10001 Nightmares Party

[Fic] drag yourself up by your spine (Teen Wolf)

Summary:

Maybe there's something up with that evil tree-stump in the woods that Stiles keeps sleepwalking to.

Notes:

Work Text:

Stiles finds the bookshop on a Monday, hereby disproving forevermore that Mondays are the worst day of the week. That honor has now been bestowed upon Tuesday, and all of humanity can bow down in gratefulness for his grace; you're welcome, humanity, he thinks, browsing the shelves with approximately twenty books nestled in his hands, two wrong steps away from tipping over under the weight. They're big books, too—old and thread-bound and smelling like a thousand different herbs and dust and cobwebs, and he holds in a sneeze with everything he's got, face distorted, until at last it overpowers him.

The sound of the sneeze is loud, building and building in the walls and the bookcases that surround him all sides, going up high. Stiles flinches, glancing around, but there's nobody to watch as he wipes the snot off the top book with his arm sleeve, his other arm trembling under the weight because despite all that lacrosse practice, it turns out books are still really fucking heavy when you've got dozens of them more than 1000 pages nestled in your twiggy arms. Go figure.

Yikes, he thinks, once he's wiped down the book as much as possible. Now he's got snot all over his sleeve, too.

Wilting, Stiles mourns his shirt until his eyes catch on another book's spine, and then it's hoolabaloozah because the history of werewolves in the Roman Empire? Yes, please, give it to him. Give it all to him!

Stiles really has no idea what he's done to deserve this bookshop, but he's had it for fifty-five minutes and if anything happened to it he'd burn down the world.

That's a joke.

Probably.

Anyway, Stiles wanders unsteadily between the labyrinthine shelves until he finds the counter, and then a middle-aged woman squints at the pile of books that he deposits. “Do you take cards?” Stiles asks, fishing for his wallet while the woman sighs—Martha, according to the little piece of paper pinned to her sweater-west—and puts on a pair of glasses while she starts ringing him up.

“Sure,” she says, so unenthusiastically he's kind of in awe of her. She flicks her eyes around the store, sighs, and mumbles, “We also accept trades, if you're got something.” She yawns, plopping a piece of gum into her while pressing buttons, squinting at it before she clicks her tongue, shakes her head, and restarts the whole ringing him up process.

“Oh, uh, sure,” Stiles says, smacking at his pockets like a book is going to magically appear in them. It does not. The universe hates him. It's not mutual, but sadly he's fated to a life of pining; first Lydia, now the universe. He's got it tough, for sure. Sighing, he fishes out the box of crayons he's apparently got in his jacket, staring at it in confusion because what? When? Why?

Has Stiles even used crayons in like, the last ten years?

“Here,” he says anyway, plopping it down besides the pile of books he can't even see over, pushing the box forth with the tip of a finger like an asshole. Ducking his head, he rises on his toes and goes, “I think you'll find that's a magical box of crayons. Good for… three books, I think,” and he wiggles his eyebrows, because like, why would he not?

So life's been pretty weird lately. Honestly, no, it's been kind of a drag. No, wait, it's kind of been sucking.

For real.

Stiles likes to think he doesn't lie to himself, but sometimes it takes him a while to peel back all the layers. He's a complicated person, okay.

But it's been kind of sucking, lately. Scott is a werewolf now, and he'd rather spend time mooning—hah, get it?—over Allison then figure out how like, werewolves work? Which Stiles just does not get. Why would Scott not want to know absolutely everything about werewolves? Werewolves are real! And he is one! But somehow it's more important to figure out if Allison thinks he looks good in the color green, or something. Stiles stopped paying attention.

The point is, Scott's been kind of forgetting him, lately. New relationship honeymoon phase, or whatever, but it means that Stiles has time to do stuff like taking his beloved Roscoe to another city while he's on the prowl for information. (Prowl, hah, he's hilarious. And also hungry. He passed a cafĂŠ on the way here but it looked like it was full of old white guys wearing suits which, yikes. No. He's gotta find another one. Yeesh.) This is the fifth bookshop and or second-hand store that he's checked out in his search of information about werewolves, and fuck, was it worth it.

Martha looks at the box of crayons. She glances at him. Sighs. Rolling here eyes and nearly tipping off her chair due to the apathy she exudes, she grabs the box and says, “Deal. Three books for your magic crayons. The rest will be 226 dollars.”

First of all, 226 bucks? His budget just died a cruel and unjust death. Second of all, deal?

Okay, look, Stiles isn't going to look a gift-horse in the mouth.

After paying, Stiles wrestles his way out the store with the bags of books weighing him down, legs trembling as he gets outside and the sunlight assaults him, ruthlessly blinding him. Hissing, he draws up against the wall of the bookshop when some absolute maniac cycles by at the speed of light. “Hey!” Stiles calls after them, blinking spots out of his vision. It doesn't help. Neither does the cyclist.

When he's got everything packed away in Roscoe and he's eaten way more pizza than his father is ever going to know—priorities, Stiles, priorities—Stiles settles behind the back of the wheel and heads on home. It's hours of driving, but honestly, it's kind of chill. He's spent weeks trying to get Scott to take things seriously, because like, this is kind of a matter of life and death, and he just doesn't. He's been trying to drag information out of Derek, and he's gotten nothing. And he's pretty sure Deaton knows way more than he's letting on, but is anybody sharing that with Stiles?

No, of course not. Stiles' just Scott's best friend, just the dude that grew up with him, that figured out he's a werewolf.

Whatever.

At home, Stiles settles in with his books and doesn't get anything else done the next four days, at all. It's cool; in a stunning display of forward-thinking and long-term planning, he finished his homework before he took off on his journey of discovery, and when he blinks his eyes at the alarm clock and realizes it's almost five a.m. on the Friday, nearly tipping out of his chair in his exhaustion, he murmurs, “A few more minutes,” to himself because he's a cool guy with good decision-making skills.

Obviously.

In school, Scott ignores him to hang with Allison and Lydia and Jackson, and Stiles can obviously not insert himself into that circle because like. Ew. He's not invested in watching them kiss, please and thank you. It is a little amusing how vividly Jackson isn't either, though; he scrunches up his whole face every time he accidentally looks at them, and Stiles snorts behind the cover of his locker.

But yeah. Scott ignores him. It's kind of—it's kind of a big deal, Stiles thinks, that his best friend is ignoring him. He gets that he's in love and whatever, that he's got a new girlfriend and is high on his new skills as a werewolf, how he's suddenly Important and a Real Lacrosse Player and not whatever cosplay they were apparently engaging in before. And also, ouch, Stiles knows what cosplay is? Stiles knows what cosplay is. Huh. Does he want to do cosplay?

He loses a few minutes trying to figure out if he wants to cosplay as a vampire—ruled out because that's just a Halloween costume, unless he's doing like a specific vampire like Dracula or Lestat or; anyway, ruled out—or like Naruto or Harry Potter or something. The answer is a solid no. Stiles isn't a good actor but also he doesn't know how expensive cosplay is but he can't imagine it's cheap and he just dropped 200 bucks on a pile of old books.

He's been getting judgmental eyes from his dad, okay. Those are the worst. (It's fine, he's been looking at his dad judgmentally, too. The vaunted Sheriff is cheating on his doctor-approved diet again. Stiles judges. Stiles judges hard.) So no cosplay, and when he's looking around again Scott and the whole clique is gone, and it's just Stiles lingering in the hall because he missed the sound of the bell ringing.

It's Coach's class, though, so it's cool. Coach is weird and honestly Stiles' favorite teacher ever.

After school, Stiles wastes a few minutes waiting for Scott, only for Scott to walk right past him, holding hands with Allison. Stiles stares after them for a moment, sticks out his tongue at Jackson when the dude smirks at him like the asshole he truly is deep inside, and then goes home.

Where he's alone.

But at least he has his books. So. Conclusions; Stiles refuses to believe that werewolves are the only supernatural thing that's real. It just does not make sense. If werewolves are real, then so must something else be. And Stiles is going to find it, because otherwise this is gonna bug him for years, like those months he went on a deep-dive about moths because he wanted to figure out how a realistic moth-man would look like. The result gave him nightmares for weeks and also made him wish he was part moth; Stiles contains multitudes and also multiple things can be true at once, okay. He's a complicated man. One might even call him a brooding, dangerous… beast? Yeah, let's go with that. A dangerous man-beast.

But anyway, aside from all the rest of it—Scott and Allison and how Allison's family kind of has a thing for murdering innocent werewolves and whatnot, aside from that there's also this; Derek Hale is missing.

To be clear, Stiles is pretty sure he's dead.

Oh, somebody's been out at the preserve and rooted through Derek's things, but his ID is still where Stiles left it after that time he almost sawed off Derek's arm and there's been no sign of Derek in over three weeks. Nothing has happened in over three weeks. It kind of feels like everything was moving like an avalanche for a bit there, when Scott first got bit and Derek popped up and Allison smacked into them, and Stiles had just settled into the new pace of their lives and then, boom—nothing.

Silence.

Stillness.

He feels like an animal under a microscope, like he's one wrong step from ending up in the Twilight Zone, like the whole world is holding it's breath. He's restless and dumb with it, eager to move, to learn, to just do something to counteract the complete lack of momentum that has stolen over him. Nothing is happening. Deaton is ignoring him. Scott is ignoring him. Stiles doesn't have anybody else, it turns out.

There's been a full-moon since Derek vanished. Scott stole Stiles away to battle it out with the moon with him, and that's it. That's the only concrete thing that's happened lately.

It feels, Stiles thinks, like somebody's put the world on pause.

Something was supposed to have happened. He doesn't know what. But there was an energy in the air and now it's gone, and he's drunk on the lack of it. Antsy and high on his illogical anxiety, Stiles spends the rest of the evening going over his notes from the books again. He's antsy, he's popping his meds way more than he should, his feet bounces on the floor, and he at last stands and says, “Damn it.”

He can't do this.

Something needs to happen.

Wandering out into the Preserve in search of answers is stupid. He's not so far gone as to not know that; it was stupid the first they went, and it's stupid now that he's going alone. The Preserve, he thinks as he drives up the road to it, has solidly carved out a sense of bad things happen here in his brain, and he gulps as he gets out of the car, trusty bat in hand. He spends a minute getting his flashlight working, lighting up the area around him, and then he pats Roscoe and straightens his back. It's fine. Stiles can… probably not run away from a werewolf, if something happens.

But he's confident that he can get at least get one swing in with a bat and at this point, he's high on enough manic, antsy energy that it's a risk he's willing to take. He swings his bat uneasily as he goes, deeper and deeper into the dark woods, the moon half-full above him.

“Should have packed a snack,” he mutters to himself once he's been out for a while and he's still no closer to the burned down husk of the Hale's house, because he keeps walking in circles instead.

Because here's the thing.

He's pretty sure Derek is dead.

And he's about ninety percent certain that there's something in the old house.

Stiles has been by a few times during the day, trying to find clues as to Derek's whereabouts. He's heard noises, has felt the eyes on him; something is up here, and it doesn't feel like a good old animal. A mountain lion would honestly be a relief to his nerves, at this point, but the gaze on him spells intent, spells purpose, spells intelligence.

He's pretty sure that intelligence killed Derek.

So he dawdles. Sue him. (But also, don't. He needs the money for his next trip to the most amazing bookshop of all times, and he will throws hands for his budget, buddy. Don't test him. Stiles has amazing hand-throwing skills on account of his black history in middle school which is not to ever be talked about.)

(Look it's possible he didn't deal well with his mom dying and his dad becoming a staunch workaholic.)

After a while, though, the dawdling gets boring and the energy coursing through him drowns out all common sense, and he heads onward toward the murder house in the murder werewolf woods. The trees are high and dark around him and Stiles holds his breath as he jumps over a fallen tree-trunk, nearly stumbling to his knees on the other side because he's not the best at this. Like, he's been getting a lot better lately on pure necessity, but he's hardly an expert, and it is very dark.

And that owl's hooting is setting a very bad mood.

Does California have owls?

Is that a wereowl?

…That would be very cool.

Sadly, he has the sneaking suspicion it is not, and anyway, he's here for a reason. He can look up the owl thing later. But just in case, he briefly hunches down behind a tree and writes a note to himself on a piece of paper he's for some reason carrying with him. Then he glances around, straightens, and goes onward.

He does not find the house.

What he does find, instead, is the stump of a tree.

Stiles flails his arms as he bursts into the clearing, running to a stop right before the stump. It is, somehow, a creepy stump. Stiles stares at it, glances around, stares at it some more. Clearing his throat, he says, “I'm not selling my soul,” just so that there isn't any misunderstandings. He's not sure why there would be, but honestly, he's got an open mind after the shitshow that's been his life lately—before it hit pause and Stiles started existing in some kind of strange liminal sense, always one foot outside reality.

Something is wrong. He knows this in his very bones, in his marrow. Something is wrong. Scott refuses to see it, blinded by his new popularity, by his self-hatred and denial of his new status as a werewolf, by his all-consuming infatuation with Allison—Stiles is hesitant if he would even dignify it by calling it love—and by the attention that is lavished on him now. Stiles isn't so blind that he doesn't get the appeal, the cause and effect; Scott has spent his whole life being side-lined due to his asthma and his status as just another random dude, and now that he's a popular dude, he's not going to let anything jeopardize that. And if he actually took the whole werewolf thing seriously, it would jeopardize everything, not the least his relationship with Allison.

And it kind of sort seems like the only things Scott cares about right now are Allison and lacrosse.

Sighing, Stiles sits down on the tree-stump.

Resting his head on his hand, he draws up a foot on the stump and gazes out at the forest around him. It's silent, dark and dreary, all the light having seemingly burned out together with the Hale house, and he doesn't really know what to do now. Is there honestly even any use in trying to find Derek?

If the dude really is dead, what is Stiles supposed to do about that? If he's just left, if he simply skipped town, then is there anything Stiles can realistically do to drag him back?

He thinks he would, for Scott. But Scott also very obviously doesn't want his help, doesn't want anything to do with Derek and doesn't care that Derek is gone; he's just relieved that he doesn't have to do what Derek says anymore. Relieved he can moon after Allison without anybody getting on his back about it. Stiles kind of thinks that if Derek has just skipped out on them, good for him.

Anyway, so yeah, Stiles falls asleep on the evil tree stump.

In the morning, a bird is sitting on his chest when he wakes up. It takes Stiles a pathetically long moment to realize what he's looking at, bleary-eyed gaze blurry, and he yelps as soon as he does; flailing, he whispers “Dude, what?” as the bird—a crow, and wow is he supposed to take that in a particular way or—jumps off him and preens a wing.

Stiles sits with a groan, rubbing an eye and hiding a yawn behind his hand. “Dude, what even?” he asks the crow once his brain has finished rebooting, and he realizes how stiff he is and just where he slept and Jesus, it's morning. He slept outside all night.

And he didn't get eaten.

Or mauled to death.

Frankly, that level of luck is suspicious; with the way things have been, a wizard should have causally strolled past him and tossed a fireball his way, accidentally killing him.

Stiles is pretty fucking sick of being collateral damage.

The bird follows him home. Honestly, Stiles doesn't even bother trying to shoo it off. It hops into Roscoe with him and he keeps a careful eye on it, but as long as it doesn't drop bird-shit on anything, he's not going to get into this fight. His stomach is cramping with hunger, his phone is out of battery, and he smells weird.

Like a forest, he thinks.

But—weirder.

Surreptitiously sniffing his armpit as he walks up the steps to his house, Stiles grins weakly at the neighbor out getting the newspaper. “Hey,” he calls out, because he's nothing if not a sucker for punishment. Scoffing, the neighbor marches back inside without a backward glance, and Stiles mutters, “Seems about right.”

After breakfast, Stiles has a horrible, horrible moment where he realizes he doesn't know what day is it, and frantically turns on his computer while his phone is off charging. “Weekday, weekend, what are we working with?” He bites his nail as his leg bounces, and he raises his head and glances around his room as he realizes he didn't see his dad coming in. “Must still be at work,” he mutters, frowning.

Does that mean his dad didn't even notice he was gone?

Shaking his head, Stiles hunches back over and finally learns that it's a Tuesday. He's not sure how right that feels, all things told; but he doesn't much bother with it.

He kind of expects school to be different, after spending a night out at the Preserve. At the very least, he expects Scott to ask why he smells like trees, and why there's a crow following him. Even Jackson gives him an odd look when the crow joins him at the table during lunch. And Stiles is eating inside, unlike Scott and his new cronies, so really, what excuse is there to not think the crow following the random human is weird?

“Cool,” Danny says walking by, tossing a piece of bread to the crow. Stiles makes a strangled noise in the pit of his stomach when the crow than barfs it back up and stares at him.

It is… is it trying to feed him?

Ew.

…But also—kind of cute.

Petting the crow turns out to not be the best idea; he gets scratched for his trouble. But hey, at least the trip to the nurses office was something. It means he's late for class, and Scott talks to him for the first time all day, a quick “You okay, man?” that he doesn't follow up with anything when Stiles nods, already back to staring at Allison like the whole class isn't trying to ignore just that. Like, does Scott actually think he's subtle?

Have the class think he's a creep, and the other half is hanging onto his every word just because he's got a pretty girl on his arm and Lydia is talking to him.

It is, genuinely, kind of sad.

The crow follows him home again. Dad's back from work, at least, and does in fact react to the crow, a startled, “Shit, kid, what have you gotten yourself into?”

“It's called wildlife rehabilitation,” Stiles says, shrugging off his bag and letting the crow into the house, because it spent the whole time at school sitting outside the windows, gazing soulfully inside, utterly betrayed by Stiles for daring to allow the teachers to chase it out—amongst much snickering from fellow students—and he doesn’t much feel like a repeat. Besides, it’s a good crow. It hasn’t even shat on him!

Score one for Stiles.

“Well,” his dad says, skirting around the crow. “Don’t let it into my bedroom, okay. And do your homework!” And then dad vanishes into his office, and Stiles sighs after him, brushing a hand over his head, rubbing his eyes.

Fuck.

Okay, so the crow is obviously magic. Literally nothing else makes sense—except that he’s somehow hallucinating it, but then other people responded to the crow so does that means he also hallucinated their responses? Anyways, that’s a headache and a half to figure out; easier to just go with the simpler option. Occam’s razor and all that.

Stiles hums as he cooks. He eats together with dad for once, which is nice, but then dad vanishes again and leaves him with all the dishes, which is less nice. Stiles doesn’t blame him though; he knows things are crazy busy with all the strange happenings, and dead bodies that’s been found recently. Beacon Hills didn’t used to actually have many suspicious deaths before; it’s just statistics. It’s a small town. There’s a limited number of deaths, and of those murder and criminal activity is a minority.

So on the one hand they’re not mentally prepared for this level of weird deaths and strange bodies and odd noises in the night, and on the other hand they’re not trained for supernatural beings battling it out for supremacy. Possibly with magic. Stiles eyes the crow suspiciously.

The crow does not respond.

Anyway, yeah, not weird his dad is busy. Stiles makes extra sure to vacuum before the dust bunnies rise up and rebel against him, and then he tosses himself onto his bed and stares at the ceiling in the dark like the moody, broody teenager everybody secretly is deep, deep inside. He turns, after a moment. Looks at the crow standing on his desk, no indication that’s going to sleep any time soon.

Do crows sleep?

…He’ll look that up tomorrow.

So it turns out Stiles sleepwalks now! That’s the only explanation for why he wakes up at the evil tree stump again, the next morning, the cursed crow keeping him company. And there’s a wolf, too, sleeping beside the stump. Or, well, a cursed version of a wolf. Elongated limbs, ratty fur, something that maybe looks like it could be… burn scars… Stiles blinks. He’s onto something. His brain is moving. Something connected.

Didn’t Derek have an uncle in the hospital with burn damage?

“Peter… Hale? Right?” Stiles mutters, sitting up and staring at the distorted version of a wolf. The wolf doesn’t react; it’s looks like it’s truly sleeping, soft puffs of breath regularly leaving it. It's heavy when he pokes it with the tip of his finger because come on, obviously he's going to poke it. It doesn't even seem to notice him, slumbering rather peacefully despite looking like it's gone three rounds with a wood-chipper.

That was a horrible thought, Stiles thinks, wincing at the imaging.

Shuddering, he stretches his arms high over his head and blinks up at the faint sunlight that's murkily making it's down through the high treetops. This is a very murky forest in general, he's noticed. And the evil tree stump that's apparently a magnet for werewolves and magical birds isn't helping any.

"Right," Stiles says, standing and patting his body like he's getting the forest smell off that easily. The stump seems to wilt, and he eyes it with narrowed eyes. How could a tree stump wilt? But somehow that's the image that forms in his head when he looks at it; there's just something about the energy... something about the vibes... that makes him think the evil tree is sulking at him.

"Oh come on," Stiles says, tossing his hands in air and spinning on his heel. "I didn't sell my soul to you!" he yells over his shoulder, stalking off at his quickest pace.

He is, actually, in a remarkable tiptop shape for having slept in the woods. On a tree-stump.

It's possible, Stiles thinks, that he's right. The tree is magic, and it actually is evil.

...Just his luck, really.

Shuddering once more, Stiles flinches at the howl of a wolf echoing through the trees, rustling. It comes from behind him, staggering and rattling, a sustained howling that is somehow distinctly mournful in nature, and Stiles winces. Bites his bottom lip, half-turned to look back. He could take a peek. Just a quick glance. Just to check it out. And hey, if it really is Peter Hale, wouldn't that be so cool?

If Peter Hale is a werewolf, he was probably one before the Hale Fire. Stiles has read the reports; it was a big deal and he was a precocious kid with a dying mother and a workaholic father—obviously he read all the reports. But he thinks he must have missed something, now, because nothing of it said WEREWOLF to him. He wonders what he'd see, if he went through them now. Extra carefully.

Probably Peter survived because he's a werewolf, right? But that wolf didn't look anything like Scott or Derek. Is he sick? Is it because of the damage?

Stiles grumbles about all the way home, which takes quite a while because Roscoe isn't here. He must have sleepwalked all the way out to the preserve. Yikes. That must have taken so much time, and he hopes nobody saw him. He must have looked like an idiot, bumbling around.

Whatever, nothing he can do about it now. This Peter Hale stuff is much more interesting.

Stiles tosses himself headfirst into it, getting his hands on the files and then spending a full week reading up on it, tracking down more information every part of the way. He doesn't think it was an intentional coverup on everybody's parts, because hello, werewolves. But how do a bunch of a werewolves burn to death? Wouldn't somebody have smelled smoke? Heard the screaming?

Were they all unconscious?

See, this is why he misses Derek. If he had Derek he could just bully answers out of him, but Derek's gone without a trace—actually, he wonders if he ought to break into the Argent's house... just to like, double-check he's not trapped in a basement somewhere—and so all Stiles can do is research, research, research.

Which, for the record, is a fucking blast.

Stiles is a master of research, and spending hours on a binge is a bonafide great way to spend time, in his opinion. He doesn't mind swallowing so many energy drinks that he won't stop trembling as he hunches over a book, squinting while trying to figure out what the fuck he's looking at because he's so sugar high the letters are starting to swim in his eyes.

It's great.

It's also a bit lonely.

The eight day in a row he wakes up on the evil tree stump out in the Preserve, Stiles only sighs. Stretching out like a starfish over the stump—it's a very big stump, the tree must have been humongous once upon a time—he gazes up at the overcast sky, dark clouds visible even through the dense treetops. Luckily, he's got a fanny-pack that's still right where he left it. Stiles pats it to thank it for it's glorious service and then struggles to get the umbrella and the super tiny bottle of water out. It's an old perfume bottle of his mother's that he reused, because with the umbrella and the sandwich, it was the only thing that fit.

"Do you think I'm going insane?" Stiles asks the crow as he munches down on his first bite.

The crow just looks at him, utterly merciless.

Sighing, Stiles stretches out again, hand with the sandwich waving in the air, and his eyes screw shut as he yawns and cranks his neck to get the crink out. When he opens them again, the wolf—werewolf, let's be real—is looking at him. It's been sleeping at the foot of the stump every time he's woken up here; Stiles has never seen it awake.

But red eyes look at him with hardly an emotion in them. Holding his breath, Stiles' lungs ache as he stares back into them, eyes wide.

"Peter Hale," says Stiles, because he's nothing if not bullheaded and willing to run wild with his conjectures, and he's already invested a lot of energy into assuming this werewolf is, in fact, Peter Hale. The Peter Hale that's supposed to be in a long-term coma, even. That Peter Hale. "Good morning. Lovely day, isn't it? Have you had breakfast?"

Peter's wolfy gaze drifts to look at the sandwich in Stiles's hand. Stiles looks at it, too. Presses his lips tight.

Sighs.

"Okay," Stiles says, and hesitates when he's about to hold the sandwich out to him. It's a great sandwich. Stiles put a lot of effort into it! But... well, he supposes sharing is a virtue, or something. Sighing once more, just for the theater of it, Stiles finally does in fact hold his hand out. "Here," he says, trying to put cheer into his voice and not sound like he's deathly terrified of his hand being bitten off. "You can have a bite."

Then he thinks better of it, because he's done a lot of ill-advised things, but he doesn't particularly want to eat a sandwich a wolf has taken a bite out of. Especially not when Peter raises his head and opens his giant, misshapen maw and his mouth surrounded by dried blood.

Ew.

But also—so cool.

...Look, wolves are cool, okay. Werewolves are cool, no matter what Scott says. It's not Stiles' fault he likes horror movies and adrenaline kicks, okay! And the wolf is very cool, and if, maybe, if Peter could turn back into a human and not be in a coma, maybe Stiles could ask him some leading questions. Like, say, who set fire on the Hale's house? And who covered it up?

Because Stiles is pretty sure he's connected the dots. He's connected so many dots. He might also be sleep-deprived and his grades might be tanking because he's entirely forgotten about homework, but he's connected the dots.

Thankfully, Peter Hale does not bite his hand off. This is mostly because Stiles's nerves die on him and he drop the sandwich before the wolf can bit down on it. Peter swallows the wolf thing instantly while Stiles shakes his hands and hops off the tree. "Okay!" Stiles claps his hands. He wavers on his feet. He's vaguely sick with the feeling of what the fuck did I just do but also has an insidious feeling of I'm going to to do it again, aren't I?

And like, of course he is. Peter Hale is a werewolf. Peter Hale is out of his coma to be a wolf, and he's been sleeping at Stiles feet every day for a week. And Stiles is dumb and pathetically lonely. He's going to give Peter whatever the fuck he wants so he'll answer all of Stiles' questions, and maybe also let Stiles pet him because come on, how could you look at such a wrangled ratty monstrous mutt and not pet him? Stiles is only human. He has needing. Wolf-petting needs.

It's of the utmost importance, truly.

Peter doesn't follow Stiles home like the crow does, and Stiles does the dignified thing and pretends he isn't hurt by it. It's fine; he's going to find Peter Hale after school anyway. He knows his way around the hospital just fine and he's sure he can sneak into Peter's room without any issues.

It's not like anyone's keeping track of his whereabouts, anyway.

Stiles eats cereal when he's home, munching it down as quick as he can before he hurries to school. It's an average day, which means they get held back at practice while Coach yells at Scott and Jackson and then Stiles drives Roscoe home in the dark. Alone. Because this is his life now.

He makes a cursory dinner and leaves it in the fridge, in case his dad comes home when Stiles isn't there. A note that he's out and about with Scott and Allison, too. If dad checks, Melissa will probably confirm it.

Then he goes to the hospital.

It smells—yeah. He hasn't missed it. It's late evening but Stiles is pretty damn stealthy when he wants to be, thank you very much. He doesn't make a lot of noise and nobody pays him much attention as he sneaks his way to Peter's room. He just hopes Peter is actually there. And awake. And not a wolf.

Wow, it sure would be bad if all three were true, wouldn't it?

Stiles crosses his fingers and hopes he didn't just jinx himself.

Peter's door is shut, when Stiles creeps close. It's dark inside, and Stiles waits around the corner until the road ahead is free and clear, and then he hurries inside, gently and urgently shutting the door behind him, heart thumping loud in the pit of his throat. It kind of hurts, actually.

Then Stiles forces down a deep breath through shaking lungs and glances behind him.

Not a wolf, he thinks, and exhales harshly.

"Thank fuck," Stiles says, dragging out a rickety hospital chair and plopping down on it. "It would have been super inconvenient if you were wolf-shaped right now, dude," he says, and then winces. Shit, maybe he shouldn't be saying things like that here. It looks abandoned but who knows if the Argent's have left any kind of monitoring systems behind. They seem like the kind of fanatics that would wait until Peter's woken up to kill him, just to make certain he's hurting as he dies.

What? Stiles is entitled to his opinions.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Stiles slumps in the chair until he's little more than a puddle of goo, forcing all his worries out. "Man, it's been a shit few months, huh?" he mumbles, eyes sliding shut.

When he opens them, Peter Hale is standing in front of him.

"And who are you, now?" Peter asks, peering down at him with bright eyes. Stiles' heart skips a beat and he gulps heavily, throat bobbing.

"Stiles," he says, blinking rapidly. Int he dark, Peter looms above him like a giant, and Stiles imagines he can hear claws shifting. Knows it's all in his head, but that doesn't make it any better. He gulps again, just for something to do, and Peter smirks, Stiles' eyesight adjusting to the darkness.

"And who are you to be here, Stiles?" asks Peter, and damn but his voice is smooth. And also he's sporting a suspicious lack of scars, Stiles realizes. He, very valiantly, resists the urge to crow about this—hah, get it? Get it? The crow is right outside Peter's window and watching them with sorrowful eyes, because leaving it outside is evidently a crime punishable by the most irresistible mournful eyes in the world—and instead just looks up at Peter. Waits to see what the werewolf's next move will be.

"I'm... a... meddling kid?" Stiles' brows furrow. He shakes his head. "I mean, I'm investigating a lead in a case I'm working on. As a... career... meddling kid."

...What is he even talking about, Stiles wonders, about to lose all respect for himself. He thought he was cool. He thought he had game. He thought he was about to be somebody; maybe even somebody who could, possibly, sit next to Lydia at the library some time.

But no.

No.

Stiles is an idiot.

An idiot that's about to be murdered by a werewolf. But at least he had a good run, he thinks, as he says "If you're going to kill me, do it quick?" and clenches his eyes shut, bracing himself for having his throat ripped out or something. He even tilts his head head back and bares it for easy access, because he's nothing if not accommodating.

Nothing happens.

Then—then Peter sets his teeth onto Stiles' throat and Stiles whimpers, having a very ill-timed sexual epiphany. It's possible, he thinks, as a very hot and alive and werewolfy Peter Hale sucks on Stiles' skin, that Stiles is attracted to guys. Just like... possibly.

Peter pulls back, and Stiles blinks up at him with zero comprehension of what's going on, trying to subtly put his trusty new fanny-pack over his crotch. It's very tasteful of him, truly.

Chuckling, Peter shakes his head and says, "I can smell you, you know," and Stiles must burn so bright with his embarrassment he could be seen from Mars. A heat seeking missile could find him in a volcano, he thinks, gulping and swallowing an awkward amount of saliva. Shrugging, he tries to affect a cool persona. Tries to channel Jackson. It's doomed for failure before it even starts, because just thinking of Jackson right now makes his stomach go cold and he gets the unpleasant shivers rolling down his spine.

"Who set fire to the Hale house?" asks Stiles, because he has the survival instincts of a baby panda about to roll down a hill following a butterfly. Or some such thing.

Fuck, he thinks, screwing his face up again as he awaits doom.

"You smell like... the Preserve," says Peter. Inhaling so deeply that Stiles can hear it even with his eyes shut, Peter ducks his head again and tilts Stiles's head to the side, running his nose up and down his neck. It's simultaneously the weirdest and hottest thing that's ever happened to him. Is he kinky? Stiles has the sneaking suspicious he might be kinky.  Holy shit.

He's learning so much about himself today.

Trying not to move, Stiles holds his whimper in by the teeth on his tongue, hands clenched tight on the chair. Peter's breath is warm on his skin, and the grace of his nose over Stiles' neck makes Stiles' stomach clench tight and hot. He bites his tongue until he tastes blood, swallowing it down. The taste lingers on his tongue, and the beck of his teeth.

"Why do you smell like the Preserve?" Peter asks into his skin, and Stiles' flushes so bright he wouldn't be surprised if he's turned into a flashlight when he wasn't looking.

"Don't ask me, it's the stupid tree stump's fault," says Stiles, displaying his awesome survival skills once more. Peter drags in another giant breath, and the pit of Stiles' stomach is a hot, murly mess, and he thinks tonight's sleep is definitely going to be awkward. Especially if he sleepwalks again.

Fuck, he hopes he doesn't sleepwalk tonight. He doesn't even want to think about what he might do.

Peter raises his head and tips Stiles' head up so he's forced to look into Peter's inhumanly bright eyes. He's got no eyebrows anymore, Stiles thinks: apparently, werewolfism somehow turns eyebrows into unibrows. "Is that so? And what particular tree stump are you talking about?" Peter asks, running his tongue over his sharp teeth and raising his unibrow, gaze not shifting from Stiles' eyes for so much as a moment.

...Stiles isn't built for this! He's a fragile human, a fragile human teenager, and he's got—hormones and stuff. Teenage stuff! Fragile human parts that are doing human things that happen naturally when a very hot guy holds your face and looks at you like that. Stiles isn't prepared for this kind of attraction, okay. He hasn't gotten his defenses ready.

"The evil tree stump that you sleep with," says Stiles, weirdly hoarse. He tries clearing his throat and Peter lets his face go so Stiles can cough delicately into his hand. He doesn't really manage it; Stiles is a lot of things but aside from his skeleton compared to werewolves, none of it is delicate.

"The Nemeton," Peter says, and Stiles can practically hear the capitalization. He looks at Peter and frowns, tilting his head.

"Yeah, dude," says Stiles, like he has any idea what he's talking about. Most of the time he'll catch up in the middle of a conversation, it's fine. It's how he gets through Coach's lectures when Coach goes on another rant about how Stiles is squandering his potential and whatnot, and it hasn't failed him yet. Clearing his throat once more, Stiles asks, "Are you guys friends?"

"One is hardly friends with the Nemeton," Peter says. Stiles shrugs, not really sure what the Nemeton is but willing to take his word for it. Peter's brow furrow, and he sits down on his hospital bed, looking at Stiles. "You smell like me," he says, and Stiles shrugs again. "The Nemeton has been meddling, I presume." Peter's bright eyes stare at Stiles, studying him so closely it's almost uncomfortable.

"I guess, if that's the evil tree stump, yeah." Stiles shrugs once more, because he doesn't really know what else to do in this situation. Something is obviously up with the tree, and the Hale fire, and Peter's comings and goings despite supposedly being in a coma, and actually... "You're the one who bit Scott, aren't you?"

"I did," Peter admits, tilting his head. It's so hot a motion that Stiles isn't even embarrassed about the noise he makes. Even in the hospital clothes, even with his face distorted by his werewolf transformation... it's no wonder Stiles' having a sexual awakening over here, alright. Anybody would, if _Peter Hale l_ooked at them like he's looking at Stiles right now. Stiles is sure of it.

"Okay," says Stiles. He blinks a lot, trying to force thoughts to emerge from his brain again. Shaking his head a bit, his foot taps on the floor as he thinks, teeth worrying his bottom lip. "So the Argent's set fire to the Hale house, right?"

"They did," Peter's voice is all growly, and Stiles' shivers. Claws wreck the hospital bed, and Stiles shivers for a different reason. Then he reminds himself that this is serious business and Peter is dangerous; Stiles need to keep his cool. Keep this professional, and the like. So he nods, looking up at Peter and trying to keep his neck bared at the same time—he's not going to stop taking advantage of what is turning out to be a pretty blatant weakness, after all.

Peter really seems to have a thing for it, and if it keeps himself killing Stiles, then yeah. Duh. Stiles will take full advantage and he won't even feel sorry about it.

"So you're going to kill them all?" asks Stiles, furrowing his brows. That would be a logistical nightmare, he thinks. They'd have to find some way to get them all in one place at the same time. Setting them all one fire would be karma, right? But then that would be difficult to pull off—the Argent's don't strike him as anything other than paranoid.

"I am." Peter stands again, and saunters over to Stiles. It really can't be called anything else. Even in the hospital gown, Peter somehow pulls it off. If Stiles did that he'd look ridiculous, but when Peter does it Stiles can't look away, mouth dry and tongue lead in his mouth. He gulps, and Peter smirks, stopping before him and staring down at him. His eyes reflect the little light seeping in through the door. "Are you going to stop me?"

"No," says Stiles. "I mean, they killed almost your whole family. I get it. But like, just them, okay. I'm not killing anybody else. That'd be, like, wrong."

"...But it's not wrong to kill them?"

"An eye for an eye, dude." Stiles stands, patting his sweaty hands on his pants and hoping Peter isn't paying any attention to his lower body, because wow, that's awkawrd. This is really not the time. Stiles needs to go home and take a long shower, and also google so many things. All the things. So very many, many things.

"I understand," says Peter, and Stiles has no idea what he understands but just goes with it, nodding like this all went according to plan. Stiles' plan was just to check if Peter really was here and if he really was in a coma, so in a way this all did go according to his well-executed plan, didn't it. Stiles smiles, pretty pleased with himself, and spins on his heel. Then he spins back.

"I'm Stiles, by the way," he says, pointing at himself. "In case you were wondering."

So obviously killing the Argent's is easier said than done, and Stiles spends the next day groaning in despair in his bed, trying to figure out if he's permanently lost brain cells from his horrible, no-good, awful promise. What was he thinking, he asks himself, and doesn't get any single decent answer. Peter was hot, he thinks. The crow looked at him with soulful, large eyes. The Nemeton has apparently been meddling.

So. Yeah. Stiles apparently promised that he'd kill a bunch of gungho paranoid serial killers.

That's gonna go great, obviously.

In the meantime, in between the sexuality crises and trying to do the homework he's fallen behind on, Stiles thinks. He thinks a lot. He doesn't want to go murder people on a whim, after all. Even if they are murderers, this is the kind of decisions that deserves gravity. That deserves Stiles' full attention and a thorough investigation. So he thinks, and he plots, and he plans. Makes so many contingencies it almost makes him dizzy (no plan survives first contact with the enemy, and all that, though he can't remember where he heard that.)

Stiles is almost sure he's going to fail Coach's class this semester, he thinks, dawdling in the halls at school. He's so behind on his homework and he always does Coach's last because Coach is awesome and will give Stiles so many extensions. It's great.

Nobody else appreciates that fact that sometimes he just really, really needs to go on research-binges that consume his entire weekend, you know.

Heathens.

The fact that Allison and Scott are still ignoring him, lost in their lovey-dovey rose-tinted world makes him feel slightly better about his plan to murder Allison's whole family. He doesn't think Peter is the kind of guy that will just let Stiles back out of something like that, anyway. Now that Stiles knows who Peter is and what he's done and what he plans to do, Stiles kind of only really sees death ahead if he tries to go back on his word.

And that would just be pathetic. Stiles is going to go out with a bang, damn it.

Although Peter killing him would be kind of hot, wouldn't it?

But no, he tells himself. That's just his sexual confusion talking. "I think I'm attracted to guys," Stiles whispers to Danny during lacrosse practice, because if he doesn't get this of his chest he might very well self-combust.

Danny glances at him. "Good for you, dude," he says, and Stiles scowls. Then Danny looks ahead and speeds up a little.

"No wait, let me freak out at you!" Stiles runs after him and does, in fact, have a small sexual freakout at Danny during the middle of lacrosse practice. This is his life now, he thinks. This is what he's been reduced to. Just coming out to random guys at school because who else is he gonna tell? Dad? Dad hasn't been home while Stiles' is around in days. Scott? Scott hasn't talked to him in like a week. Peter? Okay, yeah, that's a slightly attarctive thought, but let's be real, he's just gonna get laughed at.

"Chill, Stiles," Danny tells him after practice, when Stiles hasn't been able to look at any of the guys in the locker room because what if he's attracted to them? What if he's attracted to Greenburg?

Ew.

That would be the lowest of the low, he thinks. He would never recover. It would probably say Attracted to Greenburg on his tombstone.

Shuddering, he slams his hands onto his eyes and bemoans, "Life sucks."

Danny pats his shoulder, and then abandons him to his fate. Stiles watches him go for a moment, eyeing Danny's broad shoulders and his ass, but it doesn't do any more for him today than it did prior to his sexuality crisis. Danny's hot—Stiles has always known this. It's, like, objectively the truth. Jackson would be hot if he wasn't such a douche. Stiles shudder at the mere thought.

"Damn it," he says, hunching in on himself. Coach kicks him out of the locker room eventually, of course, but Stiles has a proper freakout in there for a while. But he comes out—hah, get it?—stronger than ever, nodding ot himself. Yeah, he thinks. He's Stiles Stilinski. He can do this.

He can totally be gay.

...Or bi or whatever, he hasn't really thought about it. But whatever it is, he can totally pull it off. No sweat. He's chill. Calm. Gracious. One might even call him graceful, as he walks down the empty halls.

Opening the door and stepping out into the cold air, Stiles flails and yelps, "Shit, dude!" Peter merely raises ne eyebrow, dressed in a V-neck shirt that should be illegal, holy shit. Stiles' heart does a weird thing in his chest and he presses a hand to it, trying to regain his balance with his bags swinging in the air and trying to drag him down. "What are you doing here?" he asks, peering up at him, and blinking rapidly to adjust his vision to the darkness outside.

"We should have a proper talk, don't you think? Stiles?" asks Peter, and okay yeah, sure. Yeah. That's great. Stiles can totally handle Peter saying his name. He's chill.

The chillest guy ever.

"Yeah, sure," Stiles says, and is proud of how even his voice is. "I'm going home though. Dinner, you know."

"I'd love to join you," Peter says, smirking. "Thank you for the invitation." And he does it so smoothly and so kind of charismatic assholely that Stiles doesn't even try to protest. Whatever. They do need to talk, anyway. Might as well do it on home turf, where Stiles should theoretically have some kind of advantage. And the crow will be there, he thinks, the crow settling on his head as he walks toward the car. Jackson has laughed his ass off at Stiles because of this, but screw him. Stiles thinks it's cute.

Peter gets into the car with him, and Stiles kind of just looks at him for a moment. "So..." Stiles doesn't have any idea what he meant to say, and snaps his mouth shut. Peter smirks again.

It's unfairly hot.

"Make yourself at home," Stiles tells Peter as he steps inside his house, tossing his keys aside and grimacing at the level of dust on everything. He's been neglecting everything in favor of research, and it's kind of sad, almost. And it makes him feel weird that Peter's seeing the evidence of it.

Shaking his head, clearing his throat, Stiles heads to the kitchen. "Want food?" he asks as he goes.

"Thank you, Stiles. I'd love some food," Peter says, and Stiles' stomach clenches. He clears his throat once more. Ducks his head to hide his blush and focuses on getting the leftovers out and ready, nearly wilting in the silence. "Do you know what the Nemeton is, Stiles?" asks Peter, looking over Stiles's shoulder while he's reheating some sauce on the stove, and Stiles shudders, hand clenching tight on the handle.

"No," he says, grimacing at the sound of his voice.

Humming, Peter breathes in and says, "Smells good," almost right into Stiles' ear. Stiles glares at him over his shoulder and Peter only smirks at him. "It's a magical tree," Peter says.

"Yeah, thanks, I got that." Stiles eats his food as quickly as he can, finding himself starving. Coach worked them hard at practice today, courtesy of Jackson and Scott constantly getting into petty arguments and trying to one-up each other, and Stiles feels it throughout his whole body. He groans, once he's swallowed the last bite, slumping back in his chair. It sways under his weight, and he slams his feet on the floor to keep it from tipping over.

"It's obviously formed some kind of bond with you, if it in can summon you in your sleep," says Peter, and then he looks at the crow. "And you must be magical, too, don't you?"

The crow doesn't dignify that with a response.

"Are you really willing to kill?" asks Peter, then, and Stiles look up from the crow. Peter's eyes are glowing bright, and Stiles straightens. He nods. Peter studies him harshly, deeply, pulling out the depths of him whether Stiles wants it or not. "Are you sure, Stiles? It's not an easy decision, and I understand if—"

"What would you do, if I said no?" Stiles is, perhaps, morbidly curious to know.

Blinking, Peter leans back in his chair. "Nothing nefarious, I assure you."

"Somehow I don't think I should take your word for it," says Stiles, tilting his head and shrugging.

"I haven't lied to you, Stiles," Peter says. He smiles, and Stiles's heart hurts. Peter's been in a coma for years, Stiles thinks. He must have stewed about the Argent's ever since he woke up. And now the Argent's are here, back in Beacon Hills again. No wonder Peter overreacted and killed Laura.

Which, like, it was obviously Peter.

Stiles brushes a hand over his head, slumping in his seat. "Yeah, okay, dude." He can't quite look Peter straight in the eyes, but there's no evidence he's lied so far, is there? Stiles just really needs to keep his head clear here. Just because he's having an awakening doesn't mean it's okay for him to kill people just because a hot guy asked him to. And Peter didn't even ask, did he? No, that was all Stiles.

Damn it.

"What are you going to do?"

Peter only smirks.

The bookshop is right where he left it, and Stiles exhales in relief having been irrationally scared that he dreamt it up somehow. Glancing around, he tilts his head and says "Come on," to Peter, who stalks behind him with hands in pockets, way too much skin on display. It's almost midday and Stiles is starting to get hungry after the long car ride, but he doesn't want to delay this for a moment. He's gone through the books he bought last time and he has so many questions. He needs to get so many more books.

And thanks to hustling, he's got more money. He had to sell some homework services to Greenburg of all people, but worth it.

Totally worth it, Stiles thinks as he walks inside the shop.

It's the same smell, even. He inhales it deep into his lungs and just stands in the entrance for a moment, savoring this momentous occasion. Here he goes, he thinks. Books. He's going to get so many books, and then he'll do so much research.

It'll be awesome.

"Are you having a heart attack?" asks Peter, and Stiles elbows him. Peter even allows it to connect, and Stiles tries not to think about what that might mean. Peter, it turns out, is really good at research. And he's really good at bullying Stiles into going asleep when he's so tired he's dizzy and cross-eyed. And he always has breakfast ready when Stiles wakes up at the Nemeton again.

Which keeps happening, by the way. Stiles had kind of hoped it'd stop, now that he and Peter have a deal and are working together. But evidently that was just a side-effect of what the Nemeton is trying to do to him, because he's still getting dragged out there every time he sleeps.

"I'll be back in an hour, don't kill anyone while I'm gone," Stiles distractedly says as he whooshes into the shop, mind spinning with possibilities. If only he was rich. He could buy everything in the whole shop, then.

The plan to kill the Argent's is coming along, and Stiles is feeling pretty good about it. He's not killing Allison, obviously, because she doesn't even know anything about hunters and werewolves and whatnot, and her dad requires a bit more research before Stiles makes a definite decision. But every other Argent-affilied hunter he's found? Yeah, they're going to be so dead. The most dead. Deader than dead.

Peter strolls through the shop, disturbing Stiles' concentration when he reaches for a book high above and the shirt rides up, displaying the bottom of his stomach. Inhaling deeply, Stiles coughs violently when it goes down the wrong pipe.

"Are you alright, Stiles?" Peter asks, smooth as sin, and Stiles nods even while his face burns.

"Fine, fine, I'm fine," he says. "You can go do your own thing, Peter." And then he shoos Peter off and turns away, because otherwise he might really do something stupid. Like try to make out with a murder werewolf on the prowl for revenge.

Everything is fine. He's fine. It's all fine. He's got a handle on it.

It's fine.

He can hear Peter's voice but not see him, and so Stiles follows it through the many, many bookshelves, a pile of heavy books nestled in his feeble human arms. If he lets go with one of them the whole pile drop at his feet, and he needs a surface to rest them on before his toes are annihilated. His shoes aren't made for this kind of dangerous environment.

The same woman is behind the counter, talking quietly with Peter. Tilting his head, Stiles spends a few minutes just looking at them, blatantly eavesdropping—he's sure Peter knows he's behind the bookshelf, hut he hasn't said anything yet. so Stiles takes it as tacit permission to continue. He does his best to memorize everything they're syaing.

He's not so surprised to find out that this is actually a magical bookshop.

Peter glances at him and Stiles steps out from behind his cover. Neither of them seem surprised. "Hey, do you still accept trades?" Stiles asks, thinking of his poor, poor budget. The woman hums an agreement, so Stiles puts the books on the counter, says, "I'm not finished yet but just for these, do you think... box of sketching pens would suffice?"

He came prepared.

She looks at the box. Opens it. Smells it. Says, "Sure."

Pumping his fist, Stiles says, "I'll be right back," and vanishes back amongst the shelves. Peter's voice is soft when Stiles listens for it, and Stiles takes comfort in it. The plan to kill the Argent's is solid, and Peter hasn't killed anyone else in a while, and Stiles has magic. And a magic bond to a magic tree. And a magic crow. And a werewolf that lets him pet him. Grinning, he ducks his head and crouches down to look at the books on the bottom shelf.

Yeah, he thinks.

This is pretty good, actually.

Notes:

sorry derek, there just wasn't enough time to Solve Everything™. you'll be remembred fondly.

Comment on AO3 or via email.

#Fandom: Teen Wolf #Post Type: Fic #Rating: Teen #Status: Complete #Tag: AU #WC: 10000-20000