( nursed back to health shipping meme. )

[lumeria]

Nursed Back to Health shipping meme Comment with your character, preferences, preferred role, and any information you'd like to include. Your character has either been injured/sick and had to be taken in (possibly against their will) or has been the one to help somebody like the former. Through the mending process, the two characters in a thread have fallen in love - or at least grown closer and more affectionate. Reply to others. Thread.

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peter hale | teen wolf

[deceitful]

just drops a word bomb on your inbox

[suspectlist]

( When it came to people like Peter Hale, you don't just take them to a hospital. Not unless you want to guarantee them a one-way trip back to a place like Eichen House or open the door to a surge of potentially fatal visitors out for blood. Stiles had been (uncomfortably) surprised to learn he had to explain that much to Scott and the others after his return from the Wild Hunt and discovered Peter's lack of healing.

Even with having Melissa at the hospital and a reassurance from Parrish that nothing would happen to Peter as long as he was there recuperating, Stiles doubted the truth behind those words. And all things considered, if it hadn't been for Peter bringing his keys through, who was to say he would have gotten back as quickly as he had? There was no telling and considering some of the words they'd exchanged before Peter'd left, he decided he owed the werewolf something. An apology, at least. And maybe, his life at most.

Scott didn't seem to understand that. And after a while, he realized Lydia didn't either. Both of them, he supposed, had their own reasons for their resistance to helping Peter. That didn't stop Stiles.

It had taken some help from Deaton, but he'd managed to find a place to take Peter. It was a small apartment nestled on the outskirts of Beacon Hills, most of the walls lined with mountain ash shelves neatly filled with books and relics. It was a place that simultaneously put him at ease and made him feel dangerously inadequate among his supernatural friends. He wasn't entirely sure what kind of impact it would have on Peter's own well being, but it was the best they had, a place that was safe and would give Peter the time he needed to heal and get back on his feet without having to worry about someone coming for him at his weakest moment.

That was where Stiles had started to spend most of his free time, even some of his days that were meant to be at school. At first, it was partly out of worry, a small fear that he'd come to the small apartment one day and find Peter as nothing more than a pile of lifeless burned flesh. But once Peter'd started healing - with a lot of help from some new concoction Deaton would conjure and pass to him every week - and could do more than lay there in pain, making some kind of noise that might have been words or a protest whenever Stiles would fight off the urge to faint while simultaneously smearing different things across Peter's skin, it became a habit to visit and tend to the other man.

It made him feel strangely... comfortable sitting on the edge of Peter's bed, chattering mindlessly about anything that might come to mind. Once, of course, he'd managed to overcome the urge to faint or the feeling of lightheaded-ness that came from seeing such severely burnt flesh up close and personal, feeling it under bandages and even his hands as he tended to Peter. That aside, the small room where Peter was laid out on the bed had become a place where Stiles didn't feel pressured to do the mundane things leading up to graduation, deal with Scott and his latest romance, or even watch the way Malia and Lydia fumbled to make sense of their own powers.

Peter, he was sure, didn't feel much of the same safety and connection to this place that he did. It was hard to tell in the beginning without words to say as much, but Stiles tried to make it a bearable place. Over time, the small bed had become covered with his old sheets, his favorite blankets from his own home, and eventually, even a couple of the pillows from his own bed. The more Peter healed, the more Stiles brought things. Books, comics, an old CD player with a variety of CDs Stiles had smuggled from various places, and even a Star Wars poster from the Phantom Menance. Periodically, Deaton stopped by to check to make sure Peter wasn't taking a turn for the worst, brought things that Stiles overlooked in his attempts to make Peter comfortable - things like bandages, clean clothes of the correct size, actual medicine. Occasionally something along the more mystical side to try and accelerate the process.

After a couple weeks, Peter had started forming words. Could sit up and move around without being in too much pain. All things Stiles had been more excited about than he thought he should have been. More recently, Peter had gotten to the point of being able to hold a conversation, sit up on his own, and with help, stand up and take a few steps around the small room. Not enough to be perfectly on his own, but enough that his skin looked mostly normal, a few spots still raw with a burn that they bandaged and treated every day when he first arrived and again before he left, even if most days, he didn't leave anymore.

Three weeks since they'd brought Peter here and only a couple days after Peter's body remembered it had a tongue to voice every clever bit of words he could muster, Stiles burst through the door with his usual hurried clumsiness. Stepping through the mountain ash doorway, he dropped his backpack beside the door, cradling a pair of plastic tubs under one arm. After a few minutes of moving things around, he found himself in the bathroom to fill one of them with steaming water before he entered the room, a wash cloth and towel thrown over one shoulder. )

So Deaton gave this... stuff. Don't ask what it is, because he wouldn't tell me. ( He sighed, holding up a small, glass container filled with shimmering dirt that Stiles still hadn't decided was more blue or purple. ) He said to wash your smelly werewolf ass with it, and it should get you out of that bed within another week. ( He sighed, chewing on his lip for a few seconds before continuing. ) So let's not make this weird, alright?

( He twisted the cap off the bottle, tipping some of the contents into the water - watching as the surface swirled with dark purples and bright greens that dissolved clearly, filling the room with a pleasant scent of a few spices and herbs he couldn't place. Stiles watched the water for a moment before lifting his attention to Peter expectantly, one brow arching as if to say he was waiting for some form of protest or disapproval over the idea. )

MERRY BELATED CHRISTMAS TO ME TBH

[deceitful]

[ After his brief stint and escape from Eichen House, Peter was finally ready to wash his hands of Beacon Hills. What was left here for him other than memories of the past? Especially with Derek gone, Cora gone, everyone gone-- nobody left other than the ragtag assortment of teenagers that belonged in Scott McCall's pack. The pack that Peter was very much not a part of, of his own volition and action.

Then the Ghost Riders came for him, and just like that, another three months of his life was taken from him. Always so much lost time. Three months, Stiles had said. Three months since the lockdown without a word from anyone.

Of course, on a fundamental level, he knew that he had destroyed most of his ties himself, especially following his failure to kill Scott in Mexico. After he had killed Laura, dyed his hands in her blood and stolen her power, Derek hadn't been able to look him in the eye for ages. Around the time when the dead pool had formed, he'd thought that maybe even if Derek would never forgive him for what he did (and he didn't deserve to be forgiven), they could move on. After all, Derek had killed him in turn, and at the end of the day, they were still family.

For a time, it seemed like he'd been on the money about it. At least until Mexico and his failure. Admittedly, that wasn't his finest hour, and in the aftermath of it, he wondered if Derek would've been willing to rejoin him if he had managed to become alpha again.

So really, Stiles had said nothing but the truth when he'd asked who would come for Peter. The question had cut to the quick unexpectedly, and his own sharp tongue had bit off a retort in his defense.

But as it turned out later on, the answer to Stiles' question was Stiles himself.

If asked why exactly he'd snatched his keys up from the concrete floor of the abandoned train station, Peter himself wouldn't be able to give a single answer. There were plenty of reasons. He wasn't sure he still had his own keys on him, and if he wanted to get far, far away from Beacon Hills like he said, he'd need a vehicle. Stiles' jeep was a piece of work, but it would do in a pinch. Or maybe it was repayment, a thank you to Stiles for having broken him out of the fugue he'd been caught in. But more likely, if what Stiles believed to be true, his friends would remember him. All they needed was a little nudge in the right direction. The help of a relic. So in a way, it'd been insurance. The literal keys in ensuring that whoever found him wouldn't leave him to die, assuming going through the Ghost Riders' gate would do a number on him.

And in the end, it paid off.

Burning for the third time was no less painful than the previous two times (and he really had to stop this particular streak of activity), with only the knowledge that he’d heal eventually and the blessed periods of unconsciousness in between keeping him going. He hated hospitals. Hated the sterile impersonality of them, the constant whiff of antiseptic and pain steeped in the very foundations of the building. Then Stiles had shown up and stuck his nose in.

The apartment was a welcome change from the hospital, even with the claustrophobic press of mountain ash on all sides. At the very least, it was more secure by virtue of not being a public building, albeit unfamiliar enough to put him on edge. For a time, he hadn’t been sure of what exactly it was that Stiles was doing. Why he’d brought him here in the first place. Granted, his faculties were compromised by the fact that the entirety of his body was burned, but he’d caught on eventually. It wasn’t difficult to understand following the slow emergence of personal effects in the apartment. Stiles was nesting, or something like it. Making the space into his own. Maybe it was unconsciously for himself, but given that Peter was the one residing in the apartment, he must’ve done it out of a desire to make Peter comfortable.

It was baffling, why Stiles was bothering. Why he came by constantly when someone like Malia hadn’t at all. Then again, for all that they were blood related, they were practically no better than strangers. Him and Stiles-- well, they had history. Plenty of it between them. Most of it was all the more reason for Stiles not to trust him, not to help him in the way he did, and frankly, part of Peter had been betting on Stiles having taken him to a remote location to put him down while he was weak for a while, until evidence had shown contrary.

Sometimes he wondered if he would’ve healed this quickly years ago if Laura and Derek had stayed with him. But that was an old hurt he didn’t care to linger on, not when he was healing as well as he was.

Part of him was caught in a constant conflict, a mixture of gratitude with a generous amount of confusion at the camaraderie-- if it could be called that-- he’d gained with Stiles. Turned out having to rely on someone for just about everything made for great bonding moments. Stiles was a constant fixture in the apartment, to the point where Peter found it strange when he wasn’t around. Too quiet. But even when he was gone, his scent permeated every corner of the apartment.

Peter’s reading when Stiles bounced in, pausing to watch him flit about the apartment in his usual frenetic burst of energy. There’s a certain difficulty accompanied by treating a burn victim. He would know. It made everything, including bathing, difficult. Had he been human, he wouldn’t have survived. Still, the weakness and stiffness in his joints and muscles despite his repeated, daily routine of stretching and moving (often with Stiles’ help) made him eager to hurry the process in any way possible. ]

It looks like dirt. [ Said with a sigh of his own. Even if it involved dirt, apparently. But the scent of it was fragrant and accompanied by the vague tickle of ozone that magic sometimes bore. Weak as he may be at the moment, his tongue was in top form. ] You’re the one offering to give me a sponge bath, Stiles. How could I possibly “make it weird”?

[ Buttons were a challenge to navigate, but an easier task to deal with than the strain of pulling a shirt over his head. He undid them slowly, and raised an eyebrow right back at Stiles in turn. ] If the idea of touching me bothers you, I could manage on my own, I’m sure.

[ The still burned parts of his flesh were raw and unpleasant to deal with, he knew that much. Just as well as he knew that Stiles had already dealt with it before without complaint. ]

[suspectlist]

( Stiles turned away for just a few seconds to make sure he had everything he needed to take care of the werewolf during his clean up. Once he was sure he was good, he looked up in time to see the way Peter undid the buttons on his shirt slowly.

At first, he'd been quick to offer help, had all but smothered Peter with his attention in an attempt to make things easier on the werewolf. But since then, he's stepped back considerably. Enough that he forced himself to attempt to sit still and patient while Peter undid his top. It was a valiant effort on his part - even if he couldn't stop himself from bouncing one foot slightly as he waited.

His eyes lifted from the man's fingers to his face after a moment. )

When I said make it weird, I meant saying or doing something to remind one or both of us that I'm getting an eyeful of you mostly naked. ( He elaborated, lifting one hand to motion to the length of Peter's body where he was sitting, the cloth in his hand flopping helplessly around as he did. ) You were a lot less responsive last time I did this. ( Stiles's hands flopped back down to his lap, and he shrugged one shoulder.

He made a point with the last of his words to avoid implying he had any obligation to be here. He was here willingly, after all, offering Peter his attention and assistance when no one else had. At this stage, he was sure Peter was more than capable of taking care of something like this with minimal trouble, but the last thing he wanted was to drag out this healing process. Being almost burned alive for the third time in your life really had to suck. )

Do you need help with that? ( He wondered after a few seconds, lifting his hand to motion towards Peter's shirt. )

[deceitful]

[ Ignoring the jittery, perpetual motion that Stiles was always in, he continued to pluck at the buttons on his shirt. He never did them up all the way, out of both personal preference and necessity, but even so, he was only almost halfway down, flashes of skin peeking through the light fabric.

Being coddled and waited on wasn't something he particularly enjoyed (ook at what he did to his last nurse), but he tolerated it because he knew he couldn't have done without it. Still, he very much preferred his independence. ]

Lucky for us that I'm not shy then. [ Even after nearly a month of bed rest, he wasn't in the worst shape he could be, which was to say, raw and unappealingly crispy. It'll take some time before he's back to 100%, but that was to be expected. Peter grew out of his self conscious phase years ago, thank god. But someone here clearly hadn't. Flashing a smirk at Stiles with just a little more teeth than necessary, he added, ] And personally? I think you'll find I'm much more fun when I'm responsive.

[ Wink wink. Was he messing with Stiles on purpose? Yes, but look. Try being bedridden and in agony for a month. You had to get your kicks from somewhere after that. It's just Stiles's misfortune that he was feeling well enough to needle him like this.

Maybe that's also why he paused and dropped his hands to his sides, nodding at Stiles with a gleam in his eyes. ] Be my guest.

[suspectlist]

Yeah, real lucky.

( It isn't as if he hasn't seen the entirety of Peter naked by now. When they'd first brought him here, he'd seen a lot more of Peter than he'd ever thought possible. The only difference was the entirety of his body was covered in layers of blackened skin, burned by such an intense, supernatural heat that had burned through a normal human right in front of their eyes.

Now, though? Much of Peter's skin had healed and returned to a normal, healthy color. There were patches, of course, that were still raw and enough to make Stiles uncomfortably aware of what he'd had to eat that day. By now he was more than familiar of where those specific spots were, and he was sure between the two of them, they could avoid any uncomfortable mishaps like him pressing on them or touching them in general. But as pleased as he was to see Peter was healing, getting better with each passing day in hopes of returning to whatever lonely, questionable existence he lived, the time they'd spent together had been enough to let Peter get under his skin. )

If by fun you mean frustrating and potentially dangerous, I'd say you hit the nail on the head.

( There was no denying the hint of frustration under Stiles's skin with Peter's responses over the past couple of moments. Peter was healing enough for Stiles to remember that he was just like all the other Hales - attractive and prone to riling him up with little effort. Peter proved that point by dropping his hands to his sides and nodding at him.

For a few, long seconds, Stiles only sat there, staring at the other. He considered throwing the rag at him for a moment and leaving him to clean himself, but he didn't have it in him. Instead, he grumbled under his breath (something about stupid Hale family werewolves) as he moved to perch on the edge of the mattress to reach out and begin undoing the rest of Peter's buttons.

He was, perhaps, a bit more rough than he should have been, and there was no denying how hard he was trying to keep his eyes on the buttons and his working fingers instead of Peter's face or exposed skin. ) Let's get your pants.

[deceitful]

Which raises the question of why you're so inclined to help someone of that description.

[ It remained a point of interest for Peter, this altruism on Stiles's part. He's a teenage boy, and like most of his kind, no Florence Nightingale. Plus with all of the combined history between them, they've been at odds almost as often as they've worked together. Their alliance was always a reluctant one, based on an uneasy agreement that it was better to work with the devil you knew. Or maybe that was the crux of it. Peter's sold himself well enough, wormed his way into the pack for a time by virtue of doling out information in increments. Just enough to make them realise he was necessary.

It would be stupid to throw away a resource when the children of Beacon Hills had little of it to begin with. Logically, it made sense, but— instinctually, on a baser level, it felt like something beyond that.

Well, no matter. He'd figure it out in due time. Until then, putting his energy towards recovering was wiser. There was no knowing when this brief period of peace would be interrupted by some other supernatural disaster. Which wasn't to say he couldn't spend some of it riling up Stiles.

He's quiet as Stiles removed his shirt, speaking only at one point when Stiles was particularly rough, laying a hand over his and murmuring a quiet careful. Nothing but a small smile quirking his mouth up at the corners otherwise. He shrugged the shirt off of his shoulders, letting it crumple silently on the floor.

Oh, this was too good to resist.

His hand found the nape of Stiles's neck, stroking across the soft skin there. ] Trying to get me out of my pants while I'm at a disadvantage? You could've just asked before. I might've even said yes.