The front door unlocked with a solid 'click' as Stiles's key turned over the tumblers. He held the door open for Peter and then followed him in, locking the door securely behind him— which was interesting, when he thought about it, because the big, bad monster was on the wrong side of the door.

What did that say about Stiles?

Peter eyed the smile Stiles was failing to repress. "What's so funny?"

Stiles ducked his head, chagrinned. "Ah, nothing, it's just nice to see a werewolf other than Scott that knows how to use the front door. I was starting to think it was a 'born' thing, coming in through the window," he said as he meandered to the kitchen, Peter trailing in his wake.

"And does Derek drop by often?"

The question seemed offhand, but there was something…off about the tone of Peter's voice. It was too light, too even, and it made Stiles turn away from the open pantry to look at Peter. The man was leaning back against the sink, his hands half buried in his jeans pockets and his ankles crossed. Despite how relaxed and politely interested Peter appeared, the man was putting him on edge, as though Stiles could tell when Peter's nonchalance was faked.

It was something about his eyes, cunning and sharp and piercing through to the soul with a single glance— and they were watching Stiles intently.

He wasn't…no, that's not… Was Peter jealous? Wow, when a werewolf marks his territory, he fucking means it…

"No no no, no, Not often. Or really at all, much. Not socially. He mostly shows up on pack-type business. Or when he's on the lam. He doesn't pop in for movie night or, you know, to hang out. Ever," said Stiles, practically tripping over himself to reassure Peter that his nephew wasn't a threat (romantically speaking, that is). Speaking of tripping…

Stiles nearly fell over when his ankle throbbed unpleasantly, making itself known as it suddenly refused to support his weight. And that's when Peter's arms wrapped around him from behind (when had the dude even moved?) and stabilized his balance.

"Where are you medical supplies?" Peter asked, concern slipping into his voice.

"What?" Peter's hand, low on his abdomen, was completely derailing Stiles's thought pattern. "Oh, um, upstairs bathroom, why?"

Peter's sigh tickled his ear. "For your ankle?" He drawled sarcastically.

Oh.

Between his excitement from getting Peter to come home with him and worrying about what the hell to cook for the guy, Stiles had all but forgotten his little stumble in the woods— as well as his "mess" from earlier. The uncomfortable little tugs from where his pubic hair was sticking to his boxers were suddenly magnified now that he was focusing on the area. Crap, the night just couldn't go smoothly for him, could it?

"Okay, how 'bout a compromise?" Stiles stammered, hoping that the werewolf would let him have his way in his own freaking house. "You help keep me from face-planting on the floor while I get dinner together and then we'll break for bandaging." He grimaced as the dried come started to make him itch. "And maybe a shower. I promise, once the food is in the oven, I'm all yours. Cool?"

Peter hummed softly and nuzzled Stiles's ear. "All mine, hmm?"

Stiles's stomach flipped, nervously. Had he really said that?

"Deal," Peter whispered, guiding Stiles back to the open pantry. "And what will we need from in here?"

Okay…so, not the smoothest of dinner preps in Stilinski history, but on a scale of one to ten, Stiles still felt it merited at least an '8', from Peter's help alone.

Having the sexy werewolf proverbially glued to his hip had given Stiles on-the-spot jitters— as well as butterfingers that would have shattered his mom's best baking dish had Peter not caught it before it hit the floor (thank God for supernatural reflexes).

And, of course, Stiles had to go and slice his finger on the edge of a low-sodium green bean can, but Peter's insistence that a few drops of blood would only "enhance" the dish's flavor had been (weirdly) reassuring enough to keep Stiles from scraping the whole project and just ordering take-out.

Or maybe it had been Peter's bedroom eyes as he sucked on the wounded finger.

Or the impromptu hard-on that made Peter smirk knowingly at him for about ten minutes as they threw ingredients together.

Yeah, probably that last one. Stiles hadn't been about to greet the pizza guy with a tip and a boner (he still had some standards).

Besides, making dinner with Peter? — Surprisingly not that awkward. Once Stiles got used to the perpetual hand at his waist, they had somehow…sync'd. The whole process became fluid, Peter's keen eyes and quick reflexes allowing him to keep pace with whatever needed opening, slicing, handing over, and whatnot.

The familiarity of Peter's movements made Stiles suspect that the man had experience in the kitchen, but he didn't dare ask about it. They seemed to have an unspoken agreement of not bringing up their demons. Which was just fine, in Stiles's opinion; the little assholes were free to lurk in the corner of the freaking room so long as Stiles wasn't forced to actually acknowledge them. He supposed Peter had the same right to privacy.

Well, minus whatever Stiles had already read in the Hale murder file.

But then the casserole— an old pasta-veggie bake recipe of his mom's— was in the oven, leaving Stiles with a throbbing ankle, itchy patches of dried semen, and no ideas for how to entertain Peter for forty to fifty minutes while the food baked. Stiles ruffled a hand through his hair as he racked his brain for the least lame way to pass the time.

He tossed an errant veggie peeler into the sink and turned to face Peter. "So— whoa!"

Stiles's arms flailed around, nearly smacking Peter in the jaw as he grabbed at the man's shirt for stability because his feet were no longer touching the ground. Peter had scooped him up as though he was nothing more than a sack of potatoes, instead of the 147 pounds of gangly human teenager that he really was. And fuck, Stiles really shouldn't find it so arousing. Maybe he was starting to develop a 'damsel' complex…

Peter pivoted smoothly and started off towards the hall, carrying Stiles bride-style.

"Hey, uh… what the fuck, dude?"

Snorting softly, Peter rolled his eyes.

Close as he was, Stiles could see every fleck and subtle change in color in them. He was secure enough in his masculinity to admit he found them mesmerizing.

"Making dinner is one thing, I was lenient with that, but letting you climb the stairs? On that ankle? I don't think so…" Peter trailed off, humming tunelessly as they started up the staircase.

Stiles raised an eyebrow at the werewolf. "My hero," he said, his voice flat with exaggerated sarcasm.

"You don't think I could pull off the dashing prince?" Peter mock-pouted at him as they reached the top (the dude wasn't even winded, how unfair was that?).

Stiles, helpful to the last, pointed him in the direction of the bathroom. "Oh, I have no doubt that you could pull it off, but I wasn't born yesterday, buddy. A coin's got two sides. The knight in shining armor? These days he's got two failed marriages and a gambling addiction. And that dashing prince? Ulterior motives out the ass. This ain't Disney, Prince Charming."

Peter wasn't even bothering to hide his smirk anymore.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you? Stiles asked, unsure if Peter actually appreciated his sarcasm or if his plight was being mocked.

Peter chuckled as he nudged open the bathroom door with his foot and set Stiles down carefully on the sink's counter top. "Oh, absolutely," he said with a genuine smile. "Now where are your medical supplies?" He looked at Stiles expectantly.

"Ah….actually…" Stiles gazed over the older man's shoulder to the shower behind him. "I was kind of hoping to…clean up…a little." He trailed a hand down his shirt to emphasize the point. "But you might want to lose some layers there. Unless you don't mind getting soaked?"

That snapped Peter's attention back to Stiles from where it had briefly wandered to the shower stall. He cocked his head at Stiles, his expression unreadable. "You want me in the shower with you?"

"Well, purely in the interest of safety," Stiles shrugged, trying to pull off 'blasé' instead of 'hopeful virgin'. "You don't want me fall or anything, do you? I mean, you were so helpful with the stairs, I just figured it would suck if all that effort went to waste."

He leaned back on the counter, spreading his legs only the tiniest bit.

The movement still caught Peter's eye and his bearing became decidedly wolfish as he stepped into Stiles's space. He brushed his hands teasingly over Stiles's thighs. "Aren't you worried about my… ulterior motives?" Peter whispered, his eyes flashing.

Stiles swallowed roughly at the reminder that he was, essentially, playing with fire.

Or baiting a starving wolf.

If Peter started licking his chops, the picture would be complete, Stiles thought, dazedly, as he stared at the man's lips.

Peter's light, musky scent was surrounding him, tantalizing him, driving him to act out and push his luck. It amazed Stiles that slightest attention from Peter was enough to bring out his inner slut. Maybe he had the wolf analogy backwards…

Stiles reached out to press his hand to Peter's chest. Feeling the quickened patter of the man's heart bolstered his confidence. He pulled Peter forward by his shirt, angling his head to speak into Peter's ear. "Yeah," Stiles whispered, his voice husky to his own ears, "but aren't you curious about mine?"

He playfully nipped at Peter's earlobe, earning him a throaty rumble from Peter's chest.

Peter dipped his head to nuzzle at Stiles's throat, breathing in deeply and taking in the teen's arousal. He raised his head to level a stern look at Stiles. "Shower first," he said in a tone that brooked no argument. Then he tugged Stiles off the counter by his hips and set him back on his feet.

"Aw, come on…" Stiles half-heartedly griped as Peter put space between them. A quick glance down at Peter's crotch ruled out lack of interest on the werewolf's part—the guy was at least half hard.

"You've already talked your way out of wrapping that ankle twice now," Peter replied, all business. He bent at the waist and started untying his laces. "Once you're clean, you're going horizontal for as long as I can keep you there."

Stiles snorted, mirroring Peter, tackling his own laces and kicking off his shoes and socks. "'Talked my way out', yeah, ok. Like I— wait, 'horizontal'?" He paused, halfway out of his dirt-covered hoodie, his mind overflowing with the possibilities of 'horizontal'.

He smiled slyly at Peter. "That a threat or a promise, Lazarus?" Stiles quipped, pulling off his Captain America tee and tossing it to the floor. He watched, transfixed (and a little jealous) as Peter slowly unbuttoned his black shirt with confidence and precision.

Little by little, Peter's chest was revealed, toned with a light covering of hair. Stiles badly wanted to touch, to drag his fingers down Peter's front and feel the contrast of soft hair over hard muscle.

"And if it's both?" Peter asked, smug from Stiles's open admiration.

Stiles went to reply, but the words died in his throat when the older man deftly unbuckled his belt. Peter flicked open the button and ever so slowly dragging down the zip. A soft whine left Stiles as Peter shoved everything down all at once. The man kicked the last of his clothing away to stand naked in all his glory, his gorgeous cock jutting proudly at Stiles.

Peter grinned at the teen's unabashed stare. "Coming?" he asked, flitting his gaze up and down Stiles's half-nude form before turning to start the shower.

Silently thanking the older man for the moment of privacy, Stiles tore off his remaining clothes and joined Peter in the shower stall, closing the door behind him. The tight globes of Peter's ass distracted Stiles enough that he started when Peter turned back to face him, having adjusted the water's temperature to his liking.

Now, while the shower wasn't huge or anything, there was still enough room for two men to stand comfortably under the spray of water.

Well, sort of.

This being his first time naked with another naked person, Stiles was understandably insecure. He found himself looking at everything except Peter, highly aware of how close his erection was to the man's hip. Stiles could feel a flush spreading across his face and it was aggravating.

Stupid, he derisively thought to himself. You can hump the guy fully clothed, but God forbid should Peter actually see your cock.

Jeez, if all of his future nude interactions were going to be this awkward, he should probably quit now while he still had some self-respect.

A soaped- up hand pressed low on his abdomen and Stiles jumped, groaning when his cock accidentally brushed against Peter's forearm.

The older man chuckled at the surprised confusion on Stiles's face. "Since I helped make the mess, I'll help you clean up," he said, mischievously, his blunt nails scraping gently at the dried come matted in Stiles's happy trail.

For some reason, Stiles felt the pulls on his hair as though Peter was directly touching his dick. The little jolts made him shiver. Peter scrubbed at his skin, gradually removing the evidence of their forest tryst— but he ignored Stiles's throbbing cock. It was maddening, the werewolf was touching him everywhere but the spot he wanted it most. Stiles had to bite his lip to stop himself from whimpering.

When Peter angled the shower head to rinse off the suds, Stiles found his voice again. "Awfully nice of you," he croaked out, his throat tight with repressed need.

Peter smiled absently as he soaped Stiles up again, carefully working at the remaining patches on his belly and in his pubic hair. "We take care of those in our pack," said Peter. There was a far-off look in his eyes that Stiles recognized— he'd seen it in his dad's eyes when he was remembering mom.

"Um, but I'm not pack," Stiles tentatively said, "not in Derek's, anyway." Not that Stiles was aware of…

"But you are part of Scott's pack," Peter continued. "I was the one who turned him. There's still a connection and, by association, to you."

Stiles looked at him skeptically. "I suppose…" He really wasn't sure what to do with that.

"You're exceptionally loyal to Scott, for a human," remarked Peter, out of the blue. He scrapped at Stiles's belly again.

Stiles raised an incredulous brow at him. "Well, yeah, he's my best friend. Bros do that kind of thing."

"And?"

Stiles frowned at Peter. "'And' what?" He got the feeling that, even though Peter seemed engrossed with his self-appointed task, the werewolf was covertly scrutinizing him.

"Did you know I could sense you both, that night in the preserve? You and Scott?" Peter asked, teasing his claws through Stiles's soapy thatch, the sensation sending Goosebumps over his skin.

"Okay—"

"Two teenagers, roaming about in the woods at night, looking for things they shouldn't."

Stiles scowled at him. "Okay, what does—"

Peter cut him off again.

"The interesting thing about Scott is that, fundamentally, he's simple. I mean," Peter laughed under his breath, "if he had to choose between Allison and being a werewolf, he'd pick Allison, right?"

Stiles stayed silent this time, fairly certain that had been a rhetorical question.

"He only gets into trouble because it finds him. He's not the type to go looking for it." Peter flicked his attention back up to Stiles, staring into his eyes with a perceptiveness that sent alarm bells off in the teen's head. "Not like you. As the son of the town Sheriff, you catch glimpses of danger all the time, don't you? But instead of scaring you," Peter's claws drew abstractly across his belly, "you're...intrigued by it. You like the thrill danger brings you. Yes, you do."

Stiles stopped shaking his head silently in denial.

"You can't lie to me, Stiles, not when this," Peter wrapped his hand firmly around the base of Stiles's cock. Stiles gasped and bucked involuntarily. "Practically screams the truth at me. You're the reason Scott was out there that night, weren't you? You dragged him out there, looking for danger, but Scott was the one who found it. Is that why you've stayed with him, even in the times he wants to tear your throat out? Because of guilt?"

Peter released his hold on Stiles's cock, having proved his point.

Stiles trained his gaze on the anti-slip stickers on the shower floor.

They were a mixed pattern of flowers and ducks that his mom had planned out on a scrap of paper before painstakingly applying each one. But not even their associated memory could drive away Peter's words, needle-sharp and hitting closer to home than Stiles care for because they held a truth he couldn't escape.

Stiles had long-since acknowledged that his stupidity had brought an awful lot of responsibility down on his best friend's shoulders. Instead of ditching the drama, Stiles had stuck by him and helped where he could when everything went to shit. He gave a damn about his almost-brother. But the close calls — the times that Scott nearly died— cut Stiles to the core because there wasn't a goddamn thing he could do to fix his friend's 'werewolf problem'.

A large soapy hand cupped his chin and tilted it up, forcing Stiles to meet Peter's compassionate eyes.

"You don't need to feel guilty, Stiles. When a human is Bitten, their body has a choice: adapt or succumb. Scott's body accepted the change, took the chance it was presented with to become something more, something better," Peter said earnestly, his thumb caressing Stiles's jaw.

"Every challenge Scott faces and walks away alive from is part of being a werewolf. It's a series of tests to prove that you have what it takes to rise up and survive what gets thrown at you. What Scott's going through will only make him realize what his body already understands: that he's been gifted with an opportunity to be more than he otherwise would have been. You think he would have had a chance with his beloved Allison without having the edge of his new abilities? You think she would have looked twice at a benched asthmatic lacrosse player? He should be thanking you. Everything he loves and fights for, he has because you."

Peter released his face in favor of tugging him under the spray of water. The werewolf rinsed off the remaining suds and filth as he pressed feather-light kisses to Stiles's jaw.

Stiles leaned into Peter, his eyes vacant as he ruminated over Peter's view of the matter.

He had always blamed himself in part or Scott's 'curse', but all things considered…the dude wasn't dead, whether from Stiles's support, dumb luck, or some weird combination of the two. It was easy to see the negative aspects of becoming a werewolf (like the murderous urges and the occasional hunter), but if a 'born' werewolf could tote the positives…how bad could being a werewolf really be?

Maybe what it came down to was having proper management skills.

Peter rubbed shampoo into Stiles's hair (Stiles didn't even bother questioning how the man could tell which shampoo was his). On a whim, Stiles scooped up some of the lather on his head and began working it into Peter's longer locks with both hands, mostly to have a reason to touch Peter's hair again.

Peter smiled, bemused. "What are you doing?"

Stiles shrugged, massaging the man's scalp in tiny circles. "Making you smell like me."

For a moment, Peter completely froze. Then, without warning, Stiles found himself against the shower wall with the back of his head cradled in one of Peter's clawed hands, his front covered in wet, soapy werewolf.

Peter's hard cock ground against Stiles's.

Correction: wet, soapy, aroused werewolf.

Stiles's moan was swallowed by the older man, their lips clashing together in a messy, heated kiss. He wasn't exactly sure what he'd done to flip Peter's switch, but he really needed to figure it out if this was the result.

Stiles's hands tangled in Peter's hair because that was an awesome place for them to be while Peter pawed frantically at Stiles's wet skin with his free hand. Stiles whimpered and writhed against the older man, pinned between him and the wall.

Then, just as abruptly, Peter pulled out of the kiss and turned his head away.

At first, Stiles thought that Peter had had a change of heart, but the tilt of his head and the intensity of his fixed stare— as though he could see through the wall he was looking at— gave Stiles the strong impression of a pointing dog. "What?" he asked, Peter's stillness making him uneasy.

"Someone's here," Peter said, softly, concentrating on the wall.

Fear shot through Stiles, his muscles tensing. "My dad's back?" Shit, there was no good way to explain to his dad why there was a thirty-something year old werewolf naked in the shower with him. Oh fuck fuck fuck fuck…

Peter shook his head slowly, his eyes glowing.

"No. It's Scott."