Stiles called in sick to work that day. He apologized to the guy who he asked to cover his shift on such short notice and promised to take one of his shifts in return. After taking a shower and spending a long time staring at his almost completely faded bruises and scars in the mirror, he spent the remainder of the afternoon in pajamas watching old X-men cartoons and eating kids' breakfast cereal. After the amount of blood he had lost the night before, he figured sugary cereal and lazing on the couch was his best way to recover. Perhaps he was actually correct because, by nightfall, he was feeling himself once again.

We went to work the following day just as though nothing had happened. The only difference in his routine after that was the nightmares. Every night he would dream of deep, dark forests, glowing eyes, and the metallic taste of blood. He'd wake to the sound of a wolf's howl. It never made any sense. Post Traumatic Stress, he'd tell himself and simply get ready for his day.

Before, he had spent his breaks at work googling random things on his phone. That didn't change since the incident so much as finally gain a direction. He spent his short breaks on his smartphone googling medical journals and mythological lore alike trying to find answers for his miraculous healing. He was starting to wonder if Peter's surprise at his quick recovery was an act and the man had actually given him some sort of mystical herb when he was down for the count.

Things continued in that fashion for nearly an entire month until one night when everything came to a head. Stiles woke from another nightmare to find strange, animal-like claws protruding from his fingertips and extra hair in a lot of places where it hadn't been before. He tangled himself in his blankets in his haste to get out of bed, falling on the floor with a dull thud before jumping up with an agility he didn't know he had and running to the bathroom.

"Werewolf," he said, simply because one and one was two. It seemed ridiculous and unbelievable, but it was the best explanation. He laughed at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror. "I'm a werewolf!"

He touched his morphed face, ran his fingers over his protruding forehead, and bared his fangs at himself. It was amazing.

"I was attacked by a werewolf," he said to his strange reflection, his lips feeling funny as they tried to cover the larger teeth. "I was bit by a werewolf. I have super healing like a werewolf. I shift into a big-ass, hairy werewolf on full moons. I'm a fucking werewolf!"

His laughter turned hysterical for a few moments. He had to take a moment to just breathe so that he didn't have another panic attack, or whatever the hell it was that he was feeling. He splashed water on his furry face and stared at himself in the mirror for a few more moments. His face was slowly morphing back into the one he recognized as his own. Good. Obviously, he needed to stay in control of his emotions.

"Fuck that," he said, ignoring his own newly realized advice and left the bathroom and his apartment altogether.

"Peter!" he called out loudly as he pounded on the man's apartment door. "Peter! Peter, open up!"

It seemed like forever before Peter's door cracked open.

"Stiles?" hissed Peter through the small opening at the door. "Do you have any idea what ti-"

"3:23 AM," Stiles cut in. "Let me in!"

Even with his heart pounding in his ears, Stiles could hear Peter let out a resigned sigh from behind the door. Peter shut the door completely. Stiles would have yelled again, but he heard the telltale sound of the chain lock being slid out of place. Then, the apartment door was swinging wide. Stiles pushed in.

"Werewolves!" exclaimed Stiles in Peter's face.

The man grimaced before stepping aside to allow Stiles in.

"Just because I let you into my home one time, does not mean there is a standing invitation," said Peter somberly.

Stiles headed toward the kitchen table with two chairs that he had eaten with Peter at just a month earlier, but before he sat down, the timing had him bursting with excitement all over again.

"One month!" exclaimed Stiles in another eureka. "Quick, Peter, check to see if it is a full moon tonight!"

"What."

"I will bet my life's savings-"

"Which is probably under $100 if you even have a savings account," cut in Peter dryly.

"-that the night I was attacked was a full moon," continued Stiles, multitasking with a sassy glare at Peter while he paced the small room. "And then one month later, here I am!"

"Here you are," agreed Peter, frowning hard, "back in my apartment, uninvited and, again, ruining my night."

Stiles paused.

"You knew, didn't you," he said. "That's why you weren't concerned with important things like me bleeding out on your kitchen floor or getting me to the hospital for a rabies shot."

"I knew what?" asked Peter.

"That I'm a werewolf, now!" exclaimed Stiles.

Peter's eyebrows drew together for a moment, as if he were actually stunned and surprised. Then he shook his head and smiled almost sympathetically.

"Perhaps you did contract rabies," he said. "I apologize profusely, Stiles, for not getting you to the hospital for a vaccination." He stepped closer to Stiles and grabbed him by his shoulders so he could peer into Stiles' eyes. "It seems the brain inflammation is already getting out of hand," he said thoughtfully.

Stiles shrugged him off.

"Stop fucking with me, Peter," said Stiles. "You know about werewolves and you knew I had been attacked by one. You knew I'd either die from the bite or recover completely. I bet you don't even have a cool, murderous vendetta backstory."

"I never once said anything about murder or revenge," said Peter with the look of a man long-suffering, "you made that all up yourself in your love of fairy tales and little boy comic books. Additionally, I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about. Werewolves are yet another creature of fairy tale and myth."

"So, you're telling me, you're just a complete asshole with no moral compass who had no problem allowing someone to die on your floor?" asked Stiles, anger getting in the way of his excitement.

"Perhaps," said Peter, infuriatingly calm in the face of such accusation. "Although, the fact that I even brought you in has to count for something. I could have left you to die in the dingy hall."

"Why didn't you?" asked Stiles, stepping into Peter's space.

Peter didn't step back to get a more comfortable amount of space between them, didn't seem bothered in the least. He didn't answer the question, either, though. He just smiled benignly. Stiles panted in rage. He wasn't sure why his emotions were so out-of-control at the moment, he didn't remember feeling so upset over Peter's decisions before. Really, he didn't remember feeling so angry and out-of-sorts at all. He couldn't seem to rein it back in. He couldn't seem to get his breathing under control. He couldn't… he was out of control and he felt another panic attack coming on. He was beginning to feel light-headed.

That was when Peter placed a hand in the centre of Stiles' chest and ordered him to breathe. Stiles nearly crumpled right into him, gasping for breath and, finally, being able to work at getting it back under control. Peter wrapped his second arm around Stiles' shoulder, his hand grasping firmly, but gently, at the back of his neck. They breathed together until Stiles felt himself again.

"The hell was that?" asked Stiles when he was finally able.

Peter let go of him and took a step back.

"Thanks, man," said Stiles before rubbing his hands over his face. "That… has never happened to me before."

Peter hummed.

He turned to the kitchen and started getting food items out of the fridge. Stiles slowly sat down in one of the chairs and was silent as he watched Peter work. He was dressed in a pair of dark purple lounge pants that hung loosely from his hips and looked like they were quite possibly made from silk. He had a worn, white t-shirt on top. It didn't match. He had probably thrown it on to answer the door. He was trim and fit, and as he bent slightly over the kitchen counter, the thin, white cotton of his shirt stretched over his shoulders revealing the musculature of his back. Stiles concluded that Peter must normally spend at least 40% of his day working out.

Peter worked quickly and, soon, another of his amazing sandwiches was plated and placed in front of Stiles. It made Stiles smile.

"Peter's miracle, mystery meat," he said to himself. "It heals all."

Peter set a glass of water down for Stiles before moving to sit on the other side of the table. Stiles took a big bite of the sandwich. Peter was smirking at him.

"What?" asked Stiles unattractively, his mouth full.

"Some people might wonder at the connotations behind such a title," said Peter with a shrug.

Stiles replayed what he had just said over in his mind before choking on the food in his mouth. He pounded a fist on his chest as his body tried to cough out what he was trying to swallow. He took a large swig of the water and managed to get everything down. He coughed a few more times and took another drink before giving Peter a dirty look.

"Dude," he grumbled, "not cool."

Peter's smirk only grew.

Stiles focused on eating his sandwich, his face feeling warm and the tips of his ears most likely turning red. He felt like an idiot for not being able to laugh it off, but… well… Peter.

"So, tell me again, why, exactly, are you here?" asked Peter.

Stiles swallowed the last bite of his sandwich and cleared his throat.

"Werewolves," he said, this time more seriously.

"Werewolves," repeated Peter with an exaggerated frown.

"You're either a really great actor, or you actually don't know what I'm talking about," said Stiles after taking a moment to scrutinize Peter's expression.

Peter gave Stiles a sardonic look before resting his chin on his fist.

"Humour me," he simply demanded.

"Everything adds up," started Stiles, feeling a spark of excitement returning to him. "Some sort of gigantuan dog just randomly attacks me out of the blue, I hear this weird howling in the distance, my wounds heal within 24 hours, I have messed up woodland dreams ever since, and, exactly a month later, I'm turning fluffy!"

"You're turning… what?"

"Fluffy," repeated Stiles. When it looked like Peter was going to abstain from using the world, he let out a disappointed breath and explained. "I had another crazy dream about eating little woodland creatures and running around through trees tonight. When I woke up, I had a lot of extra hair."

"You know, Stiles," started Peter after taking a long moment to give him a quiet, unreadable look. "When my nieces and nephew were little, I had this book I read to them to help explain about that special time in their lives when their body began to go through changes. Hmmm.. what was it called again? Oh. Oh, yes, now I remember. It was called 'I Can Grow Hair WHERE?'. It was actually a rather charming little book and informative, too. I don't have it any more, but I'm sure you could find it at the local library. It may help to answer some of your questions."

Stiles stared at Peter as judgmentally as he could manage.

"Are you done?" he asked when Peter had finally stopped talking.

Peter smirked.

"I am not going through puberty, Peter, you inglorious asshole," he spat, though he couldn't help but be a little more endeared to the man simply for his sass alone. "I am a fucking werewolf!"

"Okay, okay," said Peter, nodding as if he actually was going to take Stiles' word for it. Then he sat back in his chair, crossed his arms across his chest and smirked. "Prove it."

"Huh?"

"Prove it," said Peter. "Turn into a werewolf right now. I want to see it."

"Well, I… uh…" started Stiles which only made Peter's smirk broaden. Stiles frowned, narrowing his eyes. "Fine," he said, "okay, yeah. I'll shift. You better stand back, though, I can't be held responsible for my actions when I'm in my wereform."

"I'm sure you're a ferocious beast," said Peter dryly, not moving from his slight recline in the kitchen chair.

Stiles stood up and moved to the middle of the room. He stood straight and tall with his hands out at his sides. He lifted his chin and closed his eyes. He had no idea what he was doing, but he had shifted by accident before, so he should be able to do it on purpose right then. It seemed like sound reasoning. He concentrated and tried to will the wolf out of him. He imagined himself shifting, he thought of the forests in his dreams, he thought of wolfy things like hunting and howling.

Nothing happened.

He tried again.

Nothing happened, again.

He closed his eyes even tighter, grit his teeth, and pushed at his inner wolf as hard as he could.

Nothing.

"Okay," laughed Peter, "okay, okay, stop, you're going to hurt yourself."

"I am a werewolf, Peter," grumbled Stiles as Peter wrapped an arm around his shoulders and moved him from where he had stood squared in the middle of the room.

"Of course, you can be whatever you want to be. Dream big, Kid," humoured Peter snarkily. "Just do it in your own apartment. It's nearly morning and I need some sleep."

Peter directed Stiles to the door and opened it for him before giving him a little push out.

"I am! I really am!" exclaimed Stiles. "You have to believe me! It all adds up, it all makes sense."

"Oh, yes, of course, it definitely makes sense," said Peter, nodding.

"C'mon Peter, open your mind, man," said Stiles as he was bodily moved into the apartmentplex hallway.

"No drugs, thank you," countered Peter, "you seem to be smoking enough for both of us."

And with that, he closed the door. Just like a month earlier, he closed it right in Stiles' face. Stiles huffed his frustration at the door directly in front of him before turning and storming across the hall to his apartment.

"Fine," he growled to himself shutting his apartment door behind him. "I probably wouldn't believe me, either."

He stormed to his room and grabbed his smart phone from where it was sitting on his bedside table plugged in to the wall to charge. He unlocked it and promptly looked up the lunar calendar for the month. So, it wasn't the night of the full moon. Tomorrow would be the full moon. Hmm. Perhaps he should prepare.