Stiles woke to a strange kitchen and a lot of pain.

He let out a low groan, closing his eyes just as soon as he had opened them. Even so, it was long enough to gather those two tidbits of information; 1. kitchen, 2. not his own. He didn't need his eyes open to know about the pain.

A few seconds after, the lights in the room flicked off. He could tell because there was no longer liquid lava on the other side of his eyelids. Someone turned on a lamp of some sort that cast a much softer light. Stiles dared to open his eyes again -slowly, in increments.

"My apologies for leaving you to sleep on the hard, tile floor," spoke a smooth voice as Stiles tried to focus on the face peering down at him just to his left. "You were making quite the mess and I really would like my damage deposit back when I move."

It struck Stiles as an odd thing for someone to say to someone else when they first woke up in their home, but then, Stiles couldn't think of anything more appropriate. He tried to speak, but his voice seemed trapped in the desert of his throat. He swallowed a few times, but to no avail. The man seemed to understand his plight, though, because he quickly produced a glass of water and helped Stiles to sit up in order to drink it. Stiles had to choke down a sob, tears springing to his eyes as the movement made every pain in his body multiply. Still, he drank greedily, letting the cool water dribble out of the corners of his mouth. The water hit his stomach like a truckload of cinder blocks, however, and he was suddenly leaning over and heaving.

"Lovely," was all the man said, leaving Stiles for a moment before returning with something to clean up the mess. Stiles laid back down and let out a more pathetic moan than the one he had let out when he first woke.

"Handsome Serial Killer Guy," croaked Stiles when the man returned to his side, again, after cleaning up the mess. Stiles was such a pain in the ass! He bleeds and barfs all over the man's floor, and then all he can do is call him by the title that he was only ever supposed to call him in his own mind. He couldn't blamer his friends and family for trying to replace him.

"What?" answered the man, his smooth face contorting (as much as Stiles could see with his eyes still a little fuzzy) in confusion.

"Sorry," Stiles amended. Yeah, that was a much better thing to say; still pathetic, but way better than 'Handsome Serial Killer Guy'.

"What happened to you?" asked the man, then. "Do you need the hospital?"

Honestly, Stiles was surprised the man hadn't taken him already -or at least called 911, if not out of concern for Stiles, then concern for himself. Who just shows up at a stranger's door all tore up and blacking out? Totally rude move. Stiles was so rude.

"I don't know," replied Stiles, not able to waste much breath on extra words.

They sat in silence for a while -well, Stiles laid in silence and the man crouched beside him, also in silence. The point was that no one spoke.

"You look like you need stitches," the man finally said, but it was at the same time that Stiles burst out with "what's your name?"

"Peter," replied the man after a short pause. "And you're Stiles, correct?"

"How…" started Stiles, but the man shook his head.

"Let me ask some questions first," said Peter. "Do you feel any shortness of breath?"

Stiles moved his head in a weak attempt at a shake; no.

"Where's the worst of your pain?" he asked, then.

That was a question that took Stiles a little while to consider. His side hurt, his chest burned, his head throbbed, his stomach was still rolling, and his eyes were still quite unhappy with the light in the room.

"My head, I think," said Stiles, finally.

"Did you hit your head very hard that you remember?" asked Peter.

"I don't know, maybe?" said Stiles. "No harder than anything else."

Peter nodded to himself. He held up his hand, then, and asked Stiles how many fingers he was holding up.

"That doesn't work," said Stiles with a humourless puff of laughter that hurt his side, "my coach back in highschool always did that to see if we had concussions, but it didn't really tell him anything."

"Obviously, your coach just didn't know what he was doing," replied Peter, changing how many fingers he was holding up. "It isn't to tell if you can count the fingers, it is to let me watch your pupils as you focus your eyes."

Stiles raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"Dude," he said, hoarsely, "mind. blown."

Peter chuckled softly, though he didn't actually seem all that amused.

"One last question," he said, then.

"Shoot," answered Stiles, but it came out with an odd sort of slur to it.

"What happened?" asked Peter, narrowing his eyes at Stiles.

"Mmmnnno idea," replied Stiles. He wanted to illustrate his incredulity of the situation as a whole with a motion of some sort, but he could barely even get the words out. He took a deep breath and cleared his throat before continuing. "A really big dog," he said, using all his energy to keep his words clear.

"A dog?" asked Peter, disbelief written clearly across his face.

Stiles attempted to shrug, against his better judgement. The throbbing behind his eyes was growing worse. He wondered why this Peter fellow wouldn't take him to the hospital. It seemed very much like an Emergency Room sort of situation. But, Peter could have just left him to die in the hallway, so he couldn't actually be angry with the guy.

"Attacked on m'way home," Stiles struggled to explain. His eyes were going unfocused again. "'xcuse me, gotta… pass out, now."

Stiles woke again.

This time, the kitchen didn't seem quite so strange, but it was still not his own. The room was filled with the low, morning light conducive to having all the windows facing west. Peter wasn't at his side this time with a glass of water, but the room wasn't spinning, either, so it was a win. There was a scratchy blanket laying heavily over him. Stiles slowly sat up, his side aching but not near the level of pain he would have expected. He wondered how long he'd been out if his side was already partially healed. He realized, then, that he was shirtless.

"Hence the blanket," he mumbled to himself, pushing it down to get a better look at his torso.

He had big purple bruises all over his chest. His pec that had seemed mutilated beyond repair was intact, but had an interesting pattern of light pink, newly healing skin all over it. His ribs felt sore to move, but didn't feel broken and his head was beginning to feel clear. Carefully, Stiles got to his feet. He felt weak, but not horrible.

The good thing about the apartment building was that every apartment was the same layout. The ones on the west side of the building were simply mirror images of the ones on the east. Stiles knew his way to the bathroom and didn't need to take any additional steps on his shaky legs.

He flicked on the bathroom light and looked in the mirror to find his face pale, his eyes bloodshot, and some impressive green and purple bruises on his face. He wondered, again, how long he had been out, because his bruises looked old; purpling before they turned brown and faded entirely. He turned on the tap and washed his face with cool water. Peter must have cleaned his wounds, because he was mostly devoid of the amount of dirt, mud and blood one would expect after a late-night scuffle with a rabid dog.

"Fuck," he hissed to himself, his voice sounding foreign in the quiet apartment. "Rabies."

What if he had contracted rabies? How long would it take for it to set in? When would he start to see symptoms? Was it too late to get the shot?

Stiles leaned over the sink, bracing his hands on the counter on either side, and tried to control his breathing. He was still there, working diligently on keeping the panic attack at bay, when the apartment door opened and shut. Moments later, Peter found him in the bathroom, swallowing down bile and gasps of breath.

"Stiles," spoke Peter.

Stiles shook his head. He didn't want to be touched, he needed to work through it on his own. Peter seemed to get that and kept his hands to himself -that, or he wasn't a touchy-feely guy like Scott was. Either way, he gave Stiles some room, but didn't leave him altogether. It was good. Stiles turned his attention back to his breathing.

When the worst seemed to have passed, he stepped back from the sink and sunk down to the floor. He leaned back against the wall and let out a soft sigh. He felt so tired.

When he cracked open an eye to look at Peter, the man was crouched down near him, looking concerned. The wrinkle in his brow made him finally seem more human than sexy enigma.

"Panic attack?" asked Peter.

Stiles swallowed dryly and nodded.

"Are you good, now?" he asked, then.

Stiles nodded, again, this time more tentatively. Peter was staring at him with a scrutinizing squint to his eyes.

"Well," he said, then, getting to his feet and reaching down to offer Stiles a hand, "let's get some food in you. Low blood sugar usually brings them on worse."

"Thanks," said Stiles, allowing Peter to help pull him to his feet. He felt wobbly as he followed Peter back down the hall.

Peter directed him to a chair beside the small dining table. Stiles watched his back while he moved around the narrow galley kitchen. Soon, Peter set a glass of water and plate with an amazing looking sandwich in front of Stiles. He sat down in the chair across from him with a sandwich of his own. They ate in silence, regarding each other the entire time. It should have been awkward. It wasn't. It was definitely odd, like something from a strange dream, but it wasn't awkward.

Finally, Peter set down his nearly finished sandwich and spoke up. "You must have some sort of fortunate medical condition," he said.

Stiles' confusion must have shown on his face, because Peter explained. "I've never seen anyone heal as quickly as you have. It's almost… supernatural."

Stiles swallowed heavily in surprise, the bread scraping thickly down his throat. He grabbed the glass of water in front of him and took a few swallows before responding.

"How long has it been?" he asked.

"Hours," replied Peter, narrowing his eyes accusingly at Stiles.

Stiles coughed heavily.

"What?" he gasped.

Peter pursed his lips and simply shrugged.

"What do you mean hours?" reiterated Stiles. "That doesn't make any sense!"

He jumped up from the table and nearly fell over himself in his hurry to return to the bathroom. Peter followed him at a more reserved pace. Stiles paid him no mind besides knowing the man was following him. He stared at himself in the mirror; poking and prodding at sore bruises and sensitive, newly-closed skin. Even only minutes later, his body looked to be in better condition than the last time he had checked.

"This… doesn't make… any… sense," he repeated staring at himself in the mirror as his heart threatened to beat right out of his chest. He wasn't sure if he was excited or terrified, but he was definitely something.

"I'm guessing this hasn't happened before," said Peter coolly from behind him.

"What the hell, man?" asked Stiles, spinning around to face the guy.

Peter stood leaning against the door jam, arms crossed over his chest, looking completely unbothered. He smirked ever so slightly. Really, it was just a slight twitch of the corners of his mouth, but it was there. Stiles glared.

"Curious," said Peter, pushing away from the wall to move into Stiles' space.

"Hey," Stiles started to protest, but he went silent as Peter touched his face and pushed his shaggy hair off his forehead.

He might be confused and alarmed, he might even be mad at the guy, but none of that changed the fact that he'd been lusting over Peter for months. To have the man in his space, touching his face, his scent intoxicating and his intense gaze directed at Stiles… well, it was distracting. So, maybe the guy was touchy-feely. He was definitely doing a lot of touching and feeling. Stiles was not gonna say no, though. He might have been half-dead a few hours ago, but he was feeling pretty damn alive with Peter in his space, now.

Then, Peter pressed down on a bruise on Stiles' forehead. It served as a rather sound spell-breaker.

"Fucking ouch!" exclaimed Stiles, batting Peter's hands away.

Peter took a small step back, but his sharp eyes never left him. Stiles felt nearly paralyzed under them. He fidgeted, but stayed frozen to the spot. Finally, when he couldn't take it any longer, he threw out his arms and gave Peter his best judgemental face.

"Are we done with the creepy staring, yet?" he asked.

Peter's mouth twitched with that condescending smirk, again.

"Fascinating," he said simply and without explanation.

Then, Peter turned and headed back toward the kitchen. Stiles suddenly felt unbalanced without those predator's eyes staring him down. It took him a few seconds to shake off the feeling before he could follow after Peter. The man had sat back down at the table and was continuing to eat his lunch as if the entire world of rational science and biology hadn't just been turned upside down. Stiles stared disapprovingly at him for a few moments before returning to his own seat.

"Would you like another sandwich?" asked Peter, politely.

"Are we not going to talk about this?" returned Stiles, eyes wide with disbelief.

"You were hurt, you healed," replied Peter with another mini shrug. "Seems like a fortunate course for the day's events."

"Yeah, lucky for you," spat Stiles, feeling frustrated at Peter's once-attractive-but-currently-very-very-very-NOT aloofness. "Why didn't you take me to the hospital? I could have died... or something."

"Hospitals and I don't really get along at the moment," replied Peter.

The man took Stiles in but refused to take him to the hospital because… he doesn't like hospitals? Stiles knew all about not liking hospitals, but seriously, the guy was prepared to let Stiles die in his apartment just because he didn't like hospitals!?

"You could have called 911 and have an ambulance do your dirty work," accused Stiles.

"I don't have a phone."

"What?" exclaimed Stiles, his anger over the hospital thing lost to his surprise, "you don't have a- not even a landline?"

"Nothing," said Peter.

"How do you even survive?" exclaimed Stiles.

"I don't have anyone to call," replied Peter, matter-of-factly.

Ouch.

"Well, anyway, you could have used my cell," said Stiles, instead, not wanting to dwell on whatever the depressing story behind Peter's last comment could be.

Peter gave him an unimpressed look. He grabbed Stiles' cell out of his mutilated bag and opened it to show Stiles.

"Ah, yeah," said Stiles, feeling momentarily stupid, "Damn those password protected phones… hey WAIT, I'm pretty sure you can still use emergency numbers when the phone is locked."

Stiles gave Peter another judgmental look. Peter didn't seem bothered by it.

"Well, let's just say," explained Peter cryptically, "the less the police and I see of each other, the better."

Stiles' eyes widened at that.

"THAT'S why you're such a shut-in! You're a wanted criminal," he exclaimed. It all made sense and was coming dangerously close to Stiles' own made-up stories about Peter.

Peter let out a put-upon sigh.

"Back to the issue at hand," he said, making a small but ridiculously graceful gesture in Stiles' direction. Peter hadn't really been that interested in talking about it earlier, so, obviously, the attempted topic change was because Stiles was getting somewhere.

"That's a new mystery, for sure," said Stiles, but he leaned onto the table and stared at Peter with a grin crossing his face. "How about we clear up some previous ones, first. I've been wondering about your story for months! What are you wanted for?"

"Nothing as exciting as you'll come up with, I'm sure," replied Peter before taking another drink of water.

"Doubtful! You've got that whole mysterious Hannibal Lector thing going on," said Stiles before frowning down at his empty plate.

"I promise you, the meat on the sandwich you ate was procured at the local grocery store," said Peter. "If there was anything untoward in the meat, it was completely out of my hands."

Though he had been joking, Stiles was a little relieved.

"Okay, something else, then," said Stiles, thinking back over his many conjured scenarios of what this man could possibly be like. "I'm still thinking serial killer," he continued, "you've got the right level of charm that you could practically woo your victims to their deaths."

"Should I take that as a compliment?" asked Peter, still maintaining his aloof tone of voice, but Stiles could see emotion beginning to show on his face. His eyes were a warning, but his mouth kept doing that amused twitching thing. Stiles really wasn't sure how to read the guy. He pressed on, anyway, not able to give up on this now that he finally had a chance to learn the true story.

"Maybe you're a serial avenger," he said. "Maybe you have this terrible back-story and you had to go out taking revenge on everyone involved! Now that it's done, you're just hiding out. Or maybe there's one more person you're waiting to snuff out."

"I am not a comic book character, Stiles," said Peter with an eye-roll, though his voice finally gave away some emotion. It was tight and when he stood from the table, his movements were stiff. "As much as I appreciate learning about the sheer volume of interest I've garnered in one my neighbours, it seems you are healed enough to return to your own apartment."

"Right, right," said Stiles, knowing he should probably stop pushing. The guy had been kind enough to take him in when he was bloodied and dying. He didn't have the decency to get Stiles professional medical help, but as it turned out, professional medical help hadn't been needed. Stiles knew he should probably leave the nice serial killer alone now that he had overstayed his shaky welcome. "Thanks for… uh, letting me bleed and.. urgh.. barf on your kitchen floor. And, thanks for the sandwich. I'll leave you to your next artfully arranged murder."

Peter opened the front door after grabbing Stiles' mutilated bag. He handed it to Stiles as Stiles left.

"I'm glad you're okay, Stiles," said Peter and, despite the whole kicking-Stiles-out thing, he even sounded genuine about it.

Stiles turned back and was about to reply, but Peter had already swung the apartment door shut and it clicked locked in Stiles' face.

"Sheesh," said Stiles, miffed. He smiled to himself, anyway.

"If my strange, superhuman healing goes into remission and I bleed out and die in my own apartment," he shouted at Peter's door, "I'm going to haunt you like whoa!"

He dug through the remains of his bag for his apartment keys, but ended up finding them in his jeans pocket. All the while, he was thinking about making a cool crime TV show about a mass serial killer and his witty ghost buddy. He couldn't help but grin to himself.