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Misadventures in Teleportation

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The day had been surprisingly peaceful so it was only natural that trouble would fall quite literally into Christopher Argent's lap. Trouble, in the form of a brown-eyed boy who talked too fast and knew too much.

Chris rubbed his weary eyes. He lay sprawled out on his bed with Peter at his side, the werewolf snoring in quiet contentedness. Things had been less stressful between them since the teens drama had died down for the summer. Derek was running freely through the woods, his betas happily at his side; Scott and Allison were up to their usual level of mischief – not that he approved, and the regular baddies had easily been kept at bay.

The only piece that didn't fit perfectly into place was Stiles, the ever-persistent researcher who practically hounded Peter and himself night and day for information about the supernatural. They reluctantly parted with a tome or two each time he asked if only to satiate his thirst for knowledge for a couple of weeks, mere days if the book was particularly light.

Each time Peter grumbled that soon they'd run out of materials and Stiles would have nothing preoccupy himself with instead of trying to pick their brains at every available opportunity. With nothing to bribe, nothing to distract, they'd never be rid of him. At least, that's what they told each other.

Chris didn't miss the way Peter would drop casual references to the hidden texts and ancient scripts tucked away on his computer, or hidden deep within the old Hale Houses confines. He also didn't miss the way the werewolves eyes would gleam with thinly veiled victory when the human willingly followed him like a pup instead of staying with his friends.

Chris couldn't say he was completely innocent of the same thing. He liked the spark of fire that ignited in the fellow human when he learned a new fantastic beast was real, and not only real, but there was hundreds of pages of history and biology details tucked just out of reach. The bestiary was not the only informational document his family had developed over the year; it was just the tip of the iceberg, one shelf amongst a vast sea of supernatural references.

And Stiles thirsted for it all like a sailor out at sea, his literary finds the only freshwater he could get his hands on. He drank it all up so readily, and with such enthusiasm it was hard not to feel endeared to him.

In a lot of ways Stiles was reminiscent of a young Peter; he had a penchant for forbidden knowledge, and unknowable things. His skill at tempting danger was as impressive as it was harrowing. He never backed down from a challenge, even ones he was sure to lose. So long as he had something to defend he was there to defend it. Well, maybe that made him a little more like a young Chris. Regardless, he was certain Stiles would remain a semi-permanent fixture in their lives even if just for the summer.

Chris' sleepy ruminations were interrupted by a loud crack erupting in the room, jolting him from his thoughts. A flash of green light so bright it was blinding simultaneously flooded into his retinas.

“What the fuck!” Peter snarled as he covered his eyes.

Chris grunted and clenched his eyes shut to shield them. He tried to grab his gun from the nightstand, but something hard and angular smacked into his stomach, knocking the air out of him.

Peter growled and he felt a slight scuffle on the bed. The appendage that dug into his side was removed.

He heard a yelp that didn't belong to either of them.

The light faded from behind Chris's eyelids, the darkness taking its place once more. He managed to gulp down enough air to allow him to sit up with a groan. He could feel a bruise beginning to form on his side and stomach.

In the darkness of the bedroom, sitting on their bed, right in the middle was Stiles. His hair was mussed, his chest heaving, and his eyes wild as Peter held him by his scruff and shook him.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he hissed. The wolves lips curled up in a snarl. For a second his eyes shone with brilliant beta blue.

“I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!” Stiles said. His hand grabbed Peter's wrist in an attempt to yank himself out of the werewolves cobra-like vice.

Peter refused to release him. “I asked you a question, now answer it.”

“Okay, look! Ow! I'm sorry this is not where I meant to end up, I swear to god! I was trying to teleport, and I wanted to get to Scott-”

“Why exactly would you think Scott McCall would be in my house at two in the morning?” Chris narrowed his eyes. His fingers twitched for the gun in the drawer. It wasn't loaded with wolfsbane, but a regular bullet would still get the point across. “Do your brother and I need to have another talk?”

Stiles winced.

“Wait! Listen! I didn't think he'd be here. I was trying to get to Deaton's, on the other side of town, and like- I don't know I just wound up here! My magics not strong enough to take me that far, so I guess it just dumped me at the next place I knew nearby?”

Chris turned to his living lie detector. “Is he lying?"

Peter sniffed and wrinkled his nose. “No, he's telling the truth. He also ate pizza with onions today.” He abruptly released Stiles nape and rubbed a hand over his sleepy face.

Stiles was quick to scramble out of his reach.

“Uh, I guess I'll just let myself out then.” He laughed awkwardly as he slid down the blanket to the edge of the bed. “Just down the hall, to the left, then? Good seeing you again, Chris, Peter,” he nodded his head towards the pair. “You two have a good ni-” he froze and blinked. The wheels in his head turned and clicked.

“Peter? Why are you- are you two-” Stiles chocolate eyes widened. He opened his mouth, then shut it again. He did it few more times before any words finally came. “You two are sleeping in the same bed,” he whispered scandalously, like it was some terrible secret.

“Yes, we are,” said Peter. “Or at least we were before someone showed up. Have something to say about it, Stiles?” The wolf tilted his head and practically sneered.

“N-no,” he said. “I am totally okay with that, with this whole-” he waved his hand, “-situation that is going on here. You two have a lovely night.” He tipped his head and dangled one foot off the side of the bed.

“Oh, no. I don't think so. You're not slipping away that easily.” Peter grabbed Stiles once more by the arm. The human was yanked back onto the bed where he landed on his back and gasped. His shirt rode up on his stomach, revealing the tender milky-white skin of his belly.

“Peter, let him go,” Chris said as he rubbed his temple.

“He's going to tell people, Christopher. He's going to tell Scott, and Derek, all of the usual brats.”

“Well, we can't exactly keep him prisoner, now can we?”

“Why not? You've got lots of nice cells in your basement.”

Stiles wiggled up over onto his stomach and tried to pull away, but his efforts were in vain.

“No, thank you! I've been a captive in this house one too many times already, and I wouldn't like to again!”

Chris grimaced at the reminder and sighed. “I'm sure Stiles has better things to do than go around gossiping. Please, just release him.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I'm tired, and dealing with the sheriff isn't on the list of things I want to do tomorrow.”

“I'm not going to hurt him,” Peter said as he lithely repositioned Stiles between them.

The gangly limbed boy flailed and kicked out, hitting Chris once more in the side.

The older man hissed and winced at the pain in his ribs.

“I'm just going to make sure that if he tells anyone about this, they won't believe him,” Peter whispered the words right into Stiles ear, making the already pale boy blanch.

Stiles opened his mouth in protest.

Peter gave him a last, menacing look, before laying back down on the bed and closing his eyes.

“Goodnight, Stiles,” he smirked.

“What? Wait. No,” Stiles tried again to sit up, but his arms were trapped by Peter's own wrapped around his torso. “Chris, help!”

Chris looked down at him, at the boys beautifully imploring brown eyes.

“Goodnight, Stiles,” Chris said. He laid back down on the bed and pulled the covers back over himself, and by relation, Stiles.

“'Night,” Stiles grumped into the darkness. “I guess.”

If at some point during the night what had only been meant as sleep turned into several hours of restless cuddling, no one said anything.