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He’s not sure why Peter saved him.
“I like you, Stiles.” He’d said once. Before. Before the sickness spread and people died. Before they came back.
But I like you doesn’t really translate to this. It doesn’t mean protecting Stiles once everyone else was gone. Once Scott and Derek and Lydia and his dad… once his dad had…
I like you doesn’t mean being the only two people they’ve seen in weeks. It doesn’t mean staying when Stiles takes his anger out on Peter, screaming and hitting and trying so very hard to injure someone who can’t be hurt. It doesn’t mean tucking in behind Stiles at night when he tries to muffle his sobs into unfamiliar blankets.
It doesn’t mean putting himself between Stiles and The Dead.
He doesn’t know why Peter saved him. He doesn’t know where Peter’s taking him, either. He asks sometimes, when he can work up the will to speak. It seemed so easy before. Now he goes days without making a sound.
But Peter only smiles when he asks.
“It will be okay,” he says. Like that’s an answer.
And Stiles hates him. He hates him. But he’s all Stiles has left. So, maybe he loves Peter too.
*
He tries to leave once.
Stiles isn’t afraid of Peter anymore. Not like he used to be. Not when the things left behind are so much worse.
But sometimes Peter looks at him. Peter spends most of his time looking at Stiles, actually. When he’s driving, eating, reading, Peter watches him. Stiles has gotten used to waking up with Peter' eyes on him, like he never went to sleep the night before. Everything about him is quiet and overwhelming. But that's not what bothers Stiles. It's the moments when Stiles catches something in Peter’s gaze. Something dark. Desperate. It’s those nights when his eyes sharpen that Peter’s hands stray lower in bed, hold a little tighter. It’s never too far, never anything Stiles could call him on, but they both know it’s happening. And that? Stiles is afraid of that.
Afraid that he might want it. Afraid that he might not.
So one day he leaves.
He doesn't plan to run. It occurs to him when Peter has gone back the way they came, trying to find gas that hasn't degraded past the point of working. The thought blindsides Stiles. He can just go. He doesn’t take his pack or his extra clothes, nothing that would give him away too quickly. The only things he takes are a water bottle, his dad’s badge and his machete. If he can make it into town without seeing any bleeders he can hotwire a car. He'll drive until he can’t anymore.
He doesn’t make it that far.
He doesn’t even make it out of the neighborhood.
There are eight of them. They’re not slow like in the movies. They’re fast. They run. They scream.
He can’t take on eight of them. Two, three, maybe. Not eight.
Stiles is going to die here. He’s never going to see Peter again. He doesn’t know if he cares.
He runs because he can’t help himself. It’s automatic. Fight or flight, even though neither of those options will save him. The pounding of his sneakers on the pavement echoes in the hush of the neighborhood. The only other sounds come from the bleeders behind him. They’re getting closer. He’s going to die in front of one of these endless, empty houses and if there’s enough of him left, he’s going to come back like them.
Hollow.
Stiles would swear he doesn’t so much as blink, but between one second and the next Peter is there in front of him, eyes already flashing the bright red they’ve been for months. It doesn’t take him long to dispose of them.
Stiles doesn’t watch. He can’t make himself. But there’s no way to block out the noise. Stiles is all too familiar with the sound Peter’s claws make when he’s disemboweling something. When he’s caving something’s head in. Once everything goes quiet again Stiles turns to find Peter standing perfectly still amid the carnage. He’s covered in blood, wounds knitting back together. He doesn’t have to worry about being infected.
He’s watching Stiles again.
Stiles can only take one step back before Peter grabs him, his hands slick with blood.
“I’m-“
“Quiet.” Peter bites out, angry and low. A hand on the back of his neck steers him towards the house they were staying in. The walk back is silent Neither of them says a word.
Stiles can feel the blood drying, tacky and rancid on his skin.
When they get inside the house Peter forces him up the stairs into the master bedroom. Stiles has refused to go in it the week they’ve stayed here. He always does when they stay in houses. He prefers to sleep on couches or floors. Anywhere but someone else’s bed. The sheets are mussed like whoever lived here forgot to make the bed when they left. If they left. If they didn’t die in the first wave.
His knees buckle.
Peter catches him before he can fall and throws him on the bed. He actually lifts him and tosses him through the air like it’s nothing. Stiles lands face first in the sheets when he can’t get his arms out quick enough. They still smell like their former owners under the dust. Musky and just a little bit sweet, like old perfume.
Stiles is going to puke.
He moves to scramble off, heart in his throat, but Peter is too quick. He slams him back down with a palm in the center of Stiles’ chest and climbs over him, every movement terse, like it is taking him a monumental amount of effort not to snap. Peter lays his body over Stiles, blanketing him entirely. Stiles is still shoving ineffectually at him when Peter buries his face in the crook of Stiles’ neck and closes his teeth over his throat.
Stiles freezes.
“Peter, I…”
He bites down harder.
“D… Don’t, Peter… Oh, fuck. Please don’t.”
The teeth don’t tighten anymore, but Peter doesn’t let go either.
“I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry! I won’t do it again. I won’t leave.” He pleads, scrambling for the right words. He can barely breathe with Peter on top of him like this, hot and claustrophobic, caging him in. He can’t think.
Peter licks at the skin he has trapped between his teeth, bites hard enough to bruise and releases him. He doesn’t move off of him, though. “I don’t think you understand what I would do to keep you,” Peter says, soft words dripping with violence.
But why? Stiles wants to scream. Why do you even care?
“I’ll stay,” He breathes out on a sob. "I'll stay."
“I know.” Peter says, like a promise.