It hurt. His whole fucking body hurt so fucking much Stiles actually wished for unconsciousness to escape the pain, even if that meant he'd be defenseless against Peter. It wasn't as if he had a chance against the man awake and healthy, to begin with.
Odd to think that the older Hale wasn't even the problem here, was in fact the least of his worries and more of a help, right now, considering he was dragging his sorry ass home to his father. At the thought of the Sheriff, Stiles tried to straighten himself, but it was difficult, hanging limply at Peter's side and with some cracked ribs to make breathing difficult as it was.
In the werewolf's defense, though, he had offered carrying him. However, Stiles' pride had of course refused.
Well, maybe not just his pride, but he didn't feel like analyzing his emotions behind that decision at the moment. No, he felt more like … - well, it felt as if the pain were abating.
Stiles blinked down to the hand slung around his back and resting on his hip. It had somehow sneaked beneath all the different layers he had worn to weaken some of the hits he knew he'd take.
Nevertheless, even at 2 am in the dark of the night he could make out the black veins leading from his companions fingertips up his forearm.
"I assume your Dad would not be very happy to see me after my nephew dragged you into the fight."
Despite his sluggish thinking process, Stiles noticed the insult and felt the need to defend the younger Hale and himself, "It wasn't Derek's fault. No one drags Stiles anywhere." He deliberately ignored the precarious position he was in.
Glancing down on his slack form, which he was by now carrying more than anything else, Peter raised an eyebrow, "Sure. So are you at least going to call me?"
"What? Why?" Stiles seriously began to consider the possibility of having a concussion, as well, because he had no idea when the concept of calling each other became relevant to their non-existing relationship. "You'll have finished your job the moment I close the door behind me. I really don't need no more worrying werewolves."
"I just want to make sure you're okay when I'm not there."
Stiles wasn't certain he was not just imagining it when the man's hand inched up his side after that comment, grip tightening somewhat.
It might not even mean anything, seeing as he was also stumbling more and more, now that the adrenaline had left him, on wobbly legs. Or seeing as he was shivering, instinctively turning to the nearest source of warmth which fortunately or unfortunately, depending on who you asked, was Peter.
"Okay, yeah. I mean maybe", he conceded, desperately and determinedly ignoring the fuzzy warm feeling of belonging that he blamed the werewolf for. It surely was connected to the relief the zombie-wolf gave him by easing his pain, nothing more and definitely not because of the rush of misplaced affection that made his knees buckle beneath him.
It happened just a few hours later that Stiles sat down with his phone pressed to his ear, indeed calling the older Hale and listening to the ringing for no more than two times before the man answered.
"So you decided to call." There was a beat, then, "Thank you."
"I'm just calling to let you know that I am still alive. And that I'm feeling better than before or at least better than when you didn't take the pain away." Stiles cleared his throat, "I mean, it's not like I missed you or something."
Peter sighed on his side of the line, "I didn't expect you to, Stiles. But I'm glad you called anyway."
