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Stiles slumped over the kitchen table, tired as fuck. It had taken everything out of him to get the pack locked upstairs and to line the surroundings with mountain ash. He scowled at the cups that were the cause of everything. He picked up the empty tea tin and in a fit of anger threw it at the wall.
Peter picked it up, seeing for himself what had made Stiles lose his temper.
“Sex pollen. Liquid sex pollen. Really?” Peter asked flatly. Stiles groaned in agreement, twitching when he heard yet another raunchy moan somewhere inside the house.
“Erica must have got the tea from the witch from last week and made everyone drink it because she thought it would be funny.” The witch had been kind enough and just passing through but she had left with a weird twinkle in her eye that Stiles hadn’t trusted. For good reason, apparently. Stiles fell head first into the table when he heard a howl and whimpered loudly. That was Scott, dear fuck, he didn’t need to know his best friend’s orgasm noises. This was certainly something that went far past what being a bro meant. The line might be blurred where Scott and Stiles were concerned but Stiles thought that, this time, it was visibly naked, dancing and waving a red flag with an exclamation mark on top and screeching worse than Roscoe’s brakes on a bad day.
Peter stood still as a statue.
“Everyone?” he asked, too calm for it to be sincere. Stiles tilted his head a little, just enough for him to see the too pale pallor of Peter’s cheeks. He was eyeing the cup on the counter which Stiles recognised as Peter’s usual one, disdain and horror in his gaze.
“Yeah. Seems to only affect the wolves though. I mean, I’m not keeling over but the leather trio and Scott are having the time of their lives probably. I wonder if that would have worked on Lydia since she’s a banshee. Maybe? But banshees are more human and connected to the death itself. Not much lust in death. Although they do say fear is connected to weird boners. Maybe there’s something about seeking thrills.” Stiles’ rambles had grown in volume the same as the moans upstairs had. Thank fuck Derek hadn’t had the time to drink anything. That would have seriously fucked up his psyche. He did help them lock his betas up before running off, presumably to Deaton for a remedy or just plainly to get away from the all-encompassing scent of sex, leaving Stiles and Peter to finish the job.
“…Oh.”
Stiles watched as Peter fell silent, withdrawn. Stiles' eyes flicked at the cup and then at the ceiling after a few other suspicious noises escaped the wolves above and then back at the cup before meeting Peter’s gaze again. His eyes had lost all emotion and his facial features were neutral, almost forcedly so, and Stiles suddenly just knew the wolf wanted to be anywhere but there.
He stood up suddenly and banged his leg at the table with the force of it. Stiles cursed, Boyd – holy fuck, Boyd, ickle wittle Vernon – cursing in tandem with him.
“Shut up!” he yelled at the ceiling but only got a high-pitched giggle for his efforts.
Ugh, he was so glad he was not a creature of the night.
“You’re coming with me,” Stiles then declared, grabbing Peter’s unresisting hand and dragging him out of the kitchen and the apartment. On his way out, Stiles glanced at the counter and saw his suspicions confirmed.
“Shouldn’t we stay here to watch the idiots so they don’t fuck themselves to death?” Peter drawled, but willingly followed Stiles out if the eager pace was any indication. Stiles shrugged.
“We can always blame Erica. Besides, Derek won’t be barking at us unless he wants to be called a hypocrite.” Stiles stopped at his jeep, opening the driver’s side door. He was already climbing in when he saw that Peter was still just standing there, watching him. Stiles huffed in exasperation. “We are going for some hot chocolate to wash off that taste out of our mouth and then maybe go to that faire in Sacramento so hop in.”
“And you’re sure your… car can drive us there?” Peter asked dubiously but climbed in nonetheless.
“Hey, Roscoe has driven me for years and drove my mom even longer. You better not have any beef with her!” Stiles patted the wheel gently, cooing, “Pretty girl is going to get us places, yes she is.”
Peter rolled his eyes but miraculously said nothing when Stiles started the car on the fourth try. Stiles threw his phone at him and told him to text his dad and Derek that they would be MIA for at least the rest of the day.
The cassette player was playing some 80s country, probably Dolly Parton by the sound of it. Stiles hummed along her, absently hoping not to end as another person with a Jolene in their life.
They were half-way to Sacramento when Peter actually spoke again, softly whispering a-
“Thank you.”
Stiles kept his eyes on the road but reached over, curling his fingers around Peter’s clenched hand. It relaxed under his hold and Stiles found his hand in a gentle grip, light caresses sending tingles pleasantly up his arm and down his back.
“Anytime.”
And he meant it.