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He doesn’t say yes.
Turns out, he doesn’t have a choice.
It happens in an instant. One moment, Peter Hale is caressing his hand, bringing it to his face and his world is full of people who are monsters and monsters who masquerade as people. Everything is what normal is these days.
Then, chaos scatters all around them. Hands grip his arm, squeeze harder than necessary, pull him close to that tall, hard chest. Bullets shatter outside, screams fill the air. He tries to turn, but a growl and hand keeps his face buried in the fabrics of the coat and shirt.
Stiles stills, rigid as the columns around them. He waits for the bite, for the nails to dig into his skin. Peter is strong, but everybody seems to be stronger than him lately. Stiles swallows his fear, looks out for an exit. There is none: not where Peter won’t reach him. The cars block the doors, might have blocked Peter from catching him but even Stiles isn’t that stupid. Its in that moment, with cars and screaming chaos behind him and Peter Hale in front of him, Stiles realizes that he’s utterly alone.
“What’s going on?” His voice isn’t quite a squeak, and if he were a better man, he would probably have kept the panic away the way Derek seems to have mastered but Stiles has always had issues with his self control. Being threatened by a werewolf didn’t exactly help matters.
“Be quiet.”
“Are you going to kill me?”
“Stilinski - “
“Because,” Stiles continues, choosing to ignore the exasperation, “My dad is a cop, remember? The sheriff? And if you kill me, you’ll be exposing yourself and Scott and Derek - not that you’d care about Scott or y‘know Derek, obviously. Or maybe you do but if you do kill me you can --”
Nails dig into his neck and Stiles lets out another squeak. A second later Peter throws him over his shoulder. Stiles catches a glimpse of those wolf eyes and watches as Peter leaps into the fucking air. It goes too fast for him to realize what’s going on.
Later, he’ll ask why he mattered enough to save. Later, he’ll wonder what he’s been thrust into (again) but as of now he’s not going to question Peter, he’s not going to wonder why the man bothers with him, with any of this when he could have gotten away faster without dragging a human around.
It’s hard to see. Peter is moving too fast for him to get a clear view and everything is skewed. Feet are where heads should be, limbs are flying in the air as hands wave frantically at them. Blood splatters across the darkness. People are running in the distance. Flashing lights and screaming create a backdrop for the scenery around them. He feels like they’re in one of those action-packed movies made for HD 3D screens. The excess gore more for show than anything else. Except it isn’t a show. This is real.
All around them, there are bodies falling from his peripheral vision like bombs. Bullet after bullet, they get back up again, crawling towards their attackers. Stiles watches a man get tackled to the ground, listens as the man screams for help while people dig into him.
He pictures his father at the hospital, hauled up with all those potential dangers. The could-be zombies. He pictures Scott and Derek, fighting off Allison and Kate. He pictures Lydia in the hospital, with his dad, forgotten in the chaos. He pictures the zombies - and it surprises him, how easily he accepts this reality, how much zombies don’t actually surprise him - trying to get in and eating his friends. His dad.
Oh god, his dad.
Stiles feels like he’s about to puke.
“Let me go, Peter!” He pounds a fist into the back of the werewolf, even as the trees start smacking at his sides. When did they get to the forest?
“Fuck, Peter,” Stiles tries again, “Let me go!”
Peter doesn’t listen, not until they’re half way into the house. Then and only then does Peter dum Stiles onto the ground. He doesn’t look at Peter, but he can hear the footsteps as they pace all around the house. Stiles moans, rolls to the side and pukes. He can’t believe this is happening.
Fucking zombies of all things.
Someone hands him a piece of cloth and Stiles takes it, ignoring everything Peter is supposed to represent. The man had saved him.
But why?
“What’s going on?”
“We need to board the place up.” Peter says, all business.
Stiles sits up and turns his whole body around so he faced Peter, who sat on the bottom of the stairs. “Okay, yeah, sure. I’m all for that. But that doesn’t answer my question.”
Peter gives him a tired look. “I don’t know.”
Clearly, he wasn’t paying attention. Stiles shakes his head, and it isn’t until he pulls his hands together, until he tries to curl them into his arms that he realizes he’s shaking. “Seriously, Zombies?”
Peter ignores him. Apparently he’s given up on Stiles, because the man is already headed towards the living room, pulling at loose boards.
“We’ll be safe here.”
“How do you figure?” Stiles says, getting up to follow Peter. My life, Stiles muses, How do I always end up in the worst case scenario? Fucking Zombies.
“The Hale house has protected us for generations. Nobody will enter these woods. I assume that will keep the -” Peter pauses, “zombies away.”
“Because that worked so well with the Argents.” Stiles mutters. Peter rounds on him, pushes into his space and forces Stiles to back up.
“You are free to go,” Peter says, opening the door beside them. Stiles can still hear the screaming. “I’m sure your friends will be looking for you.”
“What, just like that?”
Peter bares his teeth. “Yes,” he says, “Just like that.”
Stiles faulters. He should take the chance. Peter Hale is the last person he needs to be stuck in a room with. At the same time … the house isn’t safe, not with just one person.
“I,” Stiles begins, stuttering a little as Peter stares at him. “I can’t just stay here.”
“Your friends will be fine.” Peter says, “do you think they would fare better with one more human to worry about?”
Stiles hadn’t thought of that. Does he really want to be the reason Scott doesn’t make it? Or Allison? Or Lydia?
“Why do you care?”
“I don’t.”
Peter seems to take his question as the answer, though, and closes the door. He goes back to gathering boards and Stiles is left staring after the man, wondering if his friends are okay. If he made the right choice. If his dad was safe. He pushes those thoughts away, into the far corners of his mind and trails after Peter.
“So what should I do?”
Peter shoves a hammer into his hands and points into the kitchen. “Nails are in the first drawer.”
-fin-