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A kiss for good luck. Stay in the apartment. Eat dinner alone. Wait until midnight, then run a hot bath. Wait more. Don't look Peter in the eye when he comes home. Get him to the bath in silence, then leave him alone for the rest of the night.
It's become a ritual over the past few years since Stiles moved in with Peter. But only on the nights when Peter works. He doesn't work very often - once, twice a month at most. Peter says he doesn't need to because he inherited a huge sum of money, that his family is filthy rich and Stiles doesn't have to worry about it. So Stiles simply doesn't ask who died.
But he knows what Peter really is, what he does on those long nights. He doesn't mind, he doesn't even see Peter in a different light for it. No reason to fear the sword, only the swordsman that wields it, as Peter often so jokingly says. Stiles just hopes that Peter really is as good at what he does as the stacking solved: accident/animal attack/suicide cases at the station suggests.
If Peter ever gets caught, if he ever fucks up... Stiles doesn't want to think about it. But on the few days that Peter works he always does anyways. And this night is no different. Every tick of the large, black arm on the clock is another thought of being left completely alone, of pitying eyes and grown-ups whispering over his head as if he wasn't there 'first his mother, now... oh, the poor thing. Where will he go?'.
Stiles has tried many ways of distracting himself. TV, books, (stolen) cases from the station, internet, sleeping, porn. Nothing works.
On every other day you'd have to be pink elephant juggling chainsaws while reciting dirty limericks to keep his attention for more than a few minutes. On these days the only thing that can stop his train of thought and bring him to get up from his chair at the kitchen table is when the wall clock strikes midnight.
When it does Stiles moves like possessed.
Running the bath is almost like an entire ritual in itself. Wait for the water to reach an almost boiling temperature before putting in the plug, pour in whatever fragrance Peter has taken to this month along with the salts and oils. Lay out the towels on the chair next to the bath and most importantly make sure the door is closed the entire time the bath is filling so steam and heat can build up.
Then wait.
This wait is the longest of them all.
Even if, so far, Peter has never failed to show up later than half past midnight, Stiles always wanders the apartment with a lump in his throat, fingers twitching at his sides, in the fabric of his jumper, running through his hair. His hair... It is longer now than it was the first time, but still short. When it gets too long Peter will run his fingers through it, call him 'my little unruly furball' before taking a pair of scissors to trim Stiles' hair himself. Peter has always been good with any sharp tool and he takes Stiles' jokes that maybe there's still hope for him to join the working market in stride.
Stiles doesn't begin to unwind until there's keys scraping in the lock of the front door and it opens to reveal a mostly whole Peter.
Twenty-three minutes past midnight.
It feels like he can suddenly breathe again, as if there's solid ground under his feet. It feels like safety and it feels like everything will be alright.
Peter doesn't say hi, and Stiles doesn't greet him. He merely steps closer and takes Peter's jacket (tonight it smells like earth and threes, but as always also rot and death), folding it away for later while Peter rids himself of his boots. There are no words between them. Stiles learned early on that Peter has no words of comfort or relief when he comes back from work, he is still somewhere else mentally and Stiles respects this. He takes a certain pride in being the one that this Peter comes to in order to return to the real world.
Or maybe this is the fantasy world. It doesn't matter either way.
Peter is rigid and surrounded by an aura of danger, but Stiles is not afraid of the sword and he takes it by the hand guiding it further in. Peter doesn't resist his pull and comes willingly. As always. Neither does he object when Stiles begins to tug his shirt up from his pants, helps out when Stiles can't reach up just enough to pull it off. It's of a black material, so you can't see it, but the stench of blood and the smear of it on Stiles' fingers is proof enough that tonight was not a clean, efficient kill. The bruises and cuts marring Peter's arms and torso attest the same thing. Perhaps Stiles is lucky that Peter returned this night at all, but he will never ask.
There is something intimate about this part of the ritual, the stripping of Peter's clothes, but it is in no way sexual. Stiles isn't sure he knows exactly what to call it, but there is a certain amount of trust and need in shedding this Peter away to find his Peter underneath.
Once it's all off Stiles gathers everything up and puts it in the kitchen sink (when he gets up tomorrow Peter will have burned all of it) then returns to still half a stranger who stands motionless and naked. Stiles doesn't look anywhere but at the bruises on Peter's right arm before taking his hand once more to lead him to the overly warm bathroom where the bath will have cooled down to a humane temperature by now.
He stops at the door, opening it and stepping aside to let Peter in before he'll close the door and crawl to bed alone.
But this night the ritual is broken.
Stiles jerks as if pulled from his own thoughts when Peter's fingers wrap loosely around his jaw and tilts up his face. He keeps his eyes downcast, unsure where this is going. Unsure if Peter is willing him to look him in the eye, considering that one time where he fucked up and Peter almost attacked him.
"Stay with me this night?" Peter says in a hoarse, tired voice.
Stiles can't even help it, his eyes snap up, searching Peter's face as his heart starts racing. He's not sure what he expects to see there, if there even is any answer to get for this entirely unexpected breach on their ritual, but all he sees is a strange mix of urgency and desperation.
"Yeah — I mean — Okay. Imeanyes." He rambles and Peter gives in to a flicker of a smile as Stiles takes in a deep breath. "Anything you want."
Peter never lets go of Stiles' hand, holds it a bit firmer in fact and leads Stiles into the bathroom, signaling that he wants the door closed. Once Stiles has complied Peter finally lets go in order to ruffle through Stiles' dark tresses.
"Strip."
It's the fastest that Stiles has ever managed to get out of his clothes, and he has made several attempts at breaking the world record on that one. If there even is a world record in stripping the fastest, that is. Flailing arms and legs at the same time but somehow never getting it off the faster for it. But once that is done he finds himself at a loss for what to do. Does he reach out for Peter? Does he look at him? Should he ask?
Peter seems to already know what he wants however and guides Stiles to the tub by a hand on his smaller back, letting him sit down at the far end before slinking in himself, his back to Stiles as he settles in between Stiles' bend up legs. When Peter submerges his bruised and battered parts he hissed out, and Stiles drinks it all in.
This is all new and exciting and Stiles can't even help himself when he cups a bit of scented, salty water in his hands and drops it over a cut on Peter's back eliciting something a kin to an actual growl from the older man. Peter doesn't recoil however, just flexes his shoulders and back, then takes in a deep breath.
"Again."
Stiles swallows as he tries to make out Peter's expression without moving to the side to actually look at his face. It doesn't work out at all so he resigns himself to scooping up more water, slowly letting it fall out over a different bruise, then follows up by rubbing a finger along it to get a bit of smudge off.
Peter tenses and grits his teeth audibly, but doesn't say anything else. Waiting just a beat Stiles asks, "Again?"
Peter turns his face the tiniest bit, enough that Stiles can look him in the eye and see the slow return of the Peter he knows and loves. It's only a moment, then Peter stares straight ahead again.
"Yes. Keep going until it doesn't hurt anymore." Almost as an afterthought Peter adds, "please."
Even if Peter can't see it, Stiles nods.
"Okay."