“Come on,” Stiles hisses, “Start already!”
He’s practically inside the hood of the jeep now, oil dripping onto his cheek and whacking some metal thingy-ma-bob with a spanner. Some sprocket ma-jig has come loose or something. Stiles doesn’t actually know, car mechanics are not really his thing. Considering the age of his jeep, he really should invest in learning however now is not the time to start. He’s late enough as it is and his Dad is on an early shift and Scott is sick so Stiles can’t get lifts from either of them and seriously fuck his life.
He shimmies out of the engine, feet flailing wildly until the reach terra firma. Then he slams the hood of the jeep shut with perhaps more force than is strictly warranted. If he misses this chemistry test then Harris is going to stick him in detention for the rest of his natural born life. He yanks his backpack up from the ground and starts to run and wow Jesus H Christ that was the worst decision ever.
Running is awful; he’s never doing it again. Fucking hell, does he usually sweat this much? Stiles is panting and on the verge of throwing up when he reaches the intersection. He can’t hear or see any cars so he runs out into the road but then again he’s not paying that much attention. Second greatest mistake of the day. He doesn’t see the motorcycle and to be honest it barely nudges him but Stiles isn’t really in control of his limbs right now so he flails and falls to the ground like a twitchy gazelle taken out by a metal lion. He lands on his wrist and whilst nothing crunches, pain shoots up his arm.
“Motherfucker,” Stiles mutters, cradling his injured wrist to his chest. The motorcyclist doesn’t drive off like a douchebag but climbs off, removing his helmet. Stiles looks up and gulps. Peter Hale looms above him, hair disheveled by the helmet but in a way that looks like he just had sex rather than sweaty stickiness.
“Why did you just run out into the road Stiles?” Peter says, voice oddly soft despite his smarmy expression, as he crouches down beside Stiles. “Are you suicidal or just stupid?”
Stiles flounders for a second because hot, popular, intelligent, sarcastic, senior Peter Hale knows his name. And ok, Stiles is on the lacrosse team and has scored a few winning goals but Peter is a basketball star and those two sports never coincide. Basketball Vs. Lacrosse is an ancient rivalry, which dates back to god knows when and will probably continue for the foreseeable future until robot overlords take over and ban all frivolous sport. Stiles gapes at Peter for a few more seconds before settling on:
“I think I sprained my wrist.”
In retrospect that is a better utterance than it’s a shame you sprained my jerking off wrist cause I could have put it to better use on you. Sometimes Stiles has a filter.
Peter’s smarmy expression changes instantly to one of concern. He reaches for Stiles wrist, examining it gently and with soft touches. Stiles is close enough to see that Peter’s eye are such a bright blue that cannot be natural. That kind of blue is impossible. It’s also really beautiful but that’s a line of thought for another day. Peter pokes Stiles wrist, observing the way Stiles winces.
“We should get you to a hospital,” Peter murmurs, running his thumb back and forth across Stiles palm. Stiles retracts his hand rapidly, ignoring the jab of pain that’s tingling up his arm.
“Nope, not happening Hale,” Stiles says, wagging the index finger of the hand that isn’t screeching in pain, “I’m on thin ice with Harris as it is and if I miss this test then he will use it as an excuse to keep me in detention until I graduate and I’ll get kicked off the lacrosse team and who is going to make sure that Jackson doesn’t beat Scott to death with a lacrosse stick if I’m not there? Well possibly Isaac but Isaac isn’t really a fan of verbal sparring and that’s the only way to keep Bitchmore in his place so as you ran me over, you can give me a lift and I will continue to service the world by keeping Jackson’s ego from inflating his head so much it crushes him with it’s obnoxious weight.”
“Now I’m even more convinced that you need a hospital,” Peter replies, helping Stiles to his feet, “The pain is making you delirious if you think lacrosse is a decent enough incentive to keep your grades up.”
“Oh yeah, because basketball is such a refined sport,” Stiles scoffs, “At the end of the day we are both shooting a ball into a net so you can shove your pretentious basketball is a real sport spiel up your ass and drive me to school. Because my wrist is fine and I don’t want Harris to kill me so you know, mush or whatever.”
Peter quirks an eyebrow, evidently amused. He reaches into one of the bags strapped to the side of his bike to retrieve the spare helmet. He helps Stiles to put it on, fingers gently brushing the underside of Stiles chin. He puts on his own helmet then they both climb on. Stiles becomes painfully aware that the only way to avoid falling off and becoming one with the tarmac is to hold Peter around the middle.
“Christ on a bike,” Stiles mutters, gingerly wrapping his arms around Peter’s waist. Peter chuckles.
“Just Peter is fine,” He teases and wow, Stiles kind of wants to punch Peter’s mouth. With his own mouth. Because, wow, crushing on Lydia Martin wasn’t a big enough reality check for him, Stiles just had to lust over an even more unattainable person.
The motorcycle roars as they take off and wow how did Stiles not hear it coming? Peter must be breaking the speed limit because this feels too fast to be natural. Stiles is plastered to Peter’s back, holding on as tightly as possible with his face smushed into Peter’s shoulder. Surprisingly closing his eyes make the whole process worse so Stiles just stares pointedly at Peter’s shoulder and tries to avoid thinking about anything sexual about them at all. It helps that his wrist is starting to throb and it feels like it’s going to swell.
Because Stiles is evidently riding a strange, ethereal high from being knocked to the ground and assaulted by Peter Hale’s good looks, he doesn’t notice that Peter is steering them towards the hospital instead of the school. It might also be because Stiles is looking at Peter’s leather jacket rather than the road.
“Hey,” Stiles squawks, lifting the visor of the helmet, “this is not school.”
Peter dismounts from the motorcycle with preternatural grace and seriously fuck him. He removes his helmet and hello sex hair.
“Congratulations Stiles, you’ve proved that being run over has not taken away your ability to state the obvious.”
Stiles scowls which is difficult when a motorcycle helmet is squishing your cheeks together and hiding your eyebrows.
“Did you not hear my emotional speech about Harris and lacrosse and Bitchmore and his giant ego?”
“I did. To be perfectly honest I think darling Scott McCall can survive on his own for a day without you. Now, get inside that hospital before your wrist swells even more.”
Stiles looks down at his wrist and yeah, that’s starting to look like a medical emergency. It’s a weird, mottled red color, which is probably unhealthy.
Melissa gives him a disapproving look and seems to think that Stiles is lying when he blames Peter. Peter simply smiles winningly and asks if he is allowed to wait with Stiles until the Sheriff turns up. Which given his dad’s caseload right now, more than likely won’t be for a while. Stiles is not relishing the idea of spending an extended period of time with Peter. Especially when his wrist is starting to turn purple.
Turns out, Stiles previous assessment was wrong and instead of just a sprain, Stiles has managed to dislocate his own thumb. Peter rounds on him after the doctor finishes bandaging it and leaves to return the glass of water from whence it came after Stiles has swallowed his pain medication
“How did you not notice?” Peter says. Stiles, who is feeling quite miserable and sullen at this point, just shrugs. He’s done worse to be honest. Like the time, he and Scott played lacrosse indoors and Stiles fell through the glass coffee table, ending up with a glass shard in his left buttock. Thankfully the scar is small.
“Why do you even care?” Stiles asks. He’s starting to feel a bit fuzzy round the edges, as if he’s sliding in and out of focus. That means the pain meds are kicking in. Peter rolls his eyes as if Stiles is being deliberately obtuse.
“Because I like you Stiles.”
“Well that sounds fake but ok,” Stiles, replies, slurring slightly. He feels a bit floaty and slightly tingly, but good tingly. Ha-ha, tingly is a funny word.
“Stiles,” Peter snaps and since when have Peter’s hands been on Stiles shoulders. They should be lower, like his ass or maybe his dick. The world is a bit blurred but Peter’s eyes remain sharp and bright.
“You have pretty eyes,” Stiles slurs, giggling. Peter sighs exasperatedly but fondly as well and Stiles remembers no more.
The first thing Stiles does when his dad allows him to go back to school is seek out Peter. Well actually the first thing he does in hyperventilate in his jeep for ten minutes but he’s pretending that didn’t happen.
Peter is shooting hoops on the basketball court and evidently has been for some time due to the sheen of sweat on his forehead. Normally, Stiles would be slightly repulsed but all he wants to do it lick it off Peter’s body, which is equal parts gross and erotic. Peter turns to face Stiles, smirking in a way that implies he knows exactly what Stiles is thinking. Whether he’s down for it is still up for debate.
“Hello Stiles,” Peter purrs and because he’s a show off and an ass, he throws the basketball over his shoulder. It goes through the hoop. Of course it does.
“I just wanted to thank you, for you know.” Stiles waves his hand in a strange gesture. “Hospital and all that.”
“My pleasure,” Peter replies and wow, he’s much closer than before. Stiles clears his throat.
“Um… so yeah. I’d also like to apologize for anything I said in the haze of prescription medication.”
“Is that so?”
Peter is all up in Stiles space now and his tone is playful. Teasing.
“You’re apologizing for telling me I have beautiful eyes,” Peter says, leaning towards Stiles ear, “Apologizing for telling me that you think I’m the smartest person you know, even more so that Lydia Martin. Apologizing for thinking about me in the shower, your hand wrapped around your cock and your fist in your mouth to muffle the screams.”
Stiles wants to die. He wants to die in this miserable school gym. Peter chuckles, his hands gripping Stiles waist.
“If you’d like to take that apology back and perhaps thank me properly,” Peter continues, voice like silk and sweet as honey, “Then maybe you’d like to have dinner with me this Friday. Unless you’d like to go back to being in denial and wasting time in the shower.”
“Dinner sounds awesome,” Stiles replies weakly.
“Excellent,” Peter purrs, nuzzling Stiles cheek and kissing it. Well then, who is Stiles to argue with that?