Peter backed away, body low, snarling at Stiles. He was a hunter; had to be. There was no other reason for a human to know what he was. He had been right in his suspicions all along.
“Stop that, I ain’t no hunter,” Stiles said, spitting the word like poison as he set the food on the table, accent thickening with emotion. His right hand was twitching, like he wanted to cross himself. “I know what you are, wolfie, cause I’m a part of your world too. I grew up on my maman’s stories of the wolves that live in the swamp, among other things. Didn’t take me long to figure out y'all were real.” Peter wasn’t swayed, ears pinned back, still growling.
Stiles, for his part, didn’t look offended. He just shrugged and went to sit at the table, propping his hand up on his chin and leveling Peter with the most unimpressed look the wolf. “Y'know, my best friend’s a rougarou, too. Bitten, though. But you a born wolf, huh? That’s why you turn into a wolf.”
He was smart, Peter would give him that. Not many knew that little fact, believing it to just be something werewolves had to learn. They did, but they could only learn if they had the genetics for it, and that only came from the old werewolf bloodlines. The first families of wolves that had been blessed by the moon. The Hales were one of the oldest.
“I know you don’t trust me, and that’s fine, I get it. I wouldn’t trust me either, in your position. But I’m really not gon’ hurt you; had plenty of chances at doin’ that already. Don’t you think I woulda killed you already if I wanted to? It’d have been easier to kill you when you were out that try to fight a wolf almost as big as me.” He did make a very valid point. And Peter couldn’t hear a lie in his heartbeat, his pulse beating a little fast, but even. Like a hummingbird’s wing. Peter lowered his hackles and shuffled forward slowly. “Atta boy. Now, I’d appreciate it if you’d shift that furry butt of yours into something a little less hairy, It’s only polite, after all.”
Peter looked at the steaming bowl of gumbo longingly, stomach cramping in hunger, then put his head down; he didn’t know if he could shift back. Hadn’t been able to all the times he’s tried since he left. He turned and walked out of the kitchen, steps slow and forlorn, to go lay back down on his pile of blankets. He’d been trapped in the body of his wolf for so long, relying on it to keep him alive, that he didn’t remember how to turn back into the man.
Stiles followed him not even a minute later, soft mouth downturned into a frown at Peter’s behavior. “You can’t shift, can you?” he asked after staring at the wolf for several long moments. Peter’s plaintive whine must have been answer enough, because Stiles’ expression turned sad. “I’m sorry,” he said, watching Peter curl up and tuck his nose under his tail, apetite forgotten.
At least until Stiles left, only to come back with the gumbo. He set both bowls on the ground in front of Peter, then briefly left again to get another for himself. When he returned Peter hadn’t moved. “Hey,” he said, sitting on the floor beside Peter and reaching out, nudging his side. “You gotta eat, wolf. You look like you’re too seconds from withering away.”
Peter lifted his head, the scent of the food enticing. It was demeaning eating in this form, out of a bowl like a dog, but the gumbo was good enough that he couldn’t bring himself to care—although the meat didn’t taste quite like chicken or pork, the texture off and flavor masked too much by seasoning for Peter to discern exactly what it was.
At least Stiles was gracious. He could have easily been making insensitive jokes about Peter’s state, rather than trying to help him. He looked like the kind of person that didn’t show much restrain with what he said often.
Satisfied that Peter was eating, Stiles crossed his legs and ate his own food.
It was honestly impressive how much a wolf could eat when he really wanted to. Peter managed to go through three bowls with ease, and they weren’t small either. Stiles was entertained watching him, fingers stroking over Peter’s side when the wolf seemed friendly enough to not bite his hand off.
“You’ve been like this for a long time, haven’t you?” he asked softly, carding his fingers through Peter’s fur. The wolf made a sound of agreement, jerking his head in a slight nod. Stiles gingerly touched the edges of Peter’s burns, where his fur gave way to seared skin. “Did someone do this to you?” Again, Peter nodded. Stiles’ heart broke for the poor wounded wolf.
“Hunters?” This time Peter growled, and Stiles nodded to himself. “I’m sorry, wolf.” If her ever shifted back into a human, and knew who it was that had tried to kill him in such a terrible way, then Stiles would gladly help the wolf get justice.
Peter was laying in his makeshift bed, head resting on the paws as he watched Stiles work. There was zydeco playing softly, the human swaying his hips and tapping his fingers to the beat as he worked. Peter got the impression he normally played his music loud, and he was glad Stiles had it at a wolf-friendly volume.
He wished he could ask what it was Stiles was making with all those herbs and powders and strange-smelling liquids being ground and combined together into some kind of paste. He didn’t have to wait long to find out, Stiles coming over with a bowl of the stuff in hand, along with an armful of cloth bandages.
“Don’t bite me, okay?” he said, looking at Peter meaningfully as he crouched down. “You’ll start healing again in a few days now that you’re no longer on the run, but this will help kick start the process. So be nice, yeah?”
Peter growled softly, causing Stiles to smile. He knew by now that Peter wouldn’t actually bite him. Much. His wrist was still smarting from earlier, but he was pretty sure Peter’s sudden attack was more from being unexpectedly touched, than wanting to actually do him harm. “Be a good boy and there might be a few treats in it for you,” he teased, laughing when Peter snapped at him.
Stiles stroked Peter’s neck, coaxing him to roll over and display his wounded side, baring the gruesome-looking burns. Stiles, for his part, didn’t cringe. He just picked up the bowl of the watery poultice and used the brush in it to gently paint the mixture over Peter’s wounds. Peter was tensed, waiting for it to hurt, but the pain never came. He was starting to think that there was more to Stiles than he originally thought, with the way he couldn’t feel pain when Stiles touched him.
Again, he was singing softly, one hand buried in Peter’s scruff, soothing him. Peter allowed himself to drift off to sleep, trusting Stiles not to hurt him.
