Chapter Text
Peter is done with Stiles. And Derek. And Saint Scott for that matter. Really all of them, the whole pack has been party to this atrocity. Who in their right mind would think it was a good idea to leave Stiles and Peter together at the loft? Didn’t they know Peter was a murderer several times over? Most of them had even seen him kill firsthand. Surely it isn’t so easy to forget the way his claws had slit Kate Argent’s throat… and yet, here they are, alone again, glaring at each other.
“Will you stop pacing for one second?” Peter asks, peering at Stiles out of the corner of his eye while reclined across Derek’s couch. “You’re starting to smell.” His nose twitches a fraction of an inch as he tries to place the scent. It’s not the normal teenage boy smell, that rank combination of sweat and dried come. It’s something odd that’s been slowly creeping up on the boy over the last few weeks. Peter hasn’t been able to name it yet, but it’s begun to rankle him. He knows it’s something familiar, but for the life of him, he can’t remember what.
“I am not,” Stiles snaps from across the room where he’s been pacing for the better part of the last hour. Peter doesn’t miss the slight tilt to his head and inhale of breath while he checks his armpit.
“You have been smelling for weeks actually, but that’s neither here nor there. What’s bothering me more is the constant movement and the heartbeat,” Peter says, closing his eyes once more to show how bored with the conversation he already is. “It’s like a rabbit, and I’m used to eating rabbits, not babysitting them.”
“You are not babysitting me! I’m babysitting you!” Stiles exclaims, arms flailing a bit as he spins on his heels to face Peter. “Someone has to make sure you’re not out terrorizing the good people of Beacon Hills!”
“Isn’t that your father’s job?” Peter says mildly, tapping his pointer fingers against his breastbone where his hands are clasped over his chest. “Protecting the good people from ‘terror,’ as you so delightfully called me.”
“He’s in charge of the natural terror, not the supernatural terror,” Stiles clarifies, narrowing his eyes in frustration. “You’re not going anywhere near him.”
“And who would stop me? You?” Peter asks, lunging upward off the couch in a move that probably requires more abdominal strength than Stiles will ever have. “You’re an infant.”
“I’m 18! I’m a fucking legal adult,” Stiles says, eyes widening slightly when Peter puts a foot up on the coffee table and leaps over it, crowding into his space.
Peter’s nostrils flare and a disgusted sneer passes across his face. He can see how Stiles stands a little taller, squares his shoulders like he’s readying himself for a fight. Peter can’t help but chuckle at the boy’s poor excuse for intimidation. “You’re a child, and I’m your keeper. This is a punishment, not a playdate.”
“Well I didn’t see any Legos when I walked in, so yeah, I wouldn’t call this a playdate,” Stiles says, stepping forward until he’s almost flush against Peter’s chest. “And I’m pretty sure I’m the one being punished here, not you.”
The boy meets his eyes, so Peter has to mentally acknowledge the courage. Or is it stupidity? It’s so difficult to tell with teenagers. Grudgingly, Peter inhales and realizes that there isn’t a hint of fear on Stiles’ scent, just that same dank, dirty smell that’s been growing stronger by the day. “It’s punishment enough being in your presence when you smell like that. Why don’t you run home and take a shower? I’ll wait.”
“Why don’t you make me?” Stiles challenges, raising his chin ever so slightly until the difference in their heights becomes apparent. He smirks slightly, eyes flickering with growing amusement.
Peter is not amused. It’s bad enough that he’s the old man in this pack, but now he’s also the short one? Who knew Stiles was going to have a growth spurt in his senior year and shoot up an extra three inches. At least he can still tower over McCall. Thank God for small mercies.
Having lost himself in thought for a moment, Peter finds that he hasn’t replied to Stiles’ taunt. It’s beneath him, but something about the freckled idiot makes Peter want to push back and assert dominance. He’s not going to let himself be bossed around by someone who can’t even rent himself a car when his piece of crap Jeep breaks down.
Rolling his neck on his shoulders—a move Derek thinks he’s invented but is actually something he picked up from his dear old uncle—Peter flashes his eyes and growls, low and loud into Stiles’ face. He can see the moment Stiles’ chest starts to rattle with it, that unpleasant churning you feel in your gut when the bass is cranked way too high on someone’s stereo. Peter is more than familiar with it, having spent most of his youth as the troublemaker of his family who usually faced the fiercest parental punishments. Annoyingly enough, Stiles doesn’t blink. Sure, Peter can see that the human is affected, but not enough to make him back down. Peter inhales deeply, ready to roar right in Stiles’ ear if necessary when he freezes.
It’s so obvious to him now, what the scent is. He completely ignores Stiles’ affronted retort, “That all you got, Zombie Wolf?” in favor of inhaling again, double checking.
Stiles smells like death. Not the charred flesh smell that he associates with his family and his own death by Derek’s inexperienced hand—because let’s face it, it was Stiles’ throw and Argent’s bullet that resulted in the fire that really brought him down—no it’s something different. This is the scent that followed him into the ground, the one that he reeked of when Lydia brought him back. This is the smell of decomposition.
“You’re dying,” Peter says, apropos of nothing as far as Stiles is concerned. He can see the boy’s eyes widen in disbelief, then narrow with skepticism.
“I’m not dying,” Stiles protests easily, scratching at his lower back with one hand. “I feel fine.”
“Do you though?” Peter asks, not out of concern so much as morbid curiosity. “Because you smell like your flesh is rotting as we stand here.”
“That’s not possible,” Stiles argues, mouth twisting into a crude approximation of exasperation. “My flesh is just fine, thanks for asking.”
Peter opens his mouth to explain, because even Stiles can’t argue that he has experience with this sort of thing,—seeing as he had been driving around his dead nurse’s corpse when they first met—but he’s interrupted by his phone ringing.
“What can I do for you, Alpha mine?” Peter answers, rolling his eyes in Stiles’ direction. It’s been clear to him for some time that Derek feels threatened by his presence in the pack, so he takes great joy in rebuffing his nephew’s authority whenever possible.
If he’s going to be made to keep company with teenagers, he’s sure as hell going to act like one himself. Let Derek learn how to wrangle the messy angst on his own; Peter will enjoy fueling the fire until such time as his nephew comes crawling, begging for his guidance. He knows it’s going to take something big for Derek to swallow his pride like that, but Peter’s a patient man. He’s willing to play the long game if he has to.
“What’s going on?” Stiles asks immediately, forever lamenting the fact that he can’t hear the other end of phone calls the way most of his peers can. “Is anyone hurt?”
Peter stops just short of rolling his eyes again. It’s unbecoming of someone his age, but sometimes it just can’t be helped. It’s not his fault everyone he speaks to requires hourly sarcasm spankings.
“Put it on speakerphone!” Stiles demands in an angry hiss. It makes Peter want to strangle him. All that blind loyalty and compassion is disgusting. Desperate to get Stiles’ overpowering scent out of his personal space, Peter acquiesces.
“Any idea what would cause a wendigo to do a… I don’t know… dance? A ritualistic dance? Lydia thinks it looks purposeful, like it’s got some sort of intention.”
“Maybe it’s trying to bring in a bountiful harvest of flesh to eat, “ Peter suggests, sounding bored with the proceedings.
“Not this time of year,” Stiles counters, face set in stern concentration as he runs to Peter’s laptop and starts typing.
“It could be a mating dance,” Peter muses, wanting nothing more than to fuck with Derek at that very moment. “Have you tried joining in? It might need a group to get the thing going, you know, like the electric slide. You can’t have a good electric slide with just one wendigo.”
Derek ponders that for a minute as Stiles snorts, clearly aware of the fact that Peter is just fucking around. Stiles is determined to find the answer though, clacking away steadily on Peter’s MacBook.
“Easy with the computer, it’s not childproof,” Peter scolds, not entirely convinced that his touchpad is going to come out of this encounter in one piece.
“Got it,” Stiles crows triumphantly. “It’s for the weather!”
“What?” Derek’s voice calls through the phone. “What about the weather?”
“Well, wendigos like it cold and we’re having a heat wave so…” he trails off when he catches the blank look on Peter’s face. “What? It’s obvious!”
“The wind is getting chilly,” Derek adds while others mutter softly in the background.
“If it doesn’t start magically snowing soon, just go up in the mountains where it’s chilly and wait for it to show up. It’s not rocket science, Derek.”
Peter is begrudgingly impressed. It almost makes him mad that Stiles was the one to find the answer, not that Peter had been offering serious suggestions. Something in him wishes that he had now, so he could have had the satisfaction of beating the boy in a race of wits. However, seeing as Stiles is being marginalized the same as Peter is, he decides to turn that frustration toward Derek.
“Fine, we’ll handle it,” Derek says gruffly.
“You’re very welcome, nephew,” he says brusque and businesslike into the phone. “I think Stiles and I are going to take a break from being your technical support next time around though. Clearly, we aren’t being properly appreciated,” he adds, catching Stiles’ eye. “So we’re done being your B-team. If you find yourself in a pickle, call your other werewolf uncle. The boy genius and I are calling it a night.”
Peter wishes he still had a flip phone. Hanging up on someone isn’t nearly as satisfying without the snapping noise.
“You think I’m a genius?” Stiles asks, smirking slyly. Peter isn’t falling for it though; he can see the hint of genuine pleasure and validation behind the boy’s ridiculously full eyelashes. It’s sad really, how little it takes to get that reaction, as if Peter is the only one to have praised him in years. The kid must be starving for it.
“I think you should know your worth,” Peter says quickly, not willing to confirm his previous statement. “You may be human, but you’re not without your strengths. Don’t let useless wolves walk all over you. They could stand to be put in their place occasionally. It will probably save their lives at some point. Young wolves are notoriously reckless.”
Stiles stares at him for a second, and Peter realizes he’s probably said too much, been too complimentary, perhaps even shown that he cares in some capacity. But what’s done is done and he doesn’t need to take back a semantically true statement. Instead, he adds, “Only an idiot does the grunt work when they could be running the operation. And you are many infuriating things, but you’re not an idiot.”
Stiles looks at him with an expression Peter honestly can’t place; but there’s no way in hell he’s going to ask what the boy is thinking. He’s done more than enough counseling work tonight. Their phones chime simultaneously with a text in the pack group chat signaling the all clear. “The threat has been neutralized. You’re free to go,” Peter says, gesturing toward the door.
Nodding curtly with something of a military air, Stiles takes his leave. Peter inhales and notices that the scent of death is lingering. It’s baffling to him that none of the other wolves have noticed anything yet. It’s still unclear to Peter what’s wrong with the pack human, but as long as the smell dissipates from his clothes by the time he gets back to his apartment, he supposes he doesn’t care.
Stiles takes the long way home with his windows cranked down. He can’t be completely certain that Peter is telling the truth about his scent, but just in case he is, Stiles wants to air out his car and his flannel shirt before he gets home.
For the first time in recent memory, his dad is home before midnight. He’s lounging lengthways across the couch, propped up on one arm with a beer in his hand and a baseball game on low. It’s a small comfort that it’s a Coors Light and not bourbon, so Stiles decides to forego the typical lecture. If truth be told, he’s just too tired to bother. He didn’t feel it until now, too wound up with anxiety and the thrill of the chase to realize that fatigue had set in hard.
“Hey kid,” the sheriff says, “you have a good time with Scott?”
Stiles smiles wanly, wishing he could name the last time he had actually been hanging out with his best friend when he’d said so. More often than not it was him and Peter, at each other’s throats while the rest of the pack was out saving the day. Regardless, it’s obvious that his dad doesn’t really believe that’s where he’s been either. The question is just a habit at this point. Checking in with each other is a pointless obligation, an opportunity to lie to each other.
“Yeah, played some Xbox,” he says easily, far too easily.
“You eat dinner?” the sheriff asks, eyes flicking away from the screen for a minute to look at his son. “Are you feeling alright?” he asks, sitting up straight and giving Stiles a look of concern. “You’re white as a sheet.”
“I’m fine, Dad,” Stiles replies, rolling his shoulders like his skin is suddenly on too tight. “Just a little tired. Stayed up too late last night.”
“Just because it’s summer doesn’t mean you don’t need to sleep. You’ve been looking gray for the last week. Maybe you should stay in tomorrow night and get some shut-eye, okay?” he says. It’s an order more than a suggestion, even if that’s not the way it was worded. After ten years of living alone with his father, he’s learned to tell the difference.
“Yeah, okay,” Stiles says with a huff and a scratch to the back of his neck.
“Stanford is going to kick your ass in a few months if you sleep through all of your classes.”
“Yeah, I know Dad. I’ll be fine, just fell into a Wikipedia spiral about coniferous trees,” Stiles says rubbing at his arms over his flannel. “You know me.”
“I think maybe you should go get checked out at the doctor this week,” John says, tilting his head to the side as if he’s going to be able to diagnose his son better from a different angle. “You might have mono or something. Have you had a fever?”
“No fever,” Stiles tells him quickly, not wanting his father to worry unnecessarily. “It’s not mono.” Just the stench of death, he adds mentally. “Maybe just another growth spurt or something. My back is sore and I’m tired, that’s all.”
“I can’t believe you’re this tall already,” John huffs, shaking his head and then taking a large gulp of beer.
“Your mom’s dad was 6’6” though, so maybe it’s just a Mieczyslaw thing.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Stiles agrees with a small smile, eyeing the three empty cans on the coffee table. If his mom comes up in conversation, it’s usually a good sign that his dad is well on his way to intoxicated.
“I’m going to get to bed.”
“Okay kid,” John says, getting up from the couch to give Stiles a hug. Stiles winces slightly at the pressure against his back, and his dad is frowning when they pull apart. “I’m making you an appointment with the doctor. I’ll text you with the time, okay? Humor your father?”
“Fine, I’ll go,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes with a certain sort of fondness. “You get some sleep too, okay? You have a double shift tomorrow, right?”
“Yeah, and I picked up one for Davies after that,” John adds, rubbing at his forehead as he flops back on the couch. “He has to go back home to Memphis for a funeral.”
“Get some sleep then,” Stiles says, collecting the empty cans without looking at his father. He knows the gesture alone is enough to make his father second guess getting up for another round. Watching you kid literally pick up your mess can be a powerful buzzkill, and Stiles isn’t above doing it when he thinks it’s necessary. “I’ll stay at the McCalls’ until you’re home again,” he adds, figuring it’s easier to lie in advance these days.
“Love you, son,” John says, eyes crinkling around the edges. Stiles smiles back, but it feels a little hollow. The wrinkles on his father’s face are deeper than they used to be, and he can’t help but think about how much longer he can keep up this level of work before his body gives out on him.
“Love you too, Dad,” he says and trudges up the stairs. He’s moving slow, he knows it, but there’s something about hearing someone tell you that you smell like rotting flesh that really brings your mood down.
With much effort, Stiles makes it to his room and starts to strip for bed. He unbuttons his flannel and pulls it off, grimacing when he looks down at his forearm. The skin is so dry it looks like it’s peeling back at the edges. He had noticed his skin was unusually dry a few days ago, but he just made a mental note to replenish his jerkoff lotion supply and let it slip his mind. He hadn’t expected it to get this bad this quickly. Pulling at the neck of his tee shirt, Stiles groans when he pulls it over his head. The scrape of the fabric feels like sandpaper against the skin on his back, and he heads to the bathroom to check the mirror.
The entirety of his back is red and itching. It feels hot to the touch when he reaches over his shoulder to test it. What is that? An infection? Maybe Peter hadn’t been too far off. How many steps was it from itchy skin to death? Six? Seven? Surely he had some time here. You didn’t die from dry skin. Even so, he couldn’t stop his thoughts from flicking to his mother every few seconds. But she had gotten sick slowly, so slowly it had been torture for all of them. It hadn’t crept up on her without any of them noticing anything. He isn’t sick. He doesn’t have frontotemporal dementia. Cancer doesn’t start with dry skin either. Unless it’s skin cancer. Maybe it’s skin cancer.
He turns around to get a look at the whites of his eyes, they’re the same shade of white as always, so no liver failure. He checks his testicles regularly, so there’s no worry there. Letting out a heavy breath, Stiles takes a better look at himself. He’s pale. Too pale. Even his moles look a few shades whiter than usual.
Suddenly, he’s exhausted. He tells himself that he’ll just take the doctor’s appointment his dad makes him. There’s nothing more that he can do tonight. No matter what it is, Stiles is going to need to be well rested to fight it off. It’s just worrisome that this time he’ll be fighting an enemy he can’t see. What good are claws and baseball bats against cancer? No good at all, he thinks as he collapses into his bed and falls promptly to sleep.
Another day, another demon. Peter is used to it. After all, he grew up in Beacon Hills. The supernatural activity level has always been high, but he’s pretty sure two demons in one week is a bit more than usual. He hates that the frequency is becoming worrisome to him. Maybe he should be tracking the number of the attacks and their type. But that would be too much effort, and it’s likely that Stiles already has it covered. The kid probably has scatter charts and trends plotted.
“That’s what, four incidents this month?” Peter asks with as casual an air as possible. He doesn’t care, not really. It’s only morbid curiosity at this point. That and he supposes the more frequently the pack is out fighting evil, the more frequently he is going to be subjected to Stiles’ death stench.
“Five,” Stiles answers easily, tapping away on Peter’s laptop again. “You’re forgetting the nymph. That was on the first.”
“Of course,” Peter replies, mouth twitching with amusement at Stiles’ quick answer. “What do you have over there? A scatter plot? Also, why aren’t you using your laptop?”
“Mine is heavy and everything’s backed up in the cloud anyway, so it’s just as easy to do here,” Stiles says as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
“Of course,” Peter is smiling a bit more now, though he’s not sure why.
“And it’s a Gantt chart actually… and a color-coded map of town. Each color is a different species and the symbols indicate the time of day and who was injured, if anyone. There’s a key in a separate document.”
“Clever,” Peter says, and it’s true. The method is a little unorthodox, but it covers all the necessary data.
“I know,” Stiles says, raising his eyebrows dramatically.
“Don’t look so pleased with yourself,” Peter snaps, but there’s no heat behind it. “You still smell.”
Peter expects Stiles to protest, but he doesn’t. It’s more upsetting than Peter would like to admit, the way Stiles’ face falls at his words.
“You told me to know my worth,” Stiles says after a long moment, “and I’m trying. That’s all.”
“Good,” Peter says simply, feeling uneasy when the room falls quiet again. Why is he doing this? Why does he even care? It’s just that the air feels stagnant, the putrid scent growing by the minute, and Peter feels like he needs to do something more than just stew in it.
Every time Stiles fidgets or scratches at his back, the scent wafts toward him, dank and rancid. Peter almost wants to ask if Stiles is feeling alright, but that seems wrong, like it’s crossing some line that he’s drawn between himself and the rest of the pack. He doesn’t care what happens to the idiot teenagers; he’s only in the pack to contradict Derek and bear witness as the world comes crashing down every time his nephew makes a poor decision. It’s morbid curiosity more than anything. Peter knows that he will be the Alpha of Beacon Hills eventually, he’s just waiting for his moment. There’s no better place to strike from than the middle.
Peter is almost relieved when his phone rings, even though he knows it’s Derek asking for advice again.
“Just answer it,” Stiles snaps, apparently more on edge than Peter had realized. “You know he’s just going to keep calling. He’ll probably get someone killed without us.”
“And that’s my problem because?” Peter asks, cocking his head to the side.
“Just answer the damn phone, you psychopath!” Stiles shouts, lunging forward, pulling it out of Peter’s hand before he has the chance to tighten his grip. “Hello?” Stiles calls out, a little desperate. “Derek?”
Peter lets out a heavy, exasperated breath and flops down on the sofa. He does his best to tune out Derek’s gruff voice, demanding information from the one useful kid in his pack, who he benched like a fucking moron.
As loath as he is to admit it, it couldn’t be more clear that Stiles is the pack’s best asset. The puppies only know how to posture and growl, just enough to get themselves killed by a damn pixie because they don’t know their history. Talia would never have stood for this kind of ignorance in her pack. Peter wonders if telling Derek that would make any difference. He decides that he doesn’t care. He'll just let the pups fall one by one until it’s just him left.
By the time Stiles hangs up the phone, Peter has already talked himself back into apathy. “You are the biggest dick I have ever met,” Stiles says heavily, wincing as he rolls his shoulders.
“You bet I am, Princess,” Peter says, turning to the side so he can prop his head up on his elbow and look at Stiles.
“Don’t fucking flatter yourself,” Stiles snaps, puffing out his cheeks in frustration. “I’ve seen better bulges on teenagers in the locker room. You’re nothing special.”
“Oh?” Peter asks with a smirk. “And who is the biggest dick you’ve ever met, Stiles? Don’t tell me it’s the Whittemore kid. That attitude is obviously compensating for something.”
“Ugh,” Stiles groans almost painfully, rubbing at his arms under his flannel again. “The dirty uncle trope is such a fucking cliché. Don’t you ever get tired of grossing out teenagers?”
“Nope,” Peter says, popping the p in a crude imitation of Stiles’ usual speech. “It passes the time. And there’s nothing good on TV, so…”
“You’re insufferable,” Stiles says, hanging his head and flinching again at the pull on his skin.
“You’re kidding, right? I’m insufferable? You’re insufferable!” Peter knows this argument has fallen into something you would hear on an elementary school playground, but he can’t bring himself to stop. It’s like Stiles is dragging the childish words out of him by the hair, kicking and screaming. “If I didn’t think Derek would skin me alive and run me out of town, I would kill you where you stand. This is my fucking town and I’m not going to leave it because my baby nephew thinks he owns the place.”
He hops off the couch, ramping up for a speech that just bubbles out of him unbidden. “You are the most annoying child on the planet and the fact that I’m not allowed to kill you, that I’m actually supposed to be protecting you from nonexistent supernatural intruders, is complete garbage. It’s a fucking injustice. Nothing is coming for us because the pack has no use for us. We are nothing to them and even the fucking demons of Beacon Hills know it.”
Stiles looks like he’s going to protest, so Peter presses on, stepping forward until he can practically smell Stiles’ breath.
“Derek is torturing me. Spending time with you is payback for my past transgressions, and maybe you think I deserve it, but I’m not going to sit here and help my useless nephew and your revoltingly immature friends and pretend that I care. They left you here with me, Stiles. They left you in the care of a deranged murderer with razor sharp claws, and you’re still jumping at the chance to help them? It’s time you wised up and let them fend for themselves. You mean nothing to them. Nothing. They left you for dead the moment they walked out that door,” he finishes, pointing at the exit.
Stiles’ mouth is open, but nothing is coming out. He closes his lips lamely, and Peter can hear the way they press together, the way Stiles swallows around a lump in his throat. Peter rolls his eyes. Of course, Stiles is going to cry. These kids are too fucking soft. If a few truths from Peter are going to make Stiles have a fucking breakdown, there’s no hope for the rest of them. It looks like the kid is about to vomit, all pale and shaking.
Unsurprisingly, Stiles runs from the room taking the spiral steps two at a time until he reaches the bathroom and slams the door. Peter sighs and flops back down on the sofa. Dealing with teenagers is exhausting. It’s not his fault Stiles hasn’t been hardened by now. These kids haven’t been forged in fire like Peter, haven’t lost everything and drowned themselves in guilt like Derek. They need to learn now, or the world is going to chew them up and spit them out, demons or no.
“Make sure you take a shower while you’re in there,” Peter calls upstairs, not sure why he needs to pile on when the kid clearly went to the bathroom to hide his tears if the sniffling is anything to go by. “You still smell like you’re dying!”
He can hear Stiles rustling around in the bathroom and turning on the taps. Peter chuckles out a laugh, wondering whether Stiles is actually following his advice and drowning his sorrows in a bath. There is the sound of fabric rubbing together, clothing moving over skin, and Peter assumes Stiles is undressing and finding a towel. It’s not until the metallic scent of fresh blood hits his nose—much stronger than the death stench that’s lingering all over the loft—that Peter startles upright. Surely Stiles isn’t hurting himself. Peter knows he was being a bit harsh, but it probably wasn’t anything the kid hadn’t already thought himself, right?
As the scent of blood grows sharper, Peter finds himself doubting that assertion. He readies himself to rush up the stairs and then hesitates. Stiles probably just slipped in the tub. If he runs into the bathroom to find a naked teenager, he’s never going to live it down. But then Peter’s thoughts go back to Derek. If Stiles gets hurt on his watch, there’s going to be a tribunal, Derek, Scott, and Allison, all calling for his head, not to mention the sheriff and Chris Argent. That’s something that he could live without. He’s still weighing his options when a crack like a gunshot sounds from overhead.
Beyond curious and more than a little concerned, Peter darts up the stairs at full speed, skidding to a halt outside the bathroom door. He pounds on the metal with his fist, trying to school his voice into something that could pass for nonchalance. “Stiles? Are you alright in there?”
Peter doesn’t smell gunpowder. He would have noticed if Stiles had come into the loft with a weapon, but still, the ominous cracking sounds again and something in Peter’s chest clenches. It’s sharp and painful, and he doesn’t understand why he’s so affected, but something is pulling him there. His palm is flat against the door before he even realizes he’s moved, desperate to fall through to the other side.
“Stiles?”
When there’s no answer again, just the torn, choked sound of sobbing, Peter backs up to the railing of the upper landing and calls back, “I’m coming in. Back away from the door if you can.” Without further pleasantries, Peter crashes into the door with his shoulder, the rusty industrial lock breaking off with a clang. His outstretched hand catches the rebounding door before it can smack him in the face and Peter stares, dumbfounded.
It takes him a few seconds to even register what he’s looking at. Stiles is there, obviously, but at the same time, he’s not. There is something completely different curled in on itself on the bathroom floor, streaks of blood and shreds of clothes surrounding it in a circle. There are feathers seemingly falling from the sky, fluttering slowly through the air, catching Peter’s attention when they pass by his face. Some are matted with blood, others are bent at odd angles or broken in half. The sharp edges of the stems looking as if they are in pain themselves, much like Stiles, whose back is ripped wide open, torn to make way for bone. The base of Stiles’ wings jutting out of jagged wounds.
Once that sinks in, the fact that there are gigantic, broken wings protruding from Stiles’ lithe frame, the constant scratching and scent of death finally make sense to Peter. Stiles’ wings must have been trying to break free for ages. They look like they’ve begun to atrophy, stuck inside for too long, rotting away. The sight is awesome in its brutality. Stiles could be a vengeful angel of death for all Peter knows. Dozens of theories run around Peter’s head before he comes to his senses and crouches down on the floor.
“Stiles?” Peter asks softly. Stiles flinches slightly when Peter holds out his hand but then exhales slowly, breath coming out in a whimper. “Let me?” he asks, still not able to see Stiles’ face. Even folded back, the wings are too large to maneuver around and Stiles is facing the corner of the room near the toilet. Peter silently gives thanks that the loft has high ceilings and the open space of an empty warehouse, because otherwise, he’s not sure Stiles’ wings would be able to stretch out. They look like they might spread to about 8 feet, though he can’t be sure yet.
Stiles nods, the slight movement of his chin giving Peter permission to press a hand to his lower back as softly as he can. Even still, Stiles hisses when Peter’s fingers press against his cracked skin. It takes all of Peter’s effort not to pull his hand back when the pain hits him. If he were standing he thinks he would have staggered under the weight of the sensation. It’s only trumped by the fire, something that had taken Peter 6 years to recover from.
He hopes it won’t take that long for Stiles’ pain to subside because he’s not sure the human could stand it. But then again, Stiles is stronger than they give him credit for. Even the bitten wolves forget what it’s like to feel pain that lingers, pain that there is no hope of escaping from. Just knowing that you will heal soon, that the pain will be fleeting, is enough to keep you going when you’re a wolf. Humans don’t have that luxury.
It’s ten minutes of Peter resisting the urge to vomit before Stiles pulls away from his hands, able to bear the pain enough to move. He turns gingerly until he’s facing Peter, mouth set in a tight line, eyes dark. Stiles looks fierce and grimly determined. He’s beautiful, so Peter tells him so. It doesn’t even occur to him to hold the words back. Stiles huffs out an exasperated noise, but it’s soft, little breath behind it.
“You get hard when you smell blood, don’t you?” Stiles jokes gruffly. “Fucking weirdo.”
Peter wants to protest but finds that he can’t, so he looks at the ground instead. He is somewhat aroused, but he’s fairly sure it’s due to Stiles’ general appearance and not the fact that he’s bleeding sluggishly from where his wings have broken free.
“That’s what I thought,” Stiles says lamely, eyes closing as his shoulders sag from the pain creeping back in.
Without analyzing himself too closely, Peter reaches out to cup Stiles’ cheek, veins running black when he begins to pull at his pain again. “You’re not beautiful because you’re covered in blood. You just… look like an angel. Divine.” He winces internally at his own words but lets them stand. It’s not as if they’re untrue.
Stiles looks at him then, eyes boring into him, confused by his touch. Peter meets his gaze, unashamed. How could he not look? There is something completely foreign to him in front of his face and he needs to know absolutely everything about it. He needs to know what Stiles knows.
“Did you know about this?” he asks first, though he can discern the answer from Stiles’ expression.
Stiles shakes his head, and the sensation is mesmerizing. The way he nudges his cheek into Peter’s palm with every pass sends a shock through him, sharper than the underlying pain he’s already taking. Why does it feel like this?
Peter needs more.
“Did something bite you? Curse you? A… creature?” Stiles shakes his head again and Peter’s eyes glisten when his whole arm jolts with pain. He doesn’t let go though, he presses in further, still soft, but steady, as gentle a pressure as he can manage. “Maybe you were born like this?” he says quietly, hoping he’s not going to upset Stiles any further. “Your wings… they look full grown but rough. Maybe they’ve been stuck since you were born.”
Stiles nods solemnly. Peter can feel him swallow through his palm. It feels weirdly intimate and suddenly Peter is horrified that he’s been so close. He tilts his head slightly in question and Stiles bites his lip in agreement, so Peter pulls his hand away and sits back on his heels, putting some distance between them.
“You need to help me,” Stiles says eventually. He’s still in too much pain to move off the floor, but he’s picked up a stray feather, twirling it between two fingers with a look of pure terror on his face. Peter nods immediately, eager and willing to be involved in whatever this is. He brings his eyes up to Peter, wild and desperate and says, “You need to help me figure this out. Hide me from my dad. He can’t know about this. Scott being a werewolf was one thing, but this… Me? His own kid being a… whatever I am?” He laughs darkly before continuing “ I don’t know how this happened or why but if I’m a fucking angel now, I want a refund. I don’t even believe in God. It’s like a fucking sick joke.”
Peter’s eyes flick between the feather spinning between Stiles’ fingers and the harsh angle of the bend of his wings above his shoulders. He doesn’t look like any picture of an angel Peter has ever seen. There should be an elegant swooping curve there, neat little rows of white or gold or silver, pointed tips flung far out from Stiles’ body and a halo above his head. If Stiles is an angel, the myths are all wrong. There is nothing delicate about this. It’s gruesome and awful and it makes Peter hurt just to look at, let alone pull pain from.
Peter takes a moment to gather his thoughts. Stiles has a secret, and Peter knows what it is. He’s privy to something confidential now, something Derek doesn’t know. Peter needs this secret for leverage. If he’s ever going to get a leg up on Derek he’s going to need an ally. Having Stiles on his side would be the best kind of leverage. With Stiles comes Scott, and getting Scott off his back would greatly increase Peter’s quality of life. If he never has to hear a lecture on why killing people is wrong again it would be too soon.
With Stiles also comes the sheriff, and really, Derek should have made his peace with the local leadership long ago. It’s the responsible thing to do if you’re going to be operating any kind of business in polite society. Talia had her hand in everything that went on in Beacon Hills; politics, finance, education, public works, you name it. Derek is operating in the shadows like a cockroach. He should know better. Stiles has been doing his best to keep the supernatural stuff off his father’s plate unless absolutely necessary, but it’s beyond time for that to stop. With the sheriff comes power, and Stiles is his ticket into the game.
“Yeah, come on,” Peter says, moving forward to help Stiles off the floor. “I’ll clean this up and take you to my place. We need to research.”
Stiles gives him a half-hearted smirk at the thought even as he stumbles into Peter’s arms.