or sparse, either. Just new, maybe. It has a certain ‘haven’t settled in yet’ feeling to it.

But it’s nice.

Peter helps Stiles to the couch and then leaves him again, and Stiles breathes calmly and deeply and stares at the wall. It’s brick, which is kind of cool. He wonders if it’s real or just a wallpaper. It’s too dark to tell, and he has a swelling eyes that doesn’t help the matter.

When he returns, Peter has a giant first aid kit. “You’re a werewolf,” says Stiles.

Peter raises his eyebrows. “I’m scheming, remember?”

Stiles sighs, rolling his eyes. Thankfully Peter’s got his hand again, and it doesn’t hurt like it should.

Peter bandages him up. He cleans and wraps every little scrape, feels on Stiles ribs and wraps them, too. Presses a cool towel to Stiles’ face, and helps him out of the bloody clothes into something loose and warm. It’s Peter’s, but they’re pretty close in height, so it’s fine. Something passes over Peter’s face when Stiles’ head pops out of the head-hole—what the hell is the head-hole in a shirt called?—but Stiles doesn’t have the energy to decipher it right now. He’ll take it tomorrow.

“You’re going to watch me sleep?” Stiles asks as he’s helped to the bed—Peter’s bed—and Peter settles in next to him. Peter sits against the headboard with a Twilight book and the soft light from the lamp on the side-table washing over him. Stiles watches, sipping slowly at the water Peter handed him. He’s hungry, but he’s also far too nauseated too eat, and so he makes due.

They’re still holding hands.

“Somebody needs to watch your back,” says Peter, leafing to the next page.

Stiles sighs. His eyelids are heavy and hooded, and he’s so, so tired. And despite it all, despite everything they’ve done to each other, he trusts Peter to watch his back. “Thank you,” he says, and lets his eyelids slide shut wholly and utterly.

In the dark, Peter says, “Don’t worry about it.”

◈◈◈

In the morning, Peter’s already got breakfast—simple cereal and lots of milk—ready when Stiles opens his eyes. It’s dark, the blinds pulled shut, and Stiles groans. “Fuck, what car ran me over.” Then his mind wake sup, too, and he shoots up so quickly he gets dizzy. “Boyd, Eri—”

“We’re here,” says Erica, popping up behind Peter in the doorway. Stiles blinks. “We’re fine, I promise. Peter found us.”

“Really?” Stiles reaches, and then Erica and Boyd both tumble onto the bed. Stiles laughs, and it hurts like hell, but damn it. They’re alive. They’re here. “He didn’t get you out?”

“No, Allison’s dad let us go,” says Boyd, grimacing. “Peter found us in the woods.”

Stiles blinks, again. “Thank you,” he tells Peter, smiling up at him. Leaning against the wall, arms crossed, still in a blasted V neck, Peter smiles back.

“So…” Erica drawls, once Stiles has managed to get down a pathetic amount of cereal. She frowned the whole time, hand on his shoulder to take the pain. “You never told us you know another werewolf.”

“I thought he was dead seeing as I, you know, literally saw him die.”

“And played quite an instrumental part in it, too.” Peter smirks. Stiles snorts, because yeah, that’s an understatement. He was kind of pivotal, not that anybody’s mentioned it to him. Well, killing your own uncle after he killed your sister is probably a pretty sensitive topic.

Erica oohs, and Stiles squirms. She’s gentle in her handling of him, far gentler than she’s ever been, but she still manages to keep him in place. “I can’t believe nobody told us this,” she says, and sounds very grumpy about it. That’s fair. It was kind of a big deal.

Stiles shrugs. “Sorry.”

Erica sighs. “It’s fine, it’s fine, I forgive you. Now, what are we going to do?”

“About what?” Stiles looks between Boyd and Erica on the bed with him, even looks at Peter, but doesn’t get any clues. Brows furrowing, he tilts his head. “Wait, are you guys still leaving?”

Somehow that hurts.

He hadn’t thought they would.

“Derek is still… he hasn’t come to see you once, Stiles. And I get it. Peter explained what Scott did, and it wasn’t right,” says Boyd. “But it doesn’t change the fact that Derek isn’t a good Alpha, and we don’t trust him enough.”

“Don’t get us wrong,” adds Erica. “Derek tries. We know he does. And we’re grateful for everything he’s done for us. But that doesn’t automatically make him a good Pack Alpha. And there’s no other Alpha in Beacon Hills.”

“There could be.”

Peter’s head snaps up to stare at him, eyes widening and bleeding wolfy. Stiles raises his eyebrows at him. “Right, Peter?”

Eyes narrowing, Erica looks between them. “What?”

Stiles just hums.

The more he thinks about it, the better it sounds. “You just need to kill an Alpha and you become one? Take their Alpha Spark, right? It doesn’t, like, need to be a family heirloom Spark?”

“It doesn’t,” says Peter. Slowly, he stalks across the room, standing before Stiles at the side of the bed. He stares down, and Stiles stares up, tipping his neck back. Peter’s gaze falls to the sight, and Stiles shivers. Wetting his lips, he watches Peter’s gaze follow that, too.

“Alright, alright, I know when I’m in the way.” Erica rolls off the bed and takes Boyd with her, dragging him out. She gives Peter the ‘I’m watching you’ hands before she leaves, though, and Stiles snorts. ‘thanks’ he still mouths to her. She grins.

“Were you serious?” asks Peter after a while, taking over as the mobile 100&-guaranteed painkiller. Stiles is on his side, resting and waiting for the doctor Peter swears is arriving soon. He’s said that for an hour, picking up his cell and staring at it with blatant irritation practically every ten minutes.

It’s kind of cute.

Which is—yeah, that’s a thought Stiles has right now. Poor judgment from his injuries, probably. He should get an MRI. And a CAT-scan.

“About what?”

“Don’t play games, Stiles. Not about this. Were you serious, when you said there could be another Alpha in Beacon Hills?” Peter looks at him, examining him, and Stiles nods. He gulps, too. He maybe hasn’t fully thought this through—he only found out Peter’s alive again yesterday, after all. But it’s a good thought, and it would leave Peter in debt to him. Peter’s the kind of person that repays misjustice a hundred times over, and Stiles thinks he would be just as loyal to those who give him something good.

And this would be—very good, for Peter. It’d help stabilize his mind and body, too, to have a proper Pack again.

Stiles has been thinking about it a lot. Why things with Peter shook out the way they did? Why they couldn’t work together. If Peter had told anybody what he was doing—Derek might not have helped him, but Stiles doesn’t think he’d have stopped him, either. And Laura… Stiles doesn’t understand that. But he does understand the pain of being forgotten, abandoned, tossed aside by those who are supposed to help. Regardless of her reasons, Laura left Peter vulnerable, stuck in the same town the Argents had already attached.

Her justifications, no matter how valid, don’t really matter to Stiles. And anyway, she’s dead now and unlike Peter’s, it can’t simply be undone.

“I am serious,” says Stiles. “There must be other Alphas out there. Alphas that could do with a bit of…” Stiles drags his thumb over his throat.

“Oh, I have some people in mind.” Peter smirks, and he\s way too hot to be doing that regularly. Stiles will get confused. Well, he’s already had his sexuality crisis over Peter so he won’t be confused, precisely, but he’ll be embarrassed. Because of certain bodily functions he doesn’t exactly have an iron control over.

“But it’ll be quite an undertaking,” adds Peter.

Stiles snorts. “You’re honestly telling me your not up for it?”

“Oh, I assure you, i am very much up for it. But it might be too much for your… human sensibilities.”

“Peter.” Stiles raises his eyebrow. “I think we both know i ‘m way passed that.”

Peter stares at him. “I know. But I do need to make sure, you know. Before we do anything irreversible.”

Stiles stares back.

After a while, the doctor finally arrives in a flurry of disorganized chaos. Peter and Erica loom the whole time, Boyd standing threateningly in the doorway. Stiles lets himself be poked and prodded, and he does so without any painkillers so the doctor can get accurate data. He gets it. It still hurts.

When it’s done, the doc says, “you should still go to a hospital. I can’t completely rule out internal bleeding.”

“We did the ultrasound like all over,” Stiles points out.

The doctor frowns at it. “Still. I’m in family medicine. Emergency cases like this aren’t my field of expertise. I really would feel a lot better if you got properly checked out. It doesn’t have to be here, if you don’t want. You can go to another city.”

Peter chases the doctor out, with vague threats, implied ghastliness should anything of their visit come out, and returns to find Erica and Boyd back in the bed. Stiles is squished between them and Erica has managed to steal Stiles’ laptop, so they’re torrenting an old nineties show like proper thieves.

“I see you’re making yourself at home,” says Peter.

“We’d be more at home if he had something to eat,” drawled Erica. Stiles snorts, and she grins at him. Boyd is a silent statue next to them, counting money over and over. Stiles is thinking they might have stolen that, because it’s quite a pile of cash.

“I’ll cock for Stiles, not freeloaders,” says Peter.

Stiles says, “I’m not a freeloader?”

He means it to be a to be a joke, even a taunt. But it comes out too frank, and his heartbeat does a thing everybody but he can hear. Gulping, Stiles looks away, first. It’s a cowards way out, maybe. But he doesn’t know how else to handle it.

“Anyway,” he coughs. “ you cook?”

“I’m passable,” says Peter. His attention is a heavy weight, a solid layer of cement upon Stiles’ skin. Goosebumps rise, and he nods. Peter says, “Don’t worry, I’ll make you soup. Something easy to digest.”

“And we’ll order pizza,” says Erica.

Stiles grins. “Nice, I’ll steal off your plate when Peter isn’t looking.”

“You will do no such thing. I won’t take my eyes off you.” Peter sounds so serious, too. Stiles’ flushes, and he knows everybody in this room clocks his reactions—they can’t not, being werewolves in such close proximity to him. Especially if they’re Pack. Senses sort of attunes to Pack, even on those who aren’t your anchor.

Not that he’s saying they’re Pack.

But they could be.

All they need is a single Alpha, and if Peter’s proved anything, it’s that he’s not afraid to go for something he wants. If he really wants to be an Alpha, Stiles is sure nothing will stand in his way. And an Alpha needs Betas; here they are, two ready-made ones that have already formed some sense of trust with Peter, and Stiles, hurting and humiliated and pissed off enough to make some very unwise decisions.

Erica and Boy both have Thinking™ faces on, and he’s not sure if that’s good or bad for him. Stiles elects to ignore it, pulling the covers up higher and burrowing into the blankets. He’s got the markings of a fort, here.

“Thank,” he says, and Peter smiles.

Erica fake-gags, but she doesn’t say anything about it.

Boyd and Erica don’t leave.

They stay, sleeping in the living room- playing guards, according to Peter. Stiles is pretty sure they 100% will gut anybody entering without authorization, so the joke’s a bit lost on him. But he huffs a laugh, anyway. To be polite.

Stiles recovers, slowly. It’s an extremely annoying process, because he has three wolves worrying themselves sick about Stiles’ fragile human body, and also he’s trying to fend off his dad at the same time. It’s easy enough to be depressing and murder for his self-esteeming, and hard enough to be annoying. In conclusion, nobody’s winning there.

Scott does call. Stiles spends a good half hour discussing movies and homework with him, and tacitly avoids any mention of Derek, or other werewolves. He hears from Lydia that Allison is back at school, looking none-the-worse for wear, and that does piss him off something fierce. But what he’s supposed to do about that? Even if they didn’t have to keep things secret due to the whole ‘werewolf’ thing, she’s rich. She’ll be fine.

It is unfair, though. It’s not wrong of him, to point out that it’s unfair.

He hasn’t managed to say that to Scott yet, though.

Peter sticks close. He helps Stiles to the bathroom, which is—embarrassing. Yeah. That’s the word. And he keeps cooking, watching Stiles unerringly when Stiles eats his food, and he even puts on stupid movies on the tv, renting them one after one as Stiles goes through everything he can. It is embarrassing just to watch him, and also Stiles’ heart won’t stop pounding. It can’t be healthy. Maybe he really should go to the hospital.

But no. He’s had his fair share of injuries—mostly from lacrosse, actually. Stiles doesn’t really get bullied—he keys cars, frames people for cheating, and tattles to their parents too often when somebody tries to mess with him. Now that they’re in high school, that happens far less often.

He thinks these will heal. Just ice them, don’t do any strenuous exercise, and monitor them closely to make sure it doesn’t get worse. (Mind you, don’t try this at home. He’s got the luxury of staying with werewolves who can literally hear his heartbeat, so they’ll notice if anything goes awry.) But there’s still a part of him that’s nervous, that’s scared it’ll go the other way around and he’ll royally fuck himself up just because, what—he’s stubborn? Scared to run into Melissa? Scared that they'll call his dad and he won’t be able to lie anymore?

But he could just go to another hospital, like that Doc said. There’s no reason for him to be locked in this one town, other than… well… other than that he can’t really seriously consider going somewhere else. Because… well, he doesn’t know why.

That’s weird. That’s weird, right? Yeah, that’s weird. Why would it not occur to Stiles that he could sneak out to another hospital? Danny owes him a favor. Stiles could get a fake ID, try to ‘believe’ it to be real and hope whatever tiny spark of magic he might have will be on his side, and sure ti wouldn’t be perfect, but he trusts Danny. And himself. He could get through a hospital visit, a workout by a doctor. Probably even through an X-Ray machine before any red flags went up.

And yet he’s not.

And yet even now, he’s not going to.

“Something is weird with me,” he tells Peter one night, watching a movie on the couch, feet in Peter’s lap. Peter isn’t taking the pain from him right now, which makes this position a lot weirder, technically, but it’s easy on his injuries. “You know that, right? Like, it’s weird? Not going to a different hospital?”

“It’s weird.” Peter pats Stiles foot. It’s a very arrogant pat, because Peter’s an arrogant guy and it kind of bleeds into everything he does. But also, he’s exaggerating because he knows Stiles thinks it’s funny. Weird guy. “If you want to, I’ll take you to a different hospital. Somewhere far away where nobody knows us.”

“And see, I know I should. It’d be the smart thing to do. You know, rule out any weird, obscure complications from my injuries. But…” Stiles shrugs. “I don’t want to go anywhere.”

“Do you want to stay?”

“Not really.” Stiles shrugs again. “It is weird, right. It’s not all just in my head? I’m not like, overthinking this? It’s weird.”

“Yeah, it’s weird, Stiles.” Peter rests his hand on Stiles’ ankle. “But there are far more weird things in this town than you know.”

And Stiles can’t help straightening up a bit. “Like what?” he blinks, trying to widen his eyes and plead like Lydia does to Jackson when she’s blatantly manipulating him. Peter’s eyes darken, gain a faint glow, and they narrow. But the hand stays loose and comfortable on him, so Stiles is pretty sure he hasn’t pushed his luck too far. Yet.

There’s always tomorrow. Or, hey, just the next time he opens his mouth and rambles for too long. Whichever comes first.

Even odds, honestly.

Peter smirks. “You’ll have to find out, won’t you?”

“Asshole,” Stiles laughs and pushes Peter’s shoulder. Peter doesn’t even budge, the asshole. Stiles’ chest squeezes and flutters at the same time, and he stares at Peter for too long to be socially acceptable. It’s fine. Peter’s staring, too. So it’s mutual staring. Which is like, a thing. Probably.

Side-note—for no particular reason—Stiles sucks at flirting.

It’s like, a law of nature. A law of physics. The sky is blue, grass is green and Stiles Stilinski—real name redacted for spelling reasons—is horrible, and he means horrible, at flirting. He tries, and he thinks that the victims of his flirting might honestly prefer getting gutted by a mountain lion over him flirting with them. It’s pathetic. It’s sad. It’s a serial killer origin story in the making.

Technically, Stiles is also already well on his way to being a serial killer, though, so maybe it doesn’t count. Or maybe it double counts.

“I really need to lose my virginity soon,” he mutters, flopping back down and groaning in pain. “Or I am so going to become a virgin sacrifice in some creepy ritual, just watch me.”

“Oh, I can assure you, I’m watching you,” drawls Peter, leaning into the creepy like the creep he truly is deep, deep down inside. And also shallowly inside. It’s kind of all over his insides. Stiles snorts at his own thoughts, stretching out his body despite the ache and stings, and resettles on his back. The movie is—alright so Stiles has missed like three quarters of it. Hey, he’s got his feet in Peter’s lap and Peter is holding his ankle. Excuse him if he’s a little scatterbrained. Quite frankly, it’s a miracle he’s capable of coherent thoughts at all, okay.

“You’ll help me figure it out, right? The weirdness?” Stiles watches Peter out of the corner of his eyes, holding his breath.

Peter smiles. His thumb is rubbing softly on Stiles’ muscle. “Of course, darling. You can count on me.” And sure, his expression gets a bit scheme-y there, for lack of a better description, but Stiles’ stomach still swoops and he grins.

“Thanks, zombiewolf,” he chirps, and pokes Peter with a foot. Peter grunts, eyebrows scrunching. But he doesn’t let go, doesn’t move back, doesn’t even mention it. Just keeps sitting there, keeping him company and watching a corny movie with him. Stiles is all warm and fluttery inside, and there’s no way Peter doesn’t pick up on it. But in this, at least, he has some kind of conscience, because he doesn’t confront Stiles.

There’s no way he’ll let Stiles avoid it forever, though.

No way in hell.

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#Fandom: Teen Wolf #Post Type: Fic #Rating: Teen #Status: Complete #Tag: AU #Tag: Hurt/Comfort #WC: 5000-10000