Chapter Text
The first week Peter and Chris stayed home Stiles felt like a zombie. He followed them around from room to room, doing whatever it was they wanted, but his heart wasn't in it. They watched movies that he normally liked, but now they just made him feel guilty. They cooked food they thought he would eat, but his stomach churned at the sight of it. They said things to cheer him up but all he could manage was a weak, flickering smile. The urge to cry never really left, but he had no more tears to shed. Every so often a lone droplet would escape, but he was quick to wipe it away before they saw. Peter could smell it on his cheeks, Chris could see it in his red-rimmed eyes but they just carried on the day as though everything were normal.
Peter insisted he wear his clothing. Though they were about the same height he was much skinnier – especially in recent months – and his sweatshirts hung loosely off his shoulders and pooled in bunches around his stomach. He didn't mind being swamped in the werewolves clothes, especially not since Peter had taken the liberty of over scenting everything they owned. Even his pants draped over his feet and made it difficult for him to walk without the gait of a small, stumbling child.
He sat at the window, holding a mug of hot chocolate Chris prepared for him. It was sea salt and caramel, from an expensive candy store downtown. The entire week he kept plying Stiles with random gifts like candy, hot chocolate, comic books, DVDs, anything that might lift his spirits or distract him. Stiles would accept the presents with a 'thank you' and give them a cursory glance so as not to hurt the alphas feelings. He could tell that Chris thought one day he'd find something that would pull Stiles from his slump.
He nursed his cocoa quietly. The drink had long since gone cold.
“You didn't even drink half of it,” Chris said. Stiles looked over at him. Both alphas were watching him with a quiet expression that made him duck his head.
“Sorry,” he muttered weakly, looking back out the window. The rain pattered lightly against the glass, a fitting image for his mood.
“I don't like seeing you this way,” Chris said mournfully. “Do you want to go downtown, to that comic book store you like? I'll buy you whatever you want.” It was a poor attempt at consolation, but at least an attempt was made. Peter just kept trying to shove food into his mouth.
“Buying me things won't make me feel better, Chris.”
“What if I bought you a puppy? The biggest, fluffiest puppy?”
Stiles almost smiled. “That won't make me feel better either,” he sighed. “You'd want a German Shepherd anyways, I know you. An old, gray-muzzled, German Shepherd. You don't have the patience for a puppy.”
“You're right.” Chris moved from the couch where Peter had boggarted the pillows, and the throw blanket. “I already have my hands full dealing with one uncontrollable mutt,” he motioned towards Peter who gave a half-hearted growl. Chris sat down on the armrest of the overstuffed chair Stiles was in. He put his arm around the omegas shoulders.
“What would make you feel better?”
Stiles leaned against him. “I don't know? Time? That's what it says in all those recovery books you brought home the other day. I know you stay up late to read them. I can feel you leave the bed, and I can hear the pages turning in the living room.” Chris's face turned guilty. “You know, underneath the sofa cushions really isn't a good hiding spot when we spend most of our time there. “I'm no 'princess and the pea' but I can definitely feel a bestseller underneath the cushions.” He wrinkled his nose as he starred down into his mug.
“I'm not going to apologize for being concerned about you.”
Stiles said nothing in response. He took another minuscule sip of his cold hot chocolate.
“You know how much Peter and I both love you,” the alpha continued. “How do we get you to love yourself again?”
“If I knew the answer to that I'd tell you.” Stiles shrugged. “I just need time.”
“Alright,” Chris nodded. “Maybe you could use some of that time to call your father?”
Stiles cringed. “I'm not . . . I'm not ready for that yet.”
“You know he's worried about you.”
“I know,” Stiles sighed. “I know. I just . . . I just can't face him right now. Just give me a couple days.”
“Face him? He's not judging you, Stiles. He just wants to know how you're doing.”
“I know.”
“He's not going to be mad or yell at you, if that's what you're worried about. He's a good guy. He'll understand. He just wants-”
“Chris, please.” Stiles interrupted. “I know. I'll get there. We'll have our conversation but just, not today, please?”
“If you're sure,” Chris said skeptically. “Come join me and Peter for a shower?” he held his hand out.
Stiles took it.
*
He wasn't sure if he loved or hated showering. It was quickly becoming a team event. Chris's hands spread shampoo evenly through his waterlogged hair, while Peter gently massaged some kind of skin care product into his shoulders and down his back. It felt nice, having both pairs of warm arms on him, leaving gentle kisses on his body, but it also made him feel incredibly, sickeningly vulnerable.
He still couldn't let them touch his stomach and pressed away whenever anyone touched him above his waist or below his rib cage. They were sensitive enough to avoid even looking at the area.
Peter didn't seem to care too much that the spray from the shower head barely touched him. He focused solely on the omega, on working the lotion into his back, chest, shoulders, throat, and hips. Stiles tilted his chin up when Chris encouraged him with his finger. He pulled him closer underneath the water so his hair could be rinsed of the mint scented conditioner. The water hit the top of his head and flooded down his back and chest in a warm streams that pinkened his skin. Chris pushed his hair back and kept the water from falling down into his eyes.
The alpha looked down at him with the same concerned, pitying expression he'd worn since Stiles confessed his fears to him in the bedroom. He pressed his lips to Stiles forehead, and then wrinkled his nose when some of the shampoo water made it's way into his mouth. Stiles lips quirked up just a little. The smile was quick to fade, but for the fraction of a second it graced his face Chris's blue eyes lightened.
“That's why you don't kiss in the shower,” he said. Normally he would have added dum bass, and Chris would have smacked him on his ass for it, or growled and nipped at his ear. Stiles almost wished he would have, because this strange, nonsexual intimacy they'd coated him in wasn't normal. He wanted normal. He wanted Peters hands on his hips and Chris's mouth on his throat. He wasn't sure if the water on his cheeks was from the shower head or his eyes, but either way Chris wiped it away with his thumb.
“But we like kissing you in the shower,” Peter whispered huskily in his ear. He planted a firm kiss on Stiles jawbone, leaning over his shoulder to do so. “You're especially cute when your face is red, and your skin is pink.” He nuzzled Stiles throat, wrapping his arms around his torso. He rested his head against Stiles shoulder.
“I love you,” Stiles said, just as the scalding water turned tepid. His skin started to shiver and he found himself pressing back into Peters naturally warmed body.
“I love you too,” Peter said. He kissed him again. Stiles looked back at the wolf. His hair was barely wet, and only his chest from where he'd hugged Stiles to him had any water. “Let's get out now, while there's still some water left for the ocean, hm?” Stiles nodded.
Chris turned around and shut off the shower. He was about as dry as Peter, save for his wet back and neck. His hair had been wet, but now it was already starting to dry at the ends. He hadn't realized how much time they'd spent under the water together. It felt like just a few minutes.
Peter pushed back the shower door and helped Stiles climb out ahead of him. The tiles were cold underneath his feet. His skin shivered as the chilly air brushed its fingers against him.
“Neither of you even got clean,” he grumbled as his hair was assaulted with a fluffy blue towel. It was Peters towel, not his. The werewolf stepped out behind him. He turned Stiles around – keeping the towel on his head – and pressed their foreheads together.
“I think you'll find we've never gotten clean while sharing the shower with you,” he smirked and it made Stiles heart skip a single beat. Their lips pressed together again for what must've been the twentieth time they day. He closed his eyes and let himself feel the warmth of Peters lips on his. Peter didn't even try pushing for more. His kiss was soft, and sweet, and chaste. Very much not like Peter.
Stiles wrapped his arms around the wolves throat, pressing his wet chest against Peters dry, muscled body. He felt a second towel wiping down his throat, then his shoulders and arms, and then down his back. Then Peter released him from his hold. He took the towel once again and finished wiping down his hair and the side of his face.
“I can clean myself up, you know.”
“You can. But if we gave you the choice you wouldn't,” Chris said calmly from behind them. Stiles grimaced. He knew it was true. Given the choice he'd spend all day in bed, unmoving. Preferably with his head buried in either alphas chest.
Peter left the bathroom and returned with clothes in his hands. Stiles accepted them when they were practically shoved into his arms. He tugged on the hoodie that smelled like Peters cologne, and pulled on the sweatpants that at one point belonged to Chris. He wasn't quite sure when he'd started commandeering their clothes, but now he had a very sizable collection of hoodies and sweatpants that were just slightly too big for him. He put his hands into the pocket of the hood. He sniffed his shoulder, relishing the scent of cedar wood that Peter carried with him. It mixed nicely with the trace of minty shampoo still on his skin.
Peter didn't miss the movement and neither did Chris. They both reached over and scented his back and shoulders, avoiding his over sensitive stomach. When they were done and he was thoroughly coated in their smells he spoke up again.
“I love you,” he said, not addressing either in particular.
“We love you too,” said Peter.
“We think you are the most perfect omega in the entire world.”
Stiles didn't refute the claim. He knew what they'd say if he did. They'd tell him they loved him, that nothing was wrong with him, that any flaws he carried could be vastly overlooked by his benefits. He wasn't looking for an argument, he was just looking forward to sleep. His eyes started to drift shut. Sensing he was at his limit Chris gently guided him back towards the living room.
The trio curled up on the sofa together, with Stiles in the middle, his head on Chris's chest, and Peter just behind him, head on Stiles shoulder and arms around his waist. It was an awkward embrace, but they were together and that was the most important thing.
*
“How is he?”
Peter ran a hand through his hair after quietly shutting the bedroom door. “'Better' is an inaccurate term.” Trying to comfort Stiles did no good, he saw their efforts as pity rather than affection. He longed to take the boy in his arms and tell him that the evil thoughts that plagued his mind weren't true. When he did, Stiles only nodded and sniffled. He knew they weren't true, it didn't matter. They hoped that spending more time with him one-on-one would get him to finally open up. So far their efforts had been in vain.
Chris held out a coffee for him, which Peter gladly took. It never took long to lull Stiles back into sleep, his terrorized brain longed for rest even though it just made him groggy and disoriented in the morning. Peter wanted to go back and join him, but he needed to talk to his other mate. They'd been so wrapped up in him they'd started neglecting each other, and that wasn't healthy either. They waited for him to fall asleep before sneaking out into the kitchen for a drink in a chat.
“He should have just told me what was wrong from the start. I would have helped him. He never tells me what's going on in that head of his,” Peter sighed. He sipped the coffee and slid into his chair on the other side of the table.
“Hm, I wonder who he could have gotten that from?” Chris joked, but the humor was lost on him. In his hand he held a mug of tea. It wasn't his usual drink, Stiles had been trying to get them all of caffeine for a while, long enough to amount six or seven large boxes of tea bags in the cabinet.
“Are you saying it's my fault?” Peter had his own internal demons to deal with; namely that he'd been the one constantly pressuring Stiles about his pregnancy, or lack-thereof. What if it had all been staved off by his stress, and anxiety? It made him nervous, he stopped eating, he got sick, the sickness stopped him from having babies? Deaton said it was all just chemicals in his body that weren't being produced, and anxiety had been known to affect chemical and hormone levels.
Chris snapped him from his thoughts. “I meant both of us, Peter. I'm not exactly great with my words either. Case in point.”
“Sorry,” Peter muttered.
Chris waved off the apology. For all the pointless bickering they did they hardly apologized, and it hardly mattered. They still loved each other, even if they were both stubborn assholes.
Peter reached his palm out on the wooden surface of the table. Chris took his cue to slot their fingers together with a wordless smile. His hands were still warmed from the tea.
“John keeps calling me,” Chris said. “He wants to talk to Stiles. I just told him he's been sleeping and I don't want to wake him, but I don't think he believes me.”
“Why doesn't he ever call me with this stuff?” Peter asked. “Am I not as much of an alpha as you are?” he felt another pinning stab of anxiety in his chest.
Chris gave a little, halfhearted laugh. “Because you'd just hang up on him.”
Well, that wasn't untrue. “What does he know?”
“That Stiles went to the hospital, and that's what scares him. You know about his wife, Stiles mother? I told him it's nothing like that, a minor issue but he's taking it hard. He doesn't like the idea of his boy in the hospital.”
“This issue isn't minor.”
Chris squeezed his hand. “I know that, but there's no reason to freak John out over it. I don't want him showing up here with a half dozen squad cars ready to take Stiles home. Do you?”
Peter shook his head. “No, that was probably a wise decision. But will it actually stop him from showing up here?” He traced the rim of his coffee cup with a finger.
“Not for long, no. I told him I'd give Stiles the day tomorrow to call himself, and if he doesn't then I'll fill him in on everything that's been happening.”
“Stiles won't be happy about that,” he shook his head. The omega was already paranoid, going behind his back would only damage what little trust he had.
“I know, but, it's not fair to keep John in the dark. Stiles is his only kid, and they've always been close. I don't know why this is so hard to admit to him, when he had no problem admitting everything else about our private life.” There was just a tiny trace of bitterness in his tone.
Peter couldn't suppress a small laugh. He still remembered the feeling of opening the door and finding a very protective sheriff Stilinski brandishing a gun and demanding to know which alpha had propositioned his son for a mating. He wasn't pleased when the answer was 'both.' Stiles had many notable qualities; being able to keep secrets from his father was not one of them.