Well, show me the way to go home.
I'm tired and I wanna go to bed.
I had a little a drink about an hour ago,
And it went right to my head.
Wherever I may roam,
O'er land, o'er sea, o'er foam,
You can always hear me singing this song,
Show me the way to go home!
"Oh man!" Stiles gasped, wiping tears from his eyes with a chuckle. "That was so 'Jaws' it's sick!"
Jackson snorted into his beer, slopping it messily across the table as he snickered, and Pheelan tossed his head back with a raucous, booming laugh. All three of them had sat to four rounds of beer, thick and dark served in wide-mouth pint glasses, and they'd crunched two more of Stiles' blue candy poppers each since they'd gotten inside. Subsequently they were fairly well on their way to tanked, and while none of them was sure how the song had started up they'd harmonized incredibly well together, stamping their feet beneath the table and clinking their glasses together in toasts, all in time to the beat of the music.
As they finished up a few people at the tables around them cheered, saluting them with shots and wide grins but they ignored it all, entirely wrapped up together in their own little world, a bubble of three that knew each other almost as well as they knew themselves. For his part Stiles was feeling pretty damn good; fun, frisky, and smokin' hot. He and Jackson had changed into tight black t-shirts with deep v-necks before they'd left the house and he knew his hair was a dark, wind-swept mess because Pheelan had been dragging his fingers through it all night, infinitely more tactile as he became more and more intoxicated. Pleased with the attention, he dug the tin out of his jeans pocket and popped two more pieces of candy into his mouth before pushing it across to Jackson.
"One more," he mumbled around his mouthful.
Pheelan reached to take his own piece but Stiles slapped his hand away, crawling into his lap instead and pulling him down for a deep, fierce kiss. Somewhere behind him Jackson wolf-whistled and Stiles flipped him the bird over his shoulder, pressing in hard for more before he finally came up for air, leaning back to rest his ass on the edge of the table. Pheelan's chest was heaving under his hands, the wolf's pupils blown huge and dark as he crunched down on the candy Stiles had slipped onto his tongue with teeth gone sharp and feral.
"Feeling bad?" he grinned wickedly, gripping Stiles by the belt and rolling his hips upward beneath the cover of the table.
"Baby you aint seen bad," he purred back silkily. Leaning over to the side, Stiles reached for his beer, overshooting it and toppling off Phee's lap with a yelp, landing back on his own part of the bench with a drunken flail.
"You're showing off," Pheelan accused on a low, seductive murmur.
"So what if I am," Stiles pouted sulkily, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Can we not just pretend they're not here?" Jackson whined. Apparently he too had noticed the pack being led inside, not a one of the three of them really willing to admit that they had. Still, halfway through the sentence the intoxication took him and he was laughing huskily, his momentary distress forgotten. "Because Jesus…"
"Got my vote," Pheelan rumbled, lifting his beer in a toast before swallowing down half of it in one go.
"Oh you guys are just no fun," Stiles snickered.
"Fuck you Stilinski," Jackson cursed good-naturedly. "I don't see you inviting 'em over here to join."
"Nope," Stiles smiled lopsidedly, closing his eyes tight and shaking his head. "Not me! Not this time!"
"Yeah yeah yeah, you grew a pair. Congratulations," Jackson smirked. "Took you long enough."
Stiles hissed a laugh between his teeth. It really had.
"We should probably send them all a drink though," he mused, content with the thought of playing a rather punitive trick. "They've got a shot called the 'Suck It.' That sounds about right."
"Pretty sure that's not the kind of 'Suck It' you're thinking of," Jackson muttered into his glass, a pink flush spreading over his high cheekbones.
"How would you know?" Stiles countered, running his eyes slowly over Pheelan's frame as he licked his chops wolfishly. The blonde was slouched low in the booth, lounging back against the cushions, and he practically melted under Stiles' gaze.
"We're not being very nice to your friends," he murmured with a slow, curving smile, his tone making it clear that he didn't care.
"Not my friends," Stiles replied flippantly, "Told me so." It was a statement spoken with conviction, and he could almost feel the pack flinch from across the bar.
The wolves were listening in.
"Who told you so?" Phee asked, because he was pretty sure no one had ever said exactly that.
"Guess!" Stiles demanded, his eyes bright as he caught the scent of a game. "You guess, and if you get it wrong, I drink!"
Phee and Jackson shared a smirk because it was becoming pretty clear that Stiles was letting himself fall into the drunkenness, embracing it with open arms. He really didn't need any more than he'd already had, but Pheelan decided to humor him anyways.
"All right," he agreed, surreptitiously edging Stiles beer away from him. "I'll guess and you drink."
"Hmm." Not quite completely gone, Stiles' eyes went cold and calculating. "Guess which one has a restraining order against me."
Pheelan laughed. "Dirty pool," he huffed, lifting his glass to clink it together with Jackson's. "That one's a trick question."
"Besides, is had, had a restraining order," the smaller blonde insisted, slurring his words on the upswing. "Dropped it, din' I?"
"Yep! Cause you luuurrrvvv me!" Stiles grinned, throwing his arm around Jackson's neck and dragging him in to press a sloppy, smacking kiss on his cheek.
Jackson laughed and shoved him roughly away, scrubbing harshly at his face. "Jus' keepin' my supplier close," he mouthed off. "Gotta protect my glow stick fix."
"You're using me?" Stiles gasped with mock hurt, clutching his chest. "Heartless fiend."
"God, send me insulin," Phee deadpanned from across the table, "You two are giving me diabetes."
Stiles leaned back in the booth and spread his arms wide, smirking as Jackson kicked his fellow werewolf beneath the table, making it jump and their beers slosh. "Play nice boys," he demurred sweetly. "There's plenty of me to go around."
Eyes flaring bright gold in the dim of the club, Pheelan lifted his lip and growled low in his chest, unable to control the sound even as Jackson mimed gagging up his lunch. Caught off guard yet strangely pleased with his reaction, Stiles reached over and dragged his nails slowly up the big Irish wolf's denim-clad inner thigh.
"Guess who hit me over the head with my own carburetor before telling me they had a crush on me," he continued, like he wasn't touching Phee at all.
"The blonde one," Phee replied in a strangled voice, fighting the distracting fingers drawing patterns onto his knee. He'd heard this story before. "The cat, yeah? Erica?"
Stiles humphed, frowning as he took back his hand and stroked a finger along his pouting lower lip. "Guess which one let me sleep through a Calculus review, after he kept me up all night whining about how a Kelpie had ruined one of his favorite scarves. And then refused to share his notes!"
"Isaac."
He knew that one too.
"Guess which one got a girlfriend and a new best bro and dropped me like I was hot?"
"You are hot," Phee rumbled, quickly tiring of this game and cueing in on the fact that Stiles was starting to wallow. He was turning a night of fun into a bitchfest, and from the look on Jackson's face Phee wasn't the only one getting rapidly turned off by it. He knew Stiles was doing it for the benefit of the pack, for the wolves who flinched deeper and deeper into their misery and their drinks with each word the Touchstone uttered, but it wasn't what he'd expected of their night out and it was starting to get on his feckin' nerves.
"Christ Stilinski, don't be such a sour son of a bitch," Jackson muttered, draining the last half of his beer in one long go. "There's enough of that goin' round. Besides, you got what you want, don't you?"
"Oh for God's sake," Stiles groaned exaggeratedly, dropping his head back and effectively not answering the question. "Just go ask her to dance, Whittemore, and put us all out of our misery!"
Shoving Phee on the shoulder, he pushed with hands and feet until he got the wolf out from behind the table and onto the floor, grabbing him by the wrist and hauling him into the center of the club. There was a wicked bit of music playing and he could feel it thrumming up through the souls of his feet and vibrating throughout his whole body, electric down his spine and crackling on the tips of his fingers. Pushing between the hot crush of bodies, he found a free bit of space and turned his back on the blonde, reaching behind himself to wrap an arm around his neck and drag him in close, baring his neck to the assault of the wolf's mouth. Before he could even breathe a rough tongue swept out over his pulse, the points of sharp teeth scraping delicately over tender skin.
If you could only see the beast you've made of me
I held it in but now it seems you've set it running free
Screaming in the dark, I howl when we're apart
drag my teeth across your chest to taste your beating heart
Howl, howl
Howl, howl
Together the two of them swayed to the beat, consumed with each other's bodies and the feel of skin on skin. Stiles' fingers were locked in the curls at the nape of Phee's neck, his hips gripped by large, warm hands that edged under the hem of his t-shirt as they pressed close, drunkenly desperate for contact. His heart was pounding in his chest, blood singing in his veins, but as Phee dragged the tips of his fangs down Stiles' throat, biting down firmly against the curve of his shoulder, a chill swept through him like a winter wind, the sensation of eyes crawling all over his flesh making his stomach roll. It was eerie, disturbingly dark, and the sensation of being prey had him bucking and twisting away from Pheelan, the possessive hold of his hands and teeth too much for him to take.
"Get off, get off me!" He hissed, wrenching himself from the werewolf's grip as the colored lights above the dance floor sent his vision off in a splash of red and blue. "Dammit, get the fuck off me!"
"Stiles, what the hell?" Pheelan snarled under his breath, shocked out of his druggy, lust-filled haze as Stiles jerked away, but the angry Touchstone was already stalking off across the floor, shoving people roughly out of his path as he scrabbled at his arms from elbows to wrists, like he was sloughing off water…
Or trying to claw his way out of his own skin.
If you could only see the beast you've made of me
I held it in but now it seems you've set it running free
The saints can't help me now, the ropes have been unbound
I hunt for you with bloodied feet across the hallow'd ground
Howl, howl
Howl, howl
Snowballing his way across the club, he rammed past protesting dancers and shouldered his way through a side exit, barreling out into the empty parking lot where another storm had blown up, rain falling fast and heavy, instantly soaking him down to the skin. Scraping his hair back viciously from his face, he paced three times across the pavement in short, hard strides, turning this way and that half in a frenzy as something boiled up inside of him, cold and cruel and ancient. Shivering under the chill of nightfall, furious without understanding why, he bared his teeth to the air, snarling to himself and scenting the thunderclouds that hung thick and black overhead.
If you could only see the beast you've made of me
Howl, howl
The club door slammed open behind him just as lightning flashed white across a cobalt sky and two werewolves came crashing out, his name harsh on their tongues.
Stiles felt his eyes go black just as his skin turned to ice, diamond sharp enough to cut glass, and it froze them in their tracks, long enough for his mouth to curve in a vicious grin before he turned his back on them both, jerking his keys from his pocket and striding quickly across the deserted lot to his jeep. Climbing inside with a bang and a roar of the engine, he met the larger wolf's eyes, saluting him with a dangerous wink and slamming the vehicle into gear, peeling out with a harsh screech of tires and the smell of burnt ozone, leaving the both of them staring dumbly after.
"Oh what the fuck!" Jackson shouted a full minute later, when the reality of what had happened finally sank in. "What the hell was that?"
"Not Stiles," Pheelan rumbled quietly, barely audible over the hiss of rain and roll of thunder overhead. "Something isn't right."
Show me the Way to go Home - Emerson, Lake, and Palmer
Howl - Florence and the Machine