Pack Means Family

Part 1: The Bite

"So, you're not gonna kill me?"

Peter pulled his hand away from the car door, "don't you understand yet?" he was slow to turn around, voice steady when he spoke, "I'm not the bad guy here," he took a step closer; Stiles took a step back.

Looking at him now Peter looked just like anyone else. He wasn't crazed, there was no wild gleam in his eyes. His appearance was utterly normal, his façade eerily calm.

It made Stiles' stomach churn. He took another step back, feeling a sudden overwhelming need to put distance between them, and sucked in a deep breath, "you turn into a giant monster with red eyes and fangs and you're not the bad guy here?"

Peter was assessing him; he could practically feel his eyes wandering his lanky form. Then he smiled. It wasn't a happy smile. Not even a content one. Nowhere near sane either. It was more like a smile that someone wore when they'd just had an idea. Something that should cause everyone in the immediate vicinity to run very far way is they valued their safety.

It made Stiles' palms sweat, his head was spinning. He could feel his breath picking up and his heart felt as though it would beat out of his chest.

He needed to get out of here, he needed air, he couldn't breathe. Stiles took a step back, head darting from one side to the other. Peter took a step forward, he couldn't outrun a werewolf, he wouldn't make it to the other side of the car let alone the exit.

"I like you, Stiles," Peter smirked, "Since you've helped me," he leaned forward into Stiles' personal space, "I'm going to give you something in return," Stiles breath hitched, that couldn't be good.

When Peter spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper, "do you want the bite?"

Stiles' mind was racing.

No, no, he didn't want the bite. The bite had ruined Scott's life, it had ruined his life. The bite meant being in a pack with Peter. Peter would be his alpha. The bite meant monsters and chaos and hunters and... and... he didn't want to be a werewolf.

Get out!

That's what he wanted, (needed) to get out!

Getoutgetoutgetoutgetoutgetout.

Peter was incredibly close now, face inches away from his own (when had that happened?) a predatory smirk on his face. He seemed so calm, (too calm) for a man who'd killed. For a man with a body in his trunk, a man on his way to commit (another) murder. Stiles could feel bile rising in the back of his throat. His eyes darted from one end of the parking garage to the other.

He went to take another step backward (he needed to get out!). His heal caught something slick on the cement and Stiles fell backward, arms flailing, looking for something to catch himself on. Peter's hand snapped out and grabbed hold of his wrist. He was yanked upright, Peter leaning down in his personal space, so they were nose to nose.

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut, hoping, (praying) that he hadn't just slipped on a puddle of blood. His mind wandered again to the nurse, dead, stuffed in the trunk of her own car, by Peter. Peter, who still hadn't let go of his wrist. Peter, who'd just offered him the bite. Crazy, insane, murderous Peter, who was still waiting for Stiles to answer his question.

(No, the answer was no, he didn't want it!)

Peter gave Stiles wrist a hard squeeze and the teen's eyes shot open.

(Spit it out, Stiles!)

"Wh-What?"

Peter was getting annoyed now. Stiles could see it on his face.