Entry Five, The Dark Side of the Moon, Chapter 2, pt 1
Title: The Dark Side of the Moon, Chap. 2, pt. 1
Entry: Five
Author: GoddessofBirth
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Chris/Peter
Rating: T
Genre: Romance, Angst
Word Count: 1091
Spoilers: The entire show to date
Peter takes off his jacket and places it on the lid of the small washer that takes up most of the tiny space, the muscles in his back and chest flexing at the motion. It's with a start that Chris realizes that in the three months or so since Peter's untimely resurrection, he's never seen Peter in short sleeves. It's always either the jacket, or a Henley, even during the hot months of summer, which means the last time he saw Peter like this was...too many years to count.
Chris purposely does not keep count.
The flesh of Peter's arms is tan, and smooth, and far more muscular than the skinny teenager still waiting for his DNA to kick in. He doesn't know why he's surprised to see the tattoo still there, crawling its way up the inside of his upper arm, except maybe he'd assumed the fire had burnt it away, like it had singed away Peter's sanity. The stark Gothic lettering remains, though, and Chris' fingertips itch. Fragments of a decades old conversation whisper through his brain.
We're underage, Chis. Nobody's gonna do it anyway.
Uh uh, I know this guy, down in Dentsville, said he'd do it...
Then he's forcefully yanked from his unrequested trip down memory lane when Peter sits down on the closed toilet, his back to Chris, and bows his head, baring his neck. If he had had any doubts about the veracity of Peter's amnesia, this dispelled them with finality. Peter would know better than to ever turn his back on Chris. His fingertips itch again, but for entirely different reasons.
There's a knife strapped to his ankle; he could slit Peter's throat in a matter of seconds. Or hell, he could probably walk out to the kitchen, pick his gun off the counter, put it to the back of Peter's head and pull the trigger. This Peter would never suspect it was coming, not until it was too late.
He would be completely justified. Peter is the very definition of rabid, and Chris has ignored the Code for months now in this war, let Peter continue to breathe air when he should have been put back down the instant he resurrected himself via mind-raping a seventeen year old girl. If Chris doesn't want to dirty his hands, he can just dump Peter off on Derek. He's seen the way the kid looks at his uncle. Nothing has been forgiven. The only reason Derek hasn't tried to kill Peter again is because he knows Peter expects it, is waiting on it. There's no guarantee Derek would emerge the winner.
But Peter like this? Easy prey.
Chris doesn't take any of these options. Instead, he grabs a cotton ball, and a bottle of iodine. Because as bitter a pill as it is, he wasn't kidding when he said they were at war. And Peter is the only other person in their screwed up band of misfits who understands the nature of war, who knows how to fight a battle and win. And even his psychosis brings benefits to the table; he's able to see less savory paths than Chris can, just like Chris can map out solutions that will minimize their loses where Peter would just choose body count.
For that reason and that reason alone, Chris will ensure Peter survives this. Keep him hidden from both Alpha pack and his own Alpha, until he can fend for himself again. Then all bets will be off.
For that reason alone.
He starts daubing at the claw marks on Peter's neck, ignoring Peter's hiss as the antiseptic seeps into the deepest punctures. There are four pairs of them, each stacked neatly above the other, careful and deliberate. The alphas knew what they were doing, and Chris will have to find some way to pass the information along without revealing what happened to Peter. It's too dangerous to hold it, even for the two or three days it will take Peter to recover.
“You said you had a daughter?”
Peter's voice breaks through his reverie, the edge of his voice curled in an amusement without poisoned knives or arrows or claws curled in a nasty mockery.
Please tell me you're joking. The only person who should bleach their hair is Billy Idol.
Chris hands remain steady as he pushes Peter's head down a little farther, to get a better angle at the wounds just under his hairline.
“I do. Allison. She's eighteen now.” He has to give Peter something, otherwise he'll never be able to hold him here, regardless. The need to know had always been an unscratchable itch in Peter.
“I don't know why that surprises me.” Peter's voice is muffled from the angle. “You were always so good with Katie -”
The bottle of disinfectant slips from Chris' hand and crashes to the floor, its contents spilling violently in a wide arc across the room.
“Chris?” Peter jerks and turns and starts to rise, and Chris places a hand on his shoulder to still him.
“It's fine. I've got it.” There are still towels under the sink from the last time the cabin was used; he pulls one out and mops up the mess. By the time he tosses it in the laundry bin, his hands are as steady as they've ever been. Neosporin uncaps easily, and he uses his fingers to smear it thickly down Peter's neck.
“When did you come back to Beacon Hills?” This would be so much easier if Peter would keep his mouth shut. If Chris could tell him to shut the fuck up. Instead he continues to spread ointment, switching to his thumb to better get into the curve under Peter's ear, and answers.
“A little over a year.”
“Why? Nathan thought you were gone for good; it's the only reason he moved the pack back.”
He tears the bandage packaging open with his teeth, spitting paper into the trash. The first gauze pad only covers half of the area, and he rips off a long strand of medical tape to fasten it into place. “There was a rogue Alpha. Killing people.”
“Did you get him?”
Charred flesh is a smell that never really leaves you. “Some kids with a pipe bomb did a pretty good job.” Only not good enough, it turned out.
The skin pressed against his palm moves with the motion of Peter's nod. “Good. Those kind are a danger to us all.”
Entry: Five
Author: GoddessofBirth
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Chris/Peter
Rating: T
Genre: Romance, Angst
Word Count: 1091
Spoilers: The entire show to date
Peter takes off his jacket and places it on the lid of the small washer that takes up most of the tiny space, the muscles in his back and chest flexing at the motion. It's with a start that Chris realizes that in the three months or so since Peter's untimely resurrection, he's never seen Peter in short sleeves. It's always either the jacket, or a Henley, even during the hot months of summer, which means the last time he saw Peter like this was...too many years to count.
Chris purposely does not keep count.
The flesh of Peter's arms is tan, and smooth, and far more muscular than the skinny teenager still waiting for his DNA to kick in. He doesn't know why he's surprised to see the tattoo still there, crawling its way up the inside of his upper arm, except maybe he'd assumed the fire had burnt it away, like it had singed away Peter's sanity. The stark Gothic lettering remains, though, and Chris' fingertips itch. Fragments of a decades old conversation whisper through his brain.
We're underage, Chis. Nobody's gonna do it anyway.
Uh uh, I know this guy, down in Dentsville, said he'd do it...
Then he's forcefully yanked from his unrequested trip down memory lane when Peter sits down on the closed toilet, his back to Chris, and bows his head, baring his neck. If he had had any doubts about the veracity of Peter's amnesia, this dispelled them with finality. Peter would know better than to ever turn his back on Chris. His fingertips itch again, but for entirely different reasons.
There's a knife strapped to his ankle; he could slit Peter's throat in a matter of seconds. Or hell, he could probably walk out to the kitchen, pick his gun off the counter, put it to the back of Peter's head and pull the trigger. This Peter would never suspect it was coming, not until it was too late.
He would be completely justified. Peter is the very definition of rabid, and Chris has ignored the Code for months now in this war, let Peter continue to breathe air when he should have been put back down the instant he resurrected himself via mind-raping a seventeen year old girl. If Chris doesn't want to dirty his hands, he can just dump Peter off on Derek. He's seen the way the kid looks at his uncle. Nothing has been forgiven. The only reason Derek hasn't tried to kill Peter again is because he knows Peter expects it, is waiting on it. There's no guarantee Derek would emerge the winner.
But Peter like this? Easy prey.
Chris doesn't take any of these options. Instead, he grabs a cotton ball, and a bottle of iodine. Because as bitter a pill as it is, he wasn't kidding when he said they were at war. And Peter is the only other person in their screwed up band of misfits who understands the nature of war, who knows how to fight a battle and win. And even his psychosis brings benefits to the table; he's able to see less savory paths than Chris can, just like Chris can map out solutions that will minimize their loses where Peter would just choose body count.
For that reason and that reason alone, Chris will ensure Peter survives this. Keep him hidden from both Alpha pack and his own Alpha, until he can fend for himself again. Then all bets will be off.
For that reason alone.
He starts daubing at the claw marks on Peter's neck, ignoring Peter's hiss as the antiseptic seeps into the deepest punctures. There are four pairs of them, each stacked neatly above the other, careful and deliberate. The alphas knew what they were doing, and Chris will have to find some way to pass the information along without revealing what happened to Peter. It's too dangerous to hold it, even for the two or three days it will take Peter to recover.
“You said you had a daughter?”
Peter's voice breaks through his reverie, the edge of his voice curled in an amusement without poisoned knives or arrows or claws curled in a nasty mockery.
Please tell me you're joking. The only person who should bleach their hair is Billy Idol.
Chris hands remain steady as he pushes Peter's head down a little farther, to get a better angle at the wounds just under his hairline.
“I do. Allison. She's eighteen now.” He has to give Peter something, otherwise he'll never be able to hold him here, regardless. The need to know had always been an unscratchable itch in Peter.
“I don't know why that surprises me.” Peter's voice is muffled from the angle. “You were always so good with Katie -”
The bottle of disinfectant slips from Chris' hand and crashes to the floor, its contents spilling violently in a wide arc across the room.
“Chris?” Peter jerks and turns and starts to rise, and Chris places a hand on his shoulder to still him.
“It's fine. I've got it.” There are still towels under the sink from the last time the cabin was used; he pulls one out and mops up the mess. By the time he tosses it in the laundry bin, his hands are as steady as they've ever been. Neosporin uncaps easily, and he uses his fingers to smear it thickly down Peter's neck.
“When did you come back to Beacon Hills?” This would be so much easier if Peter would keep his mouth shut. If Chris could tell him to shut the fuck up. Instead he continues to spread ointment, switching to his thumb to better get into the curve under Peter's ear, and answers.
“A little over a year.”
“Why? Nathan thought you were gone for good; it's the only reason he moved the pack back.”
He tears the bandage packaging open with his teeth, spitting paper into the trash. The first gauze pad only covers half of the area, and he rips off a long strand of medical tape to fasten it into place. “There was a rogue Alpha. Killing people.”
“Did you get him?”
Charred flesh is a smell that never really leaves you. “Some kids with a pipe bomb did a pretty good job.” Only not good enough, it turned out.
The skin pressed against his palm moves with the motion of Peter's nod. “Good. Those kind are a danger to us all.”