Six Feet Under | Sterek

four;

He dreams of feeling small and claustrophobia and someone screaming. He wakes up hyperventilating and it takes him far too long to calm down. "You're okay," he whispers to himself, pressing his arms to his chest. "You're okay, Stiles, c'mon." He grips his hair tightly, curls into himself.

"You ever considered that maybe you were kicked out because your dad needed sleep?" Peter's voice is dry, and slightly irritated, and Stiles feels sick. "Honestly kid, how is anybody supposed to get any rest when you're around?"

"I can leave," Stiles says, and his voice is small.

Peter sighs heavily and Stiles knows why, because Peter hadn't tried to be mean with his words, he just needs to gauge where Stiles is emotionally. He needs to know how far away the human boy really is so that he and Derek can bring him back again. "Scott's coming over today," he says, and Stiles lets out a breath. "Derek told him what's happening. He's upset."

"Scott's always upset," Stiles mutters. "I'm not exactly the best friend to have around."

"I'd challenge that," Peter says, and there's an edge to his voice now that hadn't been there before. "But I know that once you're in a self-deprecating mood it's impossible to make you see sense, so I'll settle for forcing your ass into a shower. You reek."

Embarrassment colours Stiles's cheeks pink, even as he snuggles deeper into the soft pillows. He knows how bad he smells, with the alcohol and the sadness, and the cemetery dirt. But he doesn't wanna get up, doesn't trust himself to stand and walk without falling over. "You have a way with the men, don't you?" He says to Peter, hoping that by pretending to be okay, he'll be left alone. "Such a polite little werewolf you are."

"Stiles, I will kick your ass. Get up. Have a shower. Derek might tolerate your moping, but I will not."

And that's what offends Stiles the most, that fact that Derek will just leave him be because that's just who Stiles is right? That stupid little human who gets upset by everything and always mopes and never does anything about it. He glares at Peter, who looks unbothered. Stiles needs another drink, a heavier drink, a drink to make him forget everything.

For a moment, he wants to challenge Peter. He wants to spit venom, and tear the other werewolf to shreds with his words, because apparently Stiles is good at ruining things like that. All he has to do is open his damn mouth and people get hurt and things fall apart. That's his superpower.

He glares at Peter hard enough to give himself a headache, (maybe that's the lack of sleep and too much alcohol) and clambers out of bed. Peter seems unbothered, unruffled. God, Stiles hates him.

"So," he says as he rifles through the duffle bag that had been dumped beside the bed. "Peter Hale, do you spend all your time running after stupidly emotional squishy humans, or was that a special request?" God, he's such a dick, but that offers him a sense of security. He feels safe when he's being an ass.

Peter doesn't rise to the bait. "Shower."

Stiles pauses, purses his lips. He knows that Peter's trying to intimidate him, to scare him into looking after himself. (Stiles is too tired to be scared by someone like Peter). A growl builds in Peter's throat and Stiles blinks slowly, wondering why the werewolf suddenly cares so much about him. "Right," he says sluggishly.

Peter screws up his nose a little as Stiles passes by, and the human boy tries not to be offended. "See if you can't clean off the stench of sadness while you're at it."

Stiles feels a little better.

He trudges to the newly furnished bathroom, thankfully clean after he and Lydia had teamed up and insisted that Derek upgrade the place so that it was at least livable. So now, there were proper bedrooms, a proper kitchen, a proper shower. It was like a completely different place. (He'd been rather smug after Derek had grudgingly admitted that he and Lydia had been right).

He tries to keep his shower brief, he really does, but the water is warm and soothing and he stands with his eyes closed for a long time. He uses Derek's soap, because maybe that's what makes the werewolf smell so good, and then he washes his hair for the first time in a while, and when he steps out of the shower, he feels brand new.

(Derek's soap smells divine and Stiles is definitely going to steal some when he leaves).

He dresses in fresh jeans and a sweater with fraying sleeves, worn down by continuous use. It's soft and a dusty pink colour, (fuck toxic masculinity). Stiles pulls on some warm socks, and by the time he makes it back to the spare room, he's breathing easier than he has in a while. His dad can't touch him here, he doesn't have to lie here. People support him here. Well, Peter supports him here, and that's so far past what Stiles expected that he supposes it counts for Derek by association.

"About time," Peter says when Stiles walks into the kitchen. "We may have inheritated money, kid, but water bills exist. Tell me, is it your goal to make us broke?"

"Peter," Derek warns softly, as though he's worried that Stiles might break. Stiles might have thought it charming had he not been sick of everyone but Peter and his dad treating him like he was goddamn glass.

He refuses to acknowledge what Derek said, and simply smirks at Peter, saying, "You could get a job-Oh wait, you're technically 'dead'. Your loss." He shrugs, catching the flash of relief in Peter's blue, blue eyes. (His eyes aren't gemstones though. They're the colour of the ocean; they're turbulent and conflicted).

He doesn't like to be treated like glass, he never really has. Peter seems to think he's built of stone though, and relief hits him so hard he gets dizzy.