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"Seriously. I can -not- be the only one thinking this!" For the third time in twenty minutes, Stiles' voice interrupts the quiet atmosphere of the loft. Scott, Derek and Peter lift their eyes to gaze at the human. None of them look particularly amused at his interruption.
"I'm going to regret this ... but what is it now, Stiles?" Even his best friend sounds unusually put upon as he looks up from the book in his lap. They've been searching for answers for nearly two hours and Scott is starting to fray around the edges.
"That Creeper 2.0 needs to die. Again. Come on, Derek. We already took this evil douchebag out once." Now usually, Stiles wouldn't be so blood thirsty, but honestly. Peter may as well have a bright pink neon sign over his head that simply reads EVIL.
"We? What exactly did you do, Stiles? As I recall, it as my dear nephew that slit my throat. What part could you possibly have played?" Peter has already returned to his research, his usual air of not caring wrapped about him like a particularly dense cloak. Stiles has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from pointing out that he looks and acts like every 'fop' villian Disney ever come up with.
To make that comparison would be rude and unkind to the stereotypes that Disney created.
Stiles slowly closes the book in his lap and leans forward. There's an ominous cast to his young features, a wild look deep in his honey colored eyes.
"Who's idea do you think it was to burn you alive, asshole? Who do you think mixed the liquid fire that let Derek slit your pathetic, insane throat? Without me, things would be -very- different now." The teen shoves the book off his lap and stands, stretching his lanky frame. "And I am more than happy to off you all over again." He doesn't miss a beat as he makes this confession. Doesn't try to hide the simple truth, and knows that all three of them can hear the steady beat of his heart.
Scott's eyes widen in surprise, Derek just smirks as he continues working, and Peter .. he suddenly coughs. His hand flies up to cover his mouth, and for a split second, Stiles thinks he sees Peter's palm pressing against his mouth. It looks as if the werewolf is trying to keep something in. In the next moment, however, the human realizes that he doesn't care.
"Jesus, Stiles .. what has gotten into you?" Not surprising, Scott sounds unhappy, but Stiles seems completely unmoved by it.
"Nothing, Scott." Stiles turns to survey the werewolves before smirking. "By the by .. what you're looking for is called a Leucrocuta. It's a hybrid were with a big mouth, that has the instincts of a lion and the mean streak of a hyena. So, have fun with that. I'm headed out to eat." He bows sarcastically at them before he turns and heads for the door. "Oh. And even though you didn't listen to me about Matt ... I'm pretty sure it's Yasmin." All three werewolves giving him the evil eye.
He really doesn't care.
In the end, Stiles was right. Yasmin was a Leucrocuta that allowed her hyena side to get the better of her and went on a minor killing spree. Once again, neither Derek or Scott had listened. Which means that she had come very, -very- close to killing Stiles. In fact, had it not been for Peter, the human would be dead. Scott had blamed Peter for killing her, while Derek had grudgingly thanked his Uncle.
Yeah, Peter had nearly choked on his own tongue when that happened, while Stiles had merely smirked like the sassy little bitch he is. He had not, however, bothered thanking the older man himself. He had simply turned around, winked at Derek, and left.
He probably should've been expecting something to happen. But, while he is far more intelligent in his distrust of Peter Hale than the rest of the Pack, he still manages to underestimate the bastard.
Stiles charges into his room as usual, throwing his backpack against the foot of his bed as he falls into his computer chair and nearly goes flying. He yelps, rolls himself back, and opens his laptop. Imagine his surprise when it boots out of sleep mode, the picture of his family a few months before his Mom died, glowing brightly. He immediately goes stiff and slowly turns. When he sees Peter leaning against the wall where Derek once stood, his eyes narrow and he scowls.
"Seriously? You and Derek have a lot in common, RePete. He was a creep in that exact spot not too long ago. What the hell are you doing in my house?" Peter glances up from where he's literally buffing his claws like a DIVA, and smiles a little too widely.
"Are you so surprised that the Big Bad Wolves show up in your room, Stiles? My little nephew could hardly let Scott's scent be the only one in here. That would drive the Alpha mad." Stiles continues to stare at him, making no move, no sound, causing Peter to scowl a little. Surely the pretty teen had no idea of Derek's affections, right? Even if he did ... someone as twisted as Stiles couldn't be -interested- in him ... right?? "As for me .. well, I simply couldn't resist visiting. After all, it seems you owe me a little something, Stiles."
The teen rolls his eyes so dramatically, that his chair starts to roll a little.
"I don't owe you anything, RePete." The werewolf growls, deep and threatening, before he catches himself. He clears his throat and steps forward, adding as much swagger as he possibly can to his step. Stiles nearly rolls his eyes again.
"That is where you are wrong. You literally owe me your -life-, Stiles. So, the least you can do is show a little .. appreciation." The werewolf leers the words, coming to a stop at the foot of Stiles bed. He falls gracefully onto it, trying to put himself on display at just the right angle. "I am more than ready to accept payment in one of several forms. Your support in my mission to become an Alpha again, your help bringing Derek to heel, or my personal favorite ... the use of your prodigious mouth."
"My mouth is neither abnormal or impressive. And I still don't owe you anything, Repete. I didn't beg you to save me or anything. You made the decision because you're a scared little bitch boi that has no one left but your Nephew .. the real Alpha. Something you'll never be again." Stiles voice has changed from it's usual jovial or playful timbre to a cold, cruel tone. Peter fights against a shiver, but it gets out. "So. Take this stupid idea of a debt out of your mind, or I swear I will find a way to give you wolfsbane poisoning." The human sounds utterly delighted at the prospect.
He is not prepared for Peter to suddenly cough violently, three blue petals floating like feathers through the air before falling to the floor between them. Stiles jerks back in surprise, eyes narrowed dangerously.
"What the actual fuck, dude!? Is that .. is that petals??" Peter grunts, his own eyes narrowed in pain. Fat, thick tears squeeze from the corners of his lids, his teeth peeling back momentarily before he manages to get a grip.
"Yes. It is." Stiles slowly bends down, plucking one of the petals from the floor with a frown.
"Seriously? Are fucking -serious- right now?? I thought Hanahaki Disease was some BS made up for stories about tragic, unloved teenagers. Why are you barfing up petals, Peter?" The werewolf wants to cheer internally, and maybe weep a bit. Because of course the teen would call him by his proper name at such a horrid moment.
"Hana-what?" When the teen looks at him flatly, he rolls his eyes and sighs. "I do not know what Hanahaki Disease is .. but this? It is very real." Peter starts to speak again, but doesn't get the chance. He coughs violently, his hand flying up to press his palm against his chest. His heart is beating erratically. If he were to pull up his shirt, he has no doubt that black veins would stand out all over his heart. He coughs again, seven blue petals forcefully erupting from his mouth. They flutter across the floor even as he tries to clear his throat. "In the supernatural world, it is called Croí Briste. If a were has been infected with Wolfsbane and is rejected by their mate, they contract it."
Stiles' unimpressed facade finally cracks. He actually looks worried for a moment. Peter dares not to hope ... but he does. Maybe there's some chance after all. Stiles leans down and grabs the petals, turning to bin them before he grabs his threadbare red hoodie and starts to walk from the room.
"Follow me, Fido." Usually, Peter would not be so quick to follow anyone. But Stiles is his mate ... how could he refuse?
Stiles' Jeep is parked in the middle of the Preserve. Peter has found himself coughing up over two dozen petals on the ride, and now they are sitting on a fallen log, the headlights illuminating them so that the human can see.
"So. Let me get this straight, Peter .... you're suffering from the supernatural version of Hanahaki Disease, called Croí Briste. Because you've been shot with Wolfsbane before, it is literally filling your lungs with Wolfsbane petals. If you don't get an acknowledgement from your mate, then you will die horribly. What kind of acknowledgement does it have to be?" Peter shifts uncomfortably, his arms crossed over his chest. Even when he is literally slowly choking to death, he is trying to put on a sassy, diva air.
"Supposedly, a simple kiss should do. Fairytales do usually have a grain of truth to them, Stiles." The teen nods slowly, mouth opened, poised to speak. But Peter launches into another coughing fit, an entire string of wolfsbane blooms clogging the back of his throat before he manages to spit it out. It's crusted with blood and black bile.
"Wow. You .. are really close to the end, Peter." Stiles leans forward, raises a hand to carefully thumb a trace of blood from the corner of Peter's mouth. The werewolf shudders beneath the touch, his head tilting naturally as he leans toward the human in anticipation, eyes slipping closed. Finally, FINALLY!
Rather than meeting Stiles' lips, he feels the clammy sweat of his palm instead. Peter's eyes flash open, blinking several times as he tries to understand what's going on. Stiles has gotten up and walked to his Jeep, yanking the door open. He stares at his mate, struggling to figure out what the human is up to.
"A kiss .. that really would be easy, wouldn't it? Just a little touch of the lips and you'd be cured." Stiles shakes his head slowly, even as he leaps up, into the driver's seat. "I can't believe you already forgot what I said the other day, RePete. I am more than happy to off you all over again. Seriously. If I have to choose between letting someone die and kiss you're freaky ass ... yeah, I'm gonna have to pass on touching you." Peter blinks slowly before his eyes narrow and he roars in rage. However, the second he tries to stand, he begins to cough. And choke. "See, I already have a mate. And he is a thousand times better than you ... and you tried to kill him before. Do you really think I'd take the chance to let you -live-? Especially when you hand me a golden opportunity like this." Stiles throws his head back and laughs as he puts the Jeep in drive. "Have a nice life, RePete. However many minutes you got left, dude." With that, Stiles takes off, leaving Peter struggling to try and dislodge the two strings of Wolfsbane blooms from his throat.
It takes nearly five minutes for him to choke to death, his neck nearly slit open again from ripping at it with his own claws. The putrid scent of black bile puddles around him.
Fine