Entry 06 The Dark Side of the Moon, 7a
Title: The Dark Side of the Moon, 7a
Entry Number: 06
Author: goddessofbirth
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Chris Argent/Peter Hale
Rating: M
Genre: Angst/Romance
Spoiler Warnings: Spoilers through season 3a, Canon AU from season 2 finale
Word Count: 1276
A/N: A continuation of this work
Peter wakes up in an empty bed, with his face buried in a pillow that smells of Chris. There's a five second gap between sleep and full consciousness that he quietly panics, hears no noise in the house, and thinks Chris has stormed away. Then he sees the note on the side table and relaxes back down with a tiny, exhaled breath.
Thank God. Real food. If he has to subsist one more day on crackers and freezer burnt grilled cheese, he might just snap and kill someone. He's not made for Walmart brand sustenance, and he shudders delicately when he thinks about the five tins of spam he'd found shoved in the corner cabinet. Obviously Chris needs a keeper.
He luxuriates in the bed a minute more. Stretches and arches his back and scrubs his head into the pillow. He feels good. Rested. Whatever he's been up to for the last few years hasn't included much sleep, although he hadn't realized exactly how exhausted he'd been until just now. Until he'd actually gotten a full night's rest. He's not delusional enough to think it's unconnected to having Chris in his bed.
He sets his feet on the floor and finds the change of clothes set carefully out on the surface of the dresser. They're soft and worn and frayed, and even though they've been in a drawer for a long time, it's not so long that the scent of their previous owner can entirely disappear. These were Chris' clothes.
He tucks them under his arm and pads his way to the bathroom. A shower seems called for when changing clothes, especially as he has no way of knowing how long it's been since his last. From the hint of warmth still lingering in the tiny room, Chris was apparently of the same opinion. Peter strips to the thought of Chris doing the same. To Chris peeling off his shirt and shoving his jeans off his hips. Letting his underwear fall to the floor.
When he's fully nude, Peter carefully peels the bandage from his neck, hissing a bit as the tape pulls unpleasantly against his skin. He twists and turns in front of the mirror, finally finding a position that affords him a glimpse.
The skin is smooth. Unbroken and whole, without a trace of claw marks left. He's healed.
He's healed and he still doesn't remember a damn thing.
And he doesn't want to.
He doesn't want to know. Not anymore. He can feel it, just on the edge of his vision. Something huge and black and waiting. And he doesn't want it. He doesn't want to know what lies between then and now and Chris. He doesn't want to know what has happened to make Chris fight so hard against what he should be taking freely.
Maybe if he never remembers, Chris will forget, too.
He drops the bandage in the trash and yanks open the shower curtain. Chris' scent slams into him, catches him low in the gut. It's so strong - the water droplets still sliding down the wall evidence to how short a time it's been since Chris stood here - that Peter almost stumbles. He clutches at the curtain and breathes deep, already half hard.
It just gets worse when he steps inside and starts up the water. Billowing steam concentrates the smell, intensifies it in the enclosed space, and it's all too easy to picture Chris here, water sluicing over him as he tips his head back into the spray. See him reaching for the cheap, store brand shampoo. Using the generic bar of soap to lather suds across his body. It's still damp from use, and Peter slides his fingers over the surface, his eyes fluttering closed.
He's seen this new Chris shirtless. Seen how age has fulfilled the promise of his teenaged body. Felt the flex of his muscles under his fingers and the way his throat had tilted and bared in his sleep when he'd finally dropped his armor. Peter's imagination is already filling in the rest, and he doesn't even try to fight it. He breathes in deep, filling his lungs with Chris.
The shampoo is cool on his palm, and he braces a hand against the tiles and wets his lips as he wraps his fingers around his dick. A small, barely there whimper slips out as he twists his wrist and thumbs his tip, hips jerking to follow the sensation. He wishes he had woken a few minutes earlier. Followed the trail of Chris' scent to this room. Opened the shower curtain to find Chris naked and wet.
Peter tightens his grip. Strips himself rough and quick as he draws his bottom lip between his teeth.
What would Chris have done? Shouted? Turned him out? Cracked open and finally released all that anger and hatred he's harboring? Or would it have been the other Chris, the one from last night - the one that had trembled and fought and then clutched at Peter in needy desperation. Would he have let Peter press him against the tiles, so that Peter would have had room to drop to his knees and take Chris in his mouth? Would he have curled down around Peter, buried his hands in his hair like when they were young, and let his name fall from his lips like the best church litany Peter has ever heard?
Peter rests his forehead against the tile, rolling his balls in one hand while his other draws hard on his cock. His abdomen tightens, a hollow, aching need, and all he has to do is think of Chris' face when he comes, how age and time might have changed that too, and he's spilling over his fingers, gasping out shocky breaths of air as he lets his weight collapse against the shower wall.
He waits for his heart rate to slow to normal, sluggish and relaxed from his place on the tile, then washes up at a leisurely speed. Chris will be back soon, and then Peter will initiate his 8-point plan to pulverize Chris' walls to dust. It should really only take until step three - he is just that good. Until then, though, there's not much to do but wait. Maybe go back to sleep. A yawn escapes as he towels off and dresses in Chris' clothes, and he turns his face unabashedly into the sleeve and inhales deeply. He doesn't care what's missing in his memories. If the past hasn't overridden this, then the past is not important at all.
He's heading back to the bedroom, feeling better than he has in the entire two days since he'd woken up on the floor of the woods, when something in the kitchen catches his eyes.
Chris' saddlebag.
He's standing over it before he clearly thinks it through, hand on the buckle. It's the one thing he hasn't seen. The one thing Chris makes sure to never leave behind. Except for this morning. This morning Chris had made a mistake.
Peter's brain screams at him to walk away. Walk away now. The black pit of bad is still waiting, just around the corner, and whatever is in here...It's something he knows he doesn't want.
Except of course he does. Because now that it's here, in his hands...he has to know. Has to satisfy the reborn itch of his curiosity, regardless of the consequences. His need to know had always been the thing that damned him.
His decision hangs in the balance for only a moment. Only for the space of half a dozen breaths.
He undoes the buckle and opens the flap.