[Fic] on the horizon, waiting (Teen Wolf)
- Fandom: Teen Wolf
- Pairing: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
- Tags: Hurt/Comfort
- Word-Count: 897
- Status: Complete
- First Published: 2024-12-05
- Disclaimer: I do not own Teen Wolf and make no profit from this—it is solely a hobby for fun, with no financial compensation.
Summary:
But it was Peter that said, "You look like you could use a ride," and Stiles, aching down to his marrow and limbs trembling, every step far too shaky, had only blinked at him and nodded, betrayal and pain and confusion swimming inside him.
Notes:
written for whumpcember 2024 - Day 5: Alt. 6: “Could You Stay A Little Longer?”
Work Text:
"Could you stay a little longer?" asks Stiles, and Peter stills in the doorway, hand on the frame. Wheezing from the pain that still digs into his bones, Stiles blinks his eyes rapidly to clear his vision, squinting into the dark bedroom. The panic from earlier in the evening is still loud in his brain, and his breathing still unsteady, his hands gripping the quilt tightly as he huddles under it on the bed. "Please," he asks, brows furrowed as he stares at Peter's back. "Just a while," he adds, and his voice is weak, hoarse from the screaming and body still bruised to hell and back.
He's lucky, he knows. Lucky he got away without any broken bones. Doesn't want to think of how he'd explain that. But also---unlucky, he thinks.
If he had broken bones, he wouldn't have to explain anything at all. It'd be plain as day, and it wouldn't only be Peter Hale that had looked at him and realized he was hurt, it wouldn't have been left to only Peter Hale to drag Stiles's sorry ass home; somebody else would have noticed.
He hopes.
But it was Peter that said, "You look like you could use a ride," and Stiles, aching down to his marrow and limbs trembling, every step far too shaky, had only blinked at him and nodded, betrayal and pain and confusion swimming inside him.
Scott let Gerard go.
...Scott didn't even ask if Stiles was okay.
......Did he even notice Stiles was gone?
And now Peter turns back to face Stiles, in Stiles' bedroom, in Stiles' house, and Stiles simply watches him. "I'll stay," he says, and leans against the doorframe. "If you really want me to." Stiles's eyes gave grown used to the darkness, and he can make out Peter's expression to know that Peter's serious. Smiling, Stiles looks at the cceiling instead, because he can't think of something to say to that. He doesn't want to think about this evening, and he doean't to think about the fact that only Peter figured it out, that only Peter cared.
His dad wasn't home, when they got back.
But no, Stiles isn't going to think about that, either. He huffs, a burst of pain echoing in his skull at the movement, and winces, shutting his eyes. "Yeah," he says at last, "I do."
"Then I'll stay," Peter says, and the worst part is that it doesn't even sound harsh. He's stilent and gentle as he shuts Stiles' bedroom door, and then Stiles can't hear any of footsteps anymore. For a moment, panic simmers in his gut and his eyes wrnech oepn, and he stares wide-eyed at the room. Peter, leaning against the wall by the door, only raises an eyebrow, motion barely visible in the dark, no moonlight to be seen. "Go to sleep," Peter says.
And so Stiles does.
In the morning, he wakes to sunlight streaming in through the window, his bed warm where he lies and ice-cold when he wedges an arm out of the cocoon of blankets and quilts piled on top of him. He blinks, gaze blurry before it settles into normalcy, and his head is still pounding. Groaning, Stiles burrows his head into the pillow. "Here," Peter says, and sits down on the edge of the bed, holding out a glass of water and a couple of pills in his other hand. Ibuprofen, Stiles thinks, blinking for an entirely different reason.
"Not a dream?" he murmurs, shoving himself up onto his hands and swaying as his vision whites out and his jaw clenches tight.
"I'm afraid not," says Peter, and helps Stiles drink after he's popped the pills in his mouth. Then, Stiles keeps sitting there, body heavy with pain and realizations, and the dreaded, awful fear that Gerard is still out there because Scott let him go.
Peter brushes his hand over Stiles' forehead, and Stiles freezes, breath hitching in his dry throat. "Not a fever, I don't think," Peter declares softly, and leeches the pain away just long enough for Stiles' jaw to relax before Peter draws back.
The pain sinks back into his bones, and Stiles whimpers. "I'll stay as long you want," Peter says, and helps Stiles drink some more because his hands are shaking too much to hold the glass. Stiles doesn't say anything, but he gets his hands into Peter's shirt, wrinkles it beyond redemption and holds on, and he thinks, and thinks, and thinks.
...He doesn't want to live in a world with Gerard in it. Doesn't want to feel like that, be used like that, discarded and ignored like that, ever again. He doesn't want to have the knowledge that Gerard is free---because Scott let him go---in the back of his mind everywhere he goes, during everything he does.
He doesn't, and he isn't, he decides, in his room with only Peter for company, letting him hold on. "I want..." Stiles whispers, and doesn't say the rest. He knows what he wants. He knows how to make it happen.
He isn't going through that again. Not ever.
Peter doesn't say anything. Let's Stiles hold onto him, takes his pain when the painkillers lose there potency again, and helps Stiles to the bathroom when he needs to go and his legs buckle underneath him.
Through all that and more, Peter Hale stays.
Series this work belongs to:
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