Chapter 2: Musings of a sociopath
Summary:
Peter finds himself questioning his own motives for playing pack nanny and unwittingly finds himself playing nursemaid.
Notes:
Thanks for the positive feedback guys and fuels my fragile ego, Ha! Fragile. I've been stuck in Peters mindset for a few hours so even to myself that seems a ridiculous statement. Honestly though I really appreciate it.
The following chapter is a bit broody and serious but scathing sarcasm and witty banter will return in the next chapter.
enjoy.
Peter tilts his head as he listens intently to the young man shuffling about his room and hears the soft clicking of his laptop. He imagines Stiles writing a diary entry about him, 'his imposing figure stood framed in the moonlight of my window, his V-neck was straining against his chest and biceps' he stops and looks curiously towards the boys window as he hears him chuckle softly before padding to his bed.
He quirks an inquisitive brow until the notes of a song wash over him. "Wolf mother where've you been you look so worn and so thin," He snorts loudly and silently applauds the boy for his allusion to Peter playing the pack Nanny.
He doesn't mind so much really, he likes Stiles. The boy has a flair for drama and never fails to entertain but, it's more than that. Even when he was an amnesiac psychopath he never bit the boy against his will, he didn't even maul him, that's got to count for something right? Now that he's died and come back to himself, no longer a psychopath: rather a sociopath with psychopathic tendencies. He felt like Stiles could be a kindred spirit; he empathises with the boy on his nightmares. Every time Peter drifts into unconsciousness he's wracked by images of flames and the feel of choking heat, he's met by the scared faces of his victims; those he murdered when his wolf had taken control. He is snapped from his reverie by the crooning of credence Clearwater. Ha! Bad moon rising, gotta love a kid who knows his werewolf classics. He sings along softly looking up at the sky reminiscing of pack barbecues and happy families.
It was somewhere around "D-I-N-O-S-A-U-R a dinosaur an O-L-D-M-A-N you are an old man," when Stiles breathing became choked and frantic, his heartbeat jumped erratically. Peter looks over in concern, he's torn with indecision. Should he stay out here as ordered or go to the young man. His decision was made for him when the boy's gasps became choked cries, pleas that the older man couldn't ignore. He leaps lithely catching the sill and pouring through the window in a fluid motion. He barely makes a sound as his feet touch down in the room swamped with Stiles fear, panic and disgust.
Perhaps if there were witnesses he would've smirked and sneered, providing some witty commentary about how even in his dreams Stiles was the prey or about how he flailed spastically even in unconsciousness. He took the image of the boy in, pale and clammy his arms thrown out arching his back off the bed and tossing his head side to side. Peter hesitates slightly as he approaches Stiles bed but he brings a hand to the boy's forehead, furrowing his brow at how cold he feels. He grabs a flailing arm gently by the wrist, gently rubbing circles over the fragile skin with his thumb. He kneels carefully by the bed, humming slightly to the music as he keeps a bedside vigil.
He rolls his eyes at Stiles choice of song; it was obvious to him by now that they were chosen with him in mind. He actually rather likes this song which just makes it worse. Though the song encompasses the complete opposite of what he endeavours to be, well, what he endeavours to be tonight anyway.
"One I love hurting you.
Two I love your pain.
Three let's get together and play the sinners game.
Four is for the torture and
Five is for the shame
'cause every time you want it
I get off on this game."
"…l can't help but smile at your pain, you wanted to play but I already won…"
Stiles starts stilling against Peter's soothing ministrations. Peter laughs in his head, nurse Peter, it seems like an unlikely role but it's one he's played before. He had stayed at his niece's bedside when she lay comatose, ready with a wet cloth and soothing touch or word, he painted an odd picture. The ability to care and empathise wasn't ingrained within him; his self-preservation was too strong. Here in these moments though, surrounded by pack and the last vestiges of family he felt like that might be starting to change. He might be on the path to becoming the old -slightly less sociopathic- him; who could do something nice sometimes without even an ulterior motive or end game. …HA! Yeah right Peter you keep telling yourself that. Only what's your end game now? With Cora you were allaying your own guilt about Laura and trying to connect with your nephew, not to mention rid him of his dickish alpha ineptitude.
He frowns thoughtfully to himself, thumb still rubbing in soothing circles on Stiles skin. What was he really getting out of this? The pale figure before him emits a low moan, Peter shivers nerves zinging, he shakes himself lightly but becomes even more hyper aware of Stiles body and his slightly parted lips, oh. Right THAT. He took his palm off Stiles forehead raising it to his own, rubbing his temples wearily. What was wrong with him? A lot. That was rhetorical brain he huffs at himself and rolls his eyes into his hand. A lot, that much was obvious. A familiar coiling and pulling starts thrumming through the veins of his left arm. He looks up curiously from over the hand on his face surprised at the sensation, removing it as he finds his body hadn't been lying. The black dragging itself up his wrist and into his body is testament to that. What could be causing Stiles physical pain? He's asleep whatever was in his head shouldn't manifest itself physically in his body, especially in unconsciousness. That was concern number one on his mind, concern number two made his brow crease: he'd never inadvertently and only rarely ever purposefully taken someone else's pain as his own.
Stiles face had lost its pinched strain and as he watched a look of relief washes over it. Almost immediately the boy's body is devoid of tension. A small sigh escapes from between his lips, his pouty full lips. Peter resists the urge to run his thumb tenderly over them. Stiles turns on his side curling towards Peter unconsciously pulling his arm closer.
Notes:
Oh Peter you damaged soul. I love him for his anti hero attitude but I also feel sorry for him, its not entirely his fault that he's like this. He's had some pretty messed up stuff happen to him, poor thing, hopefully I can bring him some happiness ;P.
The Lyrics in this chapter are from Korn's song lullaby for a sadist. For any of you out their trying to empathise with a tortured soul I recommend you give their latest album a listen.
As always thank you for reading my friends a little love is always appreciated and a lot of love leaves me beaming like an idiot. I'll always try to respond to comments so hit me up. Even if you think it sucks hairy testes haha.
crash x.