Stiles peeked into the hallway from behind his barely opened apartment door. There was no movement out there. He let the door fall silently shut to quickly pull on his sneakers and grab his new bag (he had to buy after the werewolf ruined his other one). Then, he pushed it open a crack, again, to, again, peek out into the empty hallway. Still, no one. He quickly jumped into action; moving around the door into the hall, closing it as soundlessly as possible behind him and locking it with his keys. He was headed at a brisk pace to the stairwell when he heard another apartment's deadbolt sliding open behind him. Not daring to look, Stiles picked up the pace.

He let out a sigh of relief when he got outside without seeing anyone. He slung his long-strapped bag properly over his shoulder and across his chest, put his hands in his pockets, and picked his way down the heavily potholed back alley to work. It was afternoon. The sky was blue and nearly cloudless. There were birds flying overhead, singing their thoughts as they flew. Someone across the block was mowing their lawn, the mower's engine a distant, mildly irritating hum. A few kids were walking home together from school ahead of him in the alley. They were talking about the basketball practice that must have held them longer after school than other students. Stiles shouldn't have been able to hear their conversation.

Everything seemed a lot more vivid than Stiles could ever remember. Colours were brighter, sounds deafening, smells intoxicating -it was enough to drive him mad. He tried to focus on his breathing and the rhythm of his footfalls on the dusty gravel beneath him. It must be his heightened werewolf senses that had him reeling. Even though he'd been a werewolf for a month, by then, they were only showing up, now. It didn't make sense, but neither did the existence of werewolves. Would it always be like this, now?

Abby was sitting in the backroom, changing her shoes, when Stiles arrived. She looked up when he entered the building and gave him a quick, benign smile before going back to her shoes. She looked up again, a little more abruptly, though, a millisecond after. Her eyebrows were drawn together and a frown pulled at her bright red lipstick.

"You feeling okay?" she asked.

"Uh," breathed out, Stiles.

Somewhere in the store, someone was listening to music through earbuds. It was setting his teeth on edge. Abby put her work shoes in her backpack before getting up and stepping into a pair of her fancy, neon, high-heeled shoes she always liked to wear. She then stepped closer to Stiles, giving him a wary look.

"You hungover?" she asked.

"Definitely feel like it," agreed Stiles, pressing his fingers to his temples as the playlist switched to an even more obnoxious song made worse by the tinny earbuds. Vehicles in the street hummed and whined. A diesel truck rumbled in an earth-shattering way.

"If you're sick, don't get near me," she warned, looking a little more worried. "I can't afford to be sick this weekend, I have tickets to see…"

Stiles wasn't listening any more, though. The ancient air conditioner in the backroom's window had just kicked on and the high pitched shriek it gave was like nothing he had ever heard before. Stiles fell to his knees clutching at his ears.

"Oh, fuck," groaned Abby. "What're you on?"

Stiles looked up in confusion to find her squatting in front of him and looking divided on whether she should touch him with her half-raised right hand. The smell of her perfume was making his head spin.

"Are you ODing?" she asked with the tone of someone who'd been privy to it before and very afraid of seeing it again. "What did you take? Do we need to get you to the hospital?"

Stiles just whined as the sounds of the building and the town beyond continued to pound into him.

"Damnit, Stiles," exclaimed Abby, panic obvious in her voice by then. "You are not allowed to do this in front of me. Do you understand? This is notokay!"

They must have been making a lot of noise, because seconds later, someone approached. Their footsteps only added to Stiles' agony. A low, nasally voice began talking to Abby, but Stiles couldn't understand their words. He couldn't focus on anything. The noise was too much. It didn't even seem to have sound any more, it was just pain.

Someone shook him and Stiles managed to look up at them from where he had been rocking in a fetal position on the floor, his head under his arms.

"...someone we can call," was the tail end of the man's query.

Stiles stared at them unblinkingly. Someone had cracked open his skull and filled it with lava and this guy was asking him about his address book?

"I'm calling 911," came Abby's voice, then, and it gave Stiles such a sudden moment of clarity that he yelped out loud. If he went to the hospital, they'd notify his next of kin, right? They'd.. they'd call his dad.

"No!" exclaimed Stiles. "No, no, no!"

"Who can we call, Stiles?" asked Abby, her voice tearful.

"P-Peter," said Stiles, "just… just get Peter."

"Peter?" asked Abby in confusion. "The neighbour guy you've been crushing on? That Peter?"

Stiles nodded emphatically before clutching at his head, again.

"Help me get him up, he doesn't live far from here," said Abby and then the man was in Stiles' space. His natural body odor was probably the worst scent Stiles had ever experienced in his life. He had to spend most of his energy keeping himself from vomiting on the man.

"...fuck.. is.. this?" slurred Stiles as he allowed the stinky, nasal-voiced man to strong-arm him to his feet.

"My boyfriend, idiot," said Abby as she moved into his other side, placing Stiles' arm over shoulders.

"Smelly," grumbled Stiles.

Abby snorted.

The next thing Stiles could really recall with any certainty was being held up against Abby's terrible-smelling boyfriend in the familiar-musty-tobacco smelling apartment with loudly creaking pipes and unhealthily groaning support beams while Abby knocked on Peter's apartment door. Stiles' head was beginning to clear now that the sounds and scents were falling away from the forefront of his mind into a lulling background of familiarity. Still, being able to hear his, Abby's and her boyfriend's, and even Peter's heartbeats all at once was unsettling in his already-unsettled state.

The apartment door opened to find Peter wearing one of his plunging v-neck shirts and a pair of dark-wash denim jeans. Stiles still felt dizzy and unfocused. His head was pounding with an epic migraine. And, now, a sudden wash of embarrassment was rushing over him. There had been a reason behind his stealth exit of the apartment before work not even an hour prior! That reason was standing in front of him looking confused and concerned in a pair of snug-fitting jeans. Stiles was so not ready to face Peter after the night before. He had cried on the guy and fallen asleep with his head in the guy's lap for fuck's sake!

And, yet, mortification and pride aside, the first thing Stiles did upon seeing Peter was let out a small whine and take a step toward him.

Peter had to quickly reach out to catch him. Stiles' balance was completely shot from the whole sensory overload thing that had resulted in him at Peter's doorstep (yet again) with his fellow mini mart employee and her boyfriend at his side. Peter wrapped his arms tightly around Stiles to keep him from falling, but Stiles was going to pretend it was a loving embrace. Words were being exchanged around him, but he was busy nuzzling his face into Peter's neck and inhaling his scent. The smell was a million times better than Abby's perfume or her stinky boyfriend and some of the pain in Stiles' head began to subside as he filled his nostrils with it.

Peter walked them back into his apartment, taking a moment to close and lock his front door. Stiles just pressed closer into him. He couldn't get enough of Peter's smell, of his presence, of the sounds of his body merely existing.

"...strange, Stiles," said Peter, but Stiles only caught the last two words. He simply hummed and rubbed his face against the slight rasp of Peter's throat and underside of his jaw.

Peter pushed Stiles down onto his living room couch. Stiles hadn't seen Peter's living room before; not really. His couch was leather, but plush and comfortable. Stiles sunk into it for a millisecond before reaching needily for Peter.

"Your friend said you'd taken drugs," Peter continued to pry. Stiles didn't mind Peter's questions even though questions had always made him feel cornered as a kid (even when he hadn't done anything wrong). Peter could ask all the questions he wanted so long as Stiles could continue to appreciate the timbre of Peter's even voice. "I'm assuming this is another 'werewolf' thing."

Stiles smiled adoringly at Peter. Abby had said he'd taken drugs, hadn't she. Stiles was beginning to believe her. He certainly felt like he was on drugs; Ecstasy, maybe. He was definitely feeling the urge to take off his clothes and rub all over Peter and his things. It would be upsetting if Stiles were in his right mind. Really, though, Stiles was just happy Peter was now sitting next to him.

Peter grabbed Stiles' face in his hands and peered into his eyes. Stiles blinked slowly at him. He could feel a big, dopey smile growing on his slack face, but he didn't really care that much. What he needed was a plan to get Peter to put his hands on the rest of him, too.

"Pretty blue eyes," slurred Stiles, happily.

"Thank you, Stiles," said Peter, but he didn't sound right. Maybe he didn't believe Stiles. Maybe no one had ever told him that his eyes were pretty before. Maybe- "Did you take anything today?" asked Peter in a tone that demanded a response.

"Take anything," repeated Stiles, dumbly.

Peter let go of Stiles' face and leaned back on the couch to rub a hand over his face. Stiles was jealous of Peter's face because it had Peter's hand on it, instead of his hand being on Stiles' face. He was also jealous of Peter's hand because it got to be on Peter's face. That was kind of silly, but… well.

"Aspirin, Tylenol, Wake-Ups... Prozzak," listed Peter, judgement heavy on the last word.

"Ecstasy," supplied Stiles, helpfully.

"You… you took Ecstasy?" asked Peter, sharply.

"Uh… no," said Stiles, shaking his head. "No, drugs are bad. Never drugs. Dad would kill me."

Peter took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Stiles did the same thing, mimicking him.

"I don't know what's wrong with you, Stiles," said Peter around a sigh. "I'm going to get you a drink of water and then I think you should just sleep this off."

"Mmkay," agreed Stiles, leaning toward him as Peter got up. Stiles nearly fell off the couch as he bodily sought after Peter's disappearing presence.

He righted himself and then, moments later, Peter was at his side again with a glass of water in hand. He took Stiles' hand in his and placed the cup in it. Stiles liked Peter's hand on his. He grinned down at it.

"Stiles," ground out Peter.

Stiles looked up at him, finding his bright blue eyes looking a little stormy.

"Drink the water," commanded Peter.

Stiles was quick to obey.

Peter watched him drink the whole glass of water before taking the glass to refill it. He returned with it, again, and made Stiles drink all of it, again. Stiles was happy to obey Peter even if he wasn't really that thirsty.

"Do you want me to help you back to your place or are you- okay."

Stiles wondered why Peter kept saying things when he could be cuddling on the couch with him. It seemed like the better option. Stiles snuggled down in the comfy padding of the couch, pressing his face against the cool leather, and wrapped his arms around himself in a big self-hug. The familiar smell of Peter's home engulfed him making him feel safe and comfortable. He felt suddenly exhausted. He didn't even have to open his eyes to track Peter's movements around the small apartment. He could follow the sound of his heartbeat and soft, shuffling movements. He liked having Peter near.

Peter draped a light blanket over Stiles and left him to rest. Stiles snuggled further into the couch, uncurling from himself enough to take hold of the blanket to pull it more tightly over him. He fell asleep with a smile on his lips.

Stiles woke with a start. He had been dreaming of running through a deep, ancient forest. Peter had been there, his eyes always on Stiles, his presence always felt. He didn't run with Stiles, didn't move from where he stood in a small clearing, but his mind was always with Stiles, his voice guiding him in every decision he made. It wasn't a nightmare like all the prior forest-related dreams. No, this dream had been freeing.

Stiles sucked in a sharp, deep breath and rubbed a hand over his face before finally opening his eyes. Oh. He wasn't home.

"Oh," he voiced without meaning to.

The living room was unfamiliar and yet, somewhat familiar. It was obvious he was in Peter's apartment. It was dark -perhaps the middle of the night. Everything was still. Stiles rubbed his hands over his face, again. The events of the afternoon were coming back to him with a mortifying clarity. He remembered how sights, sounds and smells had suddenly begun to grow more and more overwhelming. He remember his break down in the backroom at work, remembered asking to be taken to Peter. He remembered seeing Peter and simply needing him with. every. ounce. of. his. being.

None of it made sense. The only thing he could conclude was that he needed to move to a different town. Pronto.

He had been embarrassed about his full moon night with Peter that morning, now he had a whole new list of grievances. There was no way Stiles could stick around. He had to get the hell out.

Stiles pushed the blanket aside and got up. He grabbed his shoes from where they sat on the floor next to the couch and resolutely did not think of the fact that Peter must have unlaced them and taken them off Stiles feet for him while he was passed out on the couch after coming down from his weird-ass werewolf high. He was at the apartment door, about to turn the deadbolt to unlock it and make his escape when Peter stepped into the small entry hallway looking tired and owlish.

"My sleeping patterns have taken a rather painful hit since meeting you," spoke Peter.

"I…" started Stiles, but he really didn't know what to say.

He was such an asshole. Peter had taken him in (yet again) out of the goodness of his little serial killer heart and here Stiles was sneaking out like a thief or... or… or an ashamed one-night-stand. Stiles let out a sigh and let his shoulders drop.

"I'm sorry," he said.

He could feel a lump forming in his throat. He silently yelled at it to go away. There was no way in hell he was going to add to his mortification by crying in front of Peter… again. He really didn't know what his emotions were doing, though. He was a mess. He wondered if this was what Allison and Lydia had meant when they talked about menstrual mood swings.

Werewolves and menstruating women were pretty much the same thing.

He laughed at the sudden thought. The laugh spilling out allowed his eyes to spill, too. Stiles found himself laughing and crying in Peter's entry dressed in his rumpled clothes, holding his sneakers in his hand, while Peter gaped at him in just his silk pajama pants. Oh… oh. Peter hadn't put on his white vneck that time. Well, damn.

Stiles laughed even more hysterically at that. Even while humiliated, exhausted, and likening lycanthropy to PMS, Stiles found Peter painfully attractive.

"I'm sorry," Stiles repeated, shaking his head.

Peter let out a soft huff that sounded like a mix between annoyance and resignation before he was suddenly in Stiles' space, hugging him.

"Fuck," ground out Stiles miserably as he melted into Peter. "I thought becoming a werewolf would make me badass. So far, it's only made me even more pathetic."

"You've definitely got some things to work through," agreed Peter levelly.

Stiles laughed weakly and leaned his head against Peter's shoulder. Peter was rubbing circles softly against his back as he held him. I was so nice; so very, very welcome. Stiles took a few deep breaths and then forced himself to step back.

"Thank you," he said as sincerely as he could before wiping his eyes with his arm. "I'm sorry for showing up on your doorstep with all my issues and emoting all over you. I… I don't… it's probably already become pretty obvious to you, but I don't actually have anyone, so… thank you for, uh, humouring me."

"My pleasure," replied Peter with a small smile that didn't reach his eyes. They were a pretty blue, but damn, Stiles couldn't believe he had said that.

"I'm… I'm just going to go, now," said Stiles, pointing his thumb over his shoulder at the door. "I'll try to not show up on your doorstep for at leastforty-eight hours, this time," he added wryly.

"Whatever will I do to fill my nights?" asked Peter with a crooked grin.

Stiles smirked, rolling his eyes. Some of his bruised ego seemed able to fit back in place at Peter's sassy teasing. Maybe he'd actually live beyond today's embarrassment, yet. First, though, he needed to go home and do more research. Maybe he'd sleep first, but he definitely needed to figure out what the hell had happened to him and how he could make sure it didn't happen again.

He noticed his bag sitting beside Peter's door and grabbed it up, tucking his sneakers under his arm so he'd have a free hand to open the apartment door.

"Good night, Stiles," spoke Peter to his back.

Stiles couldn't seem to make himself respond, so he just looked over his shoulder and did a weak little wave before stepping out into the hall, closing the door behind him. He walked down and across the hall to his apartment door and spent some time fishing through his bag for his keys before unlocking his apartment and stepping inside.

The clock on the microwave in his kitchen said 4:30 AM. Stiles' stomach rumbled, so he grabbed an apple before walking through his living room to drop his bag and sneakers down on the couch and continue on to his bedroom. Apple only partially eaten, he crawled under the covers of his bed and cuddled up to his pillow.

It didn't take long for him to fall back to sleep even though he must have already slept a good 10 or 11 hours. He didn't sleep long, though. He woke at 6 with the greys and golds of dawn. His sleep had been dreamless that time and he sauntered around his apartment in a sleepy stupor. He took a shower, had cereal for breakfast with his bath towel wrapped around his waist, threw out the half-eaten apple on his nightstand, and got dressed.

He had work again that afternoon, but decided to call in sick, again. Considering how he left at the beginning of his shift the day before, he doubted him missing work the next day would be unexpected. Then, he sat down on his couch with his laptop and got to 'googling'. He would figure this out and then he would stop being such a nuisance to those few actually in his life. He didn't want to actually have to move away to save people from himself, again.