Chapter 24

Stiles' flushed all over and a fury overcame him like he'd never felt before.

"Oh, no, you don't!" he screamed. He balled his hands to fists and hammered down on Peter's chest. "I swear, if you leave this body, wolf, I'll harvest you and insert you into Scott as punishment!"

Derek on Peter's other side sobbed a little. His eyes were still an electric blue, which was the only thing that was keeping Stiles sane at the moment.

He pounded Peter's chest again.

"Fuck, it's like I can't even get through," he panted. "You try, Sourwolf!"

"He's dead, that won't do anything …"

"Then what the fuck does?" Stiles demanded. "He's still here! You know he is! Think!"

Derek licked his lips. "We need to jumpstart his innate magic ... we won't be able to do that with physical force."

"Magic?"

"You are magic, Stiles," Derek said quietly.

"Not magic enough, or these would've done something already," Stiles snarled, looking at his hands as if they'd betrayed him. "What else?"

When Derek didn't have an answer - and Stiles couldn't really blame him for that, the guy was hung up on his dead-but-not-wolfless-yet uncle lying before him, after all - Stiles took a moment to breathe away the stress.

The annoying humming of the transformer station almost literally bored into his mind and suddenly he felt like the most stupid dunce in the world.

"Electricity!" he shouted, scrambling up. "We need one of those transformer cables!"

"It's not magic," Derek growled back, but he got to his feet as well.

"Close enough, or do you have a better idea?" Stiles demanded. "Get me. A cable! Now!"

With that order ringing in his ears and the sheriff's keys hitting him in the chest, Derek turned on his heel and opened the gate. He gingerly climbed the construction, used his jacket to marginally insulate his hands, and then tore at the closest cable.

Even from the ground, Stiles could see how much this strained even Derek's impressive physical abilities. It wasn't just the process of trying to tear the cable loose, he also had to take care not to hit himself with an electrical discharge strong enough to drop a blue whale.

It seemed to take forever, but Derek managed. With impatient hand waves, he urged Stiles to drag Peter inside the fenced off area because the cable definitely wasn't long enough to drag it to where Peter was lying. It barely even reached the ground.

"We've got nothing left to lose," Stiles said when Derek hesitated. He gritted his teeth as he kept Peter's limp body from sliding off the huge circuit breaker box that was conveniently close to where they needed it. "Do it."

"Together," Derek replied, slanting a quick look at Stiles. "You brought us here. It might need your magic to work."

"Yeah, okay."

Stiles grasped Derek's hands, taking his other one away from Peter, and together they pulled the cable towards Peter's side.

"That'll hurt like a bitch," Stiles murmured, earning himself a shove with Derek's shoulder, and then they touched the sparking cable to Peter's skin.

oOo

Stiles had expected something dramatic; at the very least he had expected Peter's flesh to burn and smell disgustingly like sizzling steak or something.

Reality was so much worse.

So. Much.

The power surge not only blasted Peter off the breaker box, it also blasted Stiles and Derek clean off their feet and slammed them into the closest transformer tower. It was pure dumb luck that they didn't get hit by the wildly whipping cable as well.

Derek thankfully broke Stiles' fall, for the most part at least, although the sickening crunch Stiles could hear before briefly blacking out clearly spoke of at least one broken bone.

"Shit," he slurred. "That was intense."

Derek groaned. "Your rescue missions suck." He grabbed his left shoulder and rotated it, provoking another sickening crunching sound.

Stiles shook his head to clear away the black and white dots dancing in front of his eyes. "Peter … where …"

He looked around and gasped when he saw Peter lying like a badly singed broken doll on the ground. Half of his torso was visible where they had struck him with the world's meanest cattle prod, the skin burned and blackened underneath the ruined clothes.

And dear god, the smell! Now that Stiles was getting his bearings, the smell of burnt flesh invaded his nose and mouth and soul. If that was how his family smelled as they burned to death, Stiles had all the compassion in the world and then some for Peter's murder rampage.

"Is he breathing?" Derek asked tightly. He was white as a sheet, eyes glowing brightly.

"I … no." Stiles collapsed next to the werewolf. "Fuck." He reached out and touched Peter's clammy face. "You think hitting him is gonna help now?"

"Try," Derek snapped.

So Stiles tried. He pounded on Peter's chest and, when that didn't bring any results, he reminded himself that he had done a first aid course every year since getting his driver's licence and could do fucking mouth to mouth in his sleep. After everything they'd already done, this really was nothing. Hastily he used his shirt sleeve to wipe Peter's lips clean and then checked whether something was obstructing his airways. Tilting the man's head back a little and pinching his nose came almost as second nature.

From the sidelines, Derek was watching like a mournful hawk, wide-eyed and silent.

No pressure then. Stiles wiped his sweaty hands on his jeans and tried to psyche himself with a couple of deep breaths.

"Stiles," Derek implored, sounding wrecked.

"Yeah, sorry dude," Stiles said before taking in a deep gulp of air and setting his lips onto Peter's.

It was so gross to smell the black goo's rotten stench, but Stiles persisted. Carefully, he blew air into Peter's lungs twice, watching as Peter's chest rose a little and fell again.

"Again," Derek instructed quietly, and Stiles obeyed.

In between breaths, he did the tried and true method of pumping Peter's ribcage to the rhythm of Staying Alive .

"Come on," he begged. "You're still in there, alpha wolf! Make him breathe again!" Stiles bent down to deliver another couple of breaths. In his mind, it seemed so stupid that the mountain ash was still inside of Peter but not doing anything. "Fucking hell, what good is magic if it can't do this? Fucking kickstart his innards if you have to!" Frustrated, he slammed his hands onto Peter's chest.

Peter's sallow skin lit up from the inside, the light stronger along the dark grey wolfsbane lines and then the werewolf reared up like he were possessed.

Well, he is possessed, Stiles thought, on the verge of giggling hysterically. By mountain ash and a foreign wolf spirit. Oh my god, how is this my life! Come on now, don't jerk him around if you don't mean it! Heal him already, dammit!

He forced himself to stare at the gruesome display of moving, bulging skin and black vomit once again flowing from Peter's lip. There was no breathing, at least that he could see, and probably no heartbeat either. Derek's terrified crouch against the huge metal foot of the transformer tower said enough.

"Heal him!" Stiles repeated, this time screamed out loud. All of his belief in the magic of the mountain ash and Scott's freed wolf flowed into his words. He could almost see them wind their way into Peter's mouth and nose and ears, joining forces with the ash and the wolf spirits already fighting for Peter's life.

After that, Stiles had nothing more to give. He was wrung out, he hurt all over, and he just wanted this horrible night to be over.

As he teetered on the edge of unconsciousness, Derek's warm body sat heavily down next to him, and a strong arm curled around his shoulders.

Neither said anything for horrifying minutes.

At some point, Peter's body finally stopped expelling black, disgusting stuff. Almost like a puppet someone else was moving, he slowly rolled onto his side and heaved himself up on his forearms.

Then, Peter sucked in a deep, desperate breath, and Stiles burst into shocked tears.

oOo

How they'd managed to not get stopped by cops as they fled the scene Stiles would probably never know. Maybe his dad had pulled some strings, or maybe some magic deity had taken pity on them and decided that they'd suffered enough that night.

Stiles would take it, even if he had no idea how they'd deal with the surveillance footage. But that was a problem for later.

Right now his only job was to keep Peter upright in the jeep, have as much skin on skin contact with him as possible, and keep it together long enough to make it home. Thankfully Derek was driving because Stiles wasn't sure he would've been able to even start the car.

It was decided to go to Stiles' house because it had wards and because Stiles' father, after having recovered from learning what had happened, ordered them to go there if they didn't want to bring Peter to the hospital.

"The whole sheriff department is awake by now," John told them. "I've decided to throw Scott and the Argents under the bus, so they'll have better things to do than ambush you. Peter will have to play a part, but I'm pretty sure he'll have no problem with it."

Peter, who was far more out of it than not, hummed softly. His a little too hot to be normal shoulder pressed tightly against Stiles' and his equally hot hand rested possessively on the teen's thigh like he couldn't bear to let go. His other hand was loosely curled around Derek's wrist and moved with it as Derek used the gearshift.

Even though Peter was so gross that it would put a hardened vagrant to shame, Stiles was nearly blissed out by the blatant show of trust and gratitude ... and he was fairly certain that Derek felt the same.

"No one's at the house yet, so get in there, get settled, and prepare for questioning. I thought we'd spin it like this …" And the sheriff began crafting a tale that had Derek sit up and take notice of the deviousness and Peter smile crookedly.

They reached the house while at it and slunk inside amidst the first sprinkles of rain, only allowing themselves a breath of relief when the alarm was set and a skitter across Stiles' skin told him that the wards were still good despite his exhaustion.

"We'll stay as close to the truth as possible and decide on details later. Right now the deputies won't need a full report," John said, yawning abruptly. "I'm just glad that the story as a whole might be outlandish, but not too far out there."

"We'll get through it, dad," Stiles murmured. "And thanks for not busting Scott out. I guess that makes me a terrible person."

"Kid, he helped kidnap an officer of the law. Even if that hadn't been me, I wouldn't have let him walk away from that," his father replied. "I'm done for, to be honest, but I'll stay at the station for a couple more hours to give my report and find out what forensics have pulled from the scene. Don't wait up, alright?"

"Not sure I can do that. Peter desperately needs a bath," Stiles smiled tentatively at Peter, who was lounging in the sheriff's armchair and made every appearance of being asleep. "You think I can keep the deputies away from him until he's slept?"

"I'll make sure they know not to press," his father promised. "You've all been through the wringer tonight, tomorrow is soon enough. And don't worry too much about the damage to the transformer station. I know for a fact that the cameras have been down for weeks. The rain will take care of the rest. Love you, take care."

"You too, dad," Stiles answered, feeling annoyingly wobbly at the soft words.

"You'll really think of something to explain all this?" Derek asked once Stiles had hung up. He'd made himself small, even though he had the whole sofa to himself. "There's almost an hour between us leaving the preserve and getting here. Your father's people will ask … they'll probably reconstruct our path. Your jeep's well-known around town."

"Dude, I've learned my bullshitting skills at my dad's knee. He's probably writing things up for us as we speak, we can go over it tomorrow and poke holes in it before we have to go to the station." Stiles put his phone away and gesticulated towards Peter. "You'll help me clean him up, right? Because there's no way I'm getting him dragged up the stairs by myself."

"Yes, of course," Derek murmured. He stood, grabbed his snoozing uncle around the waist, and manoeuvred him upstairs without another word.

In the master bathroom, Stiles tried not to stare as Derek undressed the barely cooperating man, but it was hard. Despite his healing factor having kicked in, Peter was still looking beyond rough. A grey film covered him all over, his hair was matted with sweat and dirt, and his clothes were bloody and torn. There also was the horrid wound in his side that, while it had saved his life, was slow to heal. Besides that Peter stank - werewolf poisoning via wolfsbane really was no joke.

"What do you think, rinse first and soak second?" Stiles asked. He blushed when Derek sliced open Peter's pant legs and took the fabric away. "Oy, TMI on the body front."

"Get over it, werewolves don't have much use for modesty," Derek retorted. The ghost of a smile flitted over his drawn, tired face. "We usually lose clothes almost faster than we can replace them."

"Why?" Stiles asked, automatically helping Derek to steady Peter under the spray of the showerhead. The grey sludge was reluctant to leave Peter's skin so with a sigh Stiles resigned himself to soaping a washcloth and scrubbing away at Peter's face, neck, and upper body. His fiery blush made Derek chuckle quietly. "Shut it. In case you didn't know, consent is sexy. Peter hasn't given his consent to this. Therefore, this is not sexy."

"Have no complaints," Peter murmured without opening his eyes. He made a sound suspiciously like a purr when Stiles went over the sculpted planes of his chest. "Anything's better than tha' stink."

"See," Derek said, sounding decidedly unimpressed.

"What about your clothes?" Stiles returned to his question. "Why are you losing them so quickly? I didn't think you actually went around looking for fights."

"In packs, there are often play fights," Derek explained. "They can start anywhere, anytime. It's normal. But clothes aren't really a match for our claws and fangs. So, losing stuff is pretty expected in packs, at least when we're home. Clothes for going out is a different matter but even then we don't expect them to last long."

"Beg to differ," Peter hummed. "I'll kill anyone who gets near my wardrobe. 's in the contract."

Stiles snorted out a laugh because that was true.

"We can hose him down now," Derek said. "And then leave him in the bath for an hour or so. That should break down the last of the … odor."

"We all wish," Peter murmured. "Stiles, could I trouble you for something to eat?"

"Of course. Sandwiches okay?" Stiles asked.

"Whatever's on hand. Thank you."

"Go, I have it under control now," Derek told him. He looked at Stiles, face unreadable. "Do you need money, in case you want to order in?"

"Nah, it's all good, dude. See you in a few."

Stiles left the bathroom on aching legs, whimpering and cursing every step of the way. Should there be any hot water left once Peter was done, he'd consider himself the luckiest guy on the planet.

Thankfully the muscles his arms weren't nearly as exhausted as the rest of him and the preparing of a huge platter full of sandwiches went fairly smoothly. He even went as far as boiling a whole carton of eggs to give the sandwiches some extra protein.

He was just putting the top slices onto the sandwiches when the doorbell rang. After the night he'd had, Stiles grabbed the taser from the hallway table drawer before he peered through the peephole. Discovering that the late night callers were two announced deputies, Stiles opened the door and waved them inside.

"Hey guys," he greeted, taking care to sound appropriately exhausted, which wasn't hard at all. "My dad told me you'd be by. Uhm, the Hales aren't up to answering a lot of questions right now."

"Your dad said," Tara Graeme said with a sharp nod. "Understandable, but I gotta say, this is some weird ass story, kid. Scott McCall in cahoots with a sicko of Marcus Jacoby's calibre? That's hard to believe."

"You better believe it," Stiles answered, the fury in him roaring to life again. "I was there."

Tara eyed him intently. "Okay. You mind telling us what happened?"

"Bullet points, if that's okay. I'm half asleep on my feet and a little banged up," Stiles bartered.

"Sure, that works. Just the events of tonight, but tomorrow I want the whole story. Also, pictures. That's a nasty bruise you're sporting."

Tara followed Stiles to the living room and the other deputy went upstairs after Stiles' okay to exchange a few words with Derek and get a visual on Peter for the sheriff station's peace of mind. For a quarter of an hour she listened to Stiles' account of the events, which he purposefully left vague here and there to make himself appear less involved and knowledgeable. What he did get across clearly, however, was his fear for his father and his incredulity at what Scott had done.

"Thank you, Stiles. That sounds like an ordeal." Tara put her writing pad and the recorder away and got to her feet. "We'll make sure to get to the bottom of this, I promise. No one abducts our sheriff without coming to regret it for the rest of their life."

"Thanks, we appreciate it," Stiles replied sincerely. "And for what it's worth … I'm sorry for not calling you before going there. It's just … after Gerard Argent's threats I couldn't take chances."

Her normally cool expression softened. "Hey, if there's anything we understand, it's that." She patted his shoulder. "Eat something, get some sleep. We'll patrol the neighbourhood and take you for your interviews tomorrow, if you need a ride."

The other deputy, Keene, tipped his hat at Stiles. "Whenever you and the Hales are ready. They're both pretty traumatized; I'll put in a recommendation for counselling."

"For you, too," Tara said before Stiles could even make a face. "Sleep well. You did good tonight getting everyone out alive."

"Well, everyone that matters," Keene said under his breath, earning himself an elbow to the side.

The deputies left then and Stiles went first to use the bathroom and then into the kitchen, only to find the platter of sandwiches gone. In fact, the whole kitchen was spotless, even the breadcrumbs had been wiped off the counter.

Derek, you ninja, Stiles thought admiringly. He sighed up at the stairs. "There'd better be one left, guys."

Derek appeared at the top of the stairs and bounded down in two jumps. "Let me help you upstairs. I saved you a sandwich and some fruit."

It was astoundingly enjoyable to be more or less carried up to his room. Derek even helped him get out of his pants and T-shirt and handed him sweats and a clean shirt for bed.

"I could get used to this," Stiles joked as he was pushed down on the bed, next to Peter who had already crashed there. A plate with his sandwich followed and a glass of water was already waiting for him on his bedside table. "How're you doing? Is the adrenaline crashing yet? Mine's crashing big time. And the ouchies, dear god. That won't be fun tomorrow."

Derek ignored his babbling and simply placed a warm hand on Stiles' forearm. At once black lines appeared on his skin and the absence of pain in Stiles' body left the teen woozy.

"Eat, Stiles," Derek said, sitting down on Stiles' other side.

"And then sleep," Peter rumbled, opening one blue eye and looking up at Stiles. "Hot water's gone anyway."

"Fantastic," Stiles sighed, but he leaned against the headboard and fell into the simple pleasure of not being alone after yet another hair-raising adventure. With some creativity he could almost pretend that the two Hales were close friends staying for a sleepover. Not even the difference in their ages could ruin that fantasy - after only having one real friend for so long, and losing that friend in such a terrible manner, nothing really could.

Stiles refused to feel pathetic for that, and when Derek tugged him down for some much needed sleep a little later, he went gladly and didn't even flush when both Derek and Peter's arms went over his waist.

End of chapter 24