Chapter Text
Stiles has always hated mornings.
Ever since he was a little kid and had to start waking up for kindergarten every day, he's despised daybreak. His brain just isn't ready to be functional when his body first wakes up. And sure, it's fine once he actually gets up and gets moving, but those first minutes in bed, as his senses slowly come online and sleep begins to slink away like a thief in the night, always leave him kind of miserable.
That feeling is only amplified by a hangover.
So Stiles lays there with his eyes still closed and a stubborn refusal to even move from where he's laying — at an awkward angle, sort of half on his stomach with his left arm stretched out under him on the bed, so crushed by his own body weight that it's completely asleep and he can't even feel it — because if he doesn't move then, just maybe, if the universe decides to be kind, he could fall back asleep.
He doesn't.
Because the universe is a prick that clearly has it out for him, waking him at some godawful hours, having the gall to stream its sunlight into his room so that it washes over his bed and settles over him like a wonderfully warm but obnoxiously bright blanket.
He doesn't have the mental bandwidth to deal with this shit right now.
His head aches something fierce and his body is sore all over and he's afraid to even open his eyes because it already feels like the sun is stabbing through his retinas and into his brain and he realizes that sure, he swore to Deaton that he wouldn't attempt to use his new magic lessons to fairy-godmother any instant fixes for everyday life, but he figures this is different. It's an emergency, in a way. Because really, if he doesn't do something about this goddamn hangover, he's pretty sure he'll just die in this bed and then he'll have to find a way to conjure himself back to life and, frankly, necromancy is a considerably more forbidden use of his magic than curing a hangover. So by that logic, he'd be doing the prudent thing by giving himself a little magic boost.
Right?
Right.
With that decided, Stiles tries to focus his mind and think back to last night.
It's not like he hasn't done this before. It should be simple. Find the memories, replace the shots of tequila or the red solo cups full of beer with equal parts water, whisper a few words from that one magical tome in Deaton's office that Stiles may or may not have painstakingly copied into his own notebook one page at a time over the course of their lessons together (and a handful of extra nights where he broke into the animal clinic for some extra time with the book), and tada! instant hangover cure.
Honestly, it's the one rule Stiles doesn't even pretend to feel guilty about breaking. If he could find a way to bottle the spell, he would sell it to his classmates and be a millionaire by the end of the year. Unfortunately for his peers, the spell requires a Spark for it to work and apparently, that's a rarity amongst the general population.
Suckers.
So Stiles forgets all about his get rich quick scheme and blows out a slow breath and he searches for memories of the party he must have been at last night.
And searches.
And searches.
And comes up bone dry.
He doesn't remember going to any party, doesn't remember drinking enough to finally settle his racing mind.
Doesn't remember drinking anything at all.
So he goes back a little further in his memories. Back to the afternoon, to the pack meet that had been called last minute because rumours were circulating through the supernatural community of...
He can't quite remember. But they broke into teams to search for...
He can't quite remember that either, actually.
But he vaguely recalls going to the warehouse district with Argent and Peter — and honestly, Stiles needs to have a conversation with Scott about how he divvies them up for these missions because Stiles always seems to get the short end of the stick when it comes to the team ups lately; Argent is always so serious and never lets him have a gun and Peter is...well, Peter, and Stiles can never really be sure if Peter will be a decent human-ish being or if he'll just slit Stiles’ throat and use him for bait, which is disconcerting as fuck when they're hunting down bad guys — but then...
Then there's nothing.
No memories at all of what happened after they walked into one of the few functional warehouses that still operate in the mostly abandoned district. It was dark inside, locked up for the night, but the second they stepped through the doors, it's like everything in his mind goes black.
And that can't be good.
So he drags his aching eyelids open, finally ready to face the stupid morning if it means getting answers and making sure the rest of the pack is okay, but his brain grinds to a halt in an instant.
He's pretty sure his heart stops beating, too.
He definitely stops breathing.
Because there, right in front of him and sharing the same damn pillow, is Chris Argent. He's shirtless and fast asleep and the arm that Stiles has reached out under his own body ends with his hand wrapped under Argent's neck like Stiles was holding on in his sleep and, "What the actual fuck."
The words fall from Stiles' lips, so quiet that Argent doesn’t even stir but it's enough to kick Stiles into gear.
He has to plant his right hand on the mattress and lift his upper body off the bed so he can kind of twist a little in order to pull his hand free of Argent's neck. His whole arm is basically just dead weight and it's not until he's no longer laying on it and the blood starts to flow again that the pins and needles prickling begins.
He hates that feeling.
He's not exactly a big fan of having his memories wiped either, though, so he bites down on his lip and waits until he can at least wiggle his fingers before he tries to move, determined to crawl out of the other side of the bed without waking Argent so he can figure out what the fuck happened last night.
As silently as he can manage and without ever looking away from Argent— he looks younger when he sleeps, the heavy lines that usually marr his face like etchings of his grief smoothing out in slumber — Stiles begins to back away to the other side of the bed
He doesn't get far.
He shimmies over maybe a foot before his back bumps into something.
Someone.
And while Stiles' initial instinct is to freeze, that's obviously not the case for whomever is behind him. A bedwarmed arm wraps around his waist and suddenly an even warmer body is curling up behind him.
Warm and naked.
Stiles is more than familiar with morning wood, he's been taking care of his own for years, but as the person behind him snuffles into the back of his neck and then settles into that deep sort of breathing that only comes with sleep, Stiles realizes this is the first time he's ever had someone else's morning wood pressed against him.
Against his very bare ass.
He does his best not to panic, not to move, but he clearly does a piss poor job because that measured breathing against his skin turns into deeper, quicker breaths, which turn into quiet sniffs as a cool nose runs along the back of his neck.
"Mmm. I love the smell of fear in the morning."
The words are murmured half asleep against his neck but it's still like a shot of adrenaline right to Stiles’ heart and he scrambles away as quick as he can, crawling over Argent to get out of the bed and away from the threat. The movement tugs the blanket halfway off the bed, leaving Argent and Peter fucking Hale all but naked where they lay, only covered from their knees down.
But when Stiles looks back — at Argent, who is just rolling over and beginning to wake up, and then to Peter, who is rubbing his eyes and not much further along on his journey to regain consciousness — he realizes it wasn't a threat at all. Because when Peter opens his eyes and sees Argent in bed with him and Stiles standing only a few feet away, naked and rattled, Peter winds up looking just as confused as Stiles feels.
"What the hell..." Peter murmurs. Stiles can pinpoint the exact second the confusion morphs to fear and then anger. But Peter isn't the only one coming around.
From where Stiles is standing, he can't actually see Argent's face but he can definitely see the way his entire body tenses for just a fraction of a second before the hunter rolls away from Peter and out of bed in one impressively smooth movement. Even more impressive is that, in the same damn movement, he manages to slide the bedside table open and grab a gun before he's even gotten to his feet.
That gun briefly aims at Stiles, who backs the fuck up with his hands held up to shoulder height, before swinging to Peter, who continues to lay in bed with no more reaction to the weapon than an arched eyebrow.
It shouldn't be nearly as hot as it is.
Fortunately, Stiles doesn't have time to dwell on that thought because Argent is practically growling at Peter. "What happened? What did you do?"
"Why does everyone always assume that I'm behind every nefarious plan in this town?"
Stiles still has his hands raised and lifts one of them just a little higher like he's offering an answer in class. "Uh. Because you've been behind like, half of them."
Peter smirks and shrugs a shoulder and Stiles is actually impressed with just how quickly all of his emotions are packed away behind an unaffected mask.
"You flatter me. It was a third, at most." Peter rolls more fully on his side, propping his head on his hand as he strikes a pose that's just a little too casual to be natural.
It shows off his body perfectly, though.
Every. Damn. Inch.
Stiles does his best not to stare and eventually settles his gaze on Argent's gun so he doesn't have to look at the two very naked, very attractive men in front of him.
"Fractions aside, does, uh, does anyone have any idea what happened last night?"
As Argent and Peter both scrunch up their faces trying to remember how they got there, Stiles takes the opportunity to look around the room for his clothes, only to discover two things.
One, his clothes are not there.
Two, he has no idea where the hell he is.
The room is barren, with a bed, two nightstands and a dresser. Not a single photo adorns the walls and there isn't even any junk or anything on the dresser or nightstands. No lamps or deodorant or phone chargers. Literally nothing.
But Stiles sneaks a peek into the first few drawers of the dresser behind him and finds a few pairs of sweats in the third drawer down, so he grabs the top pair and slips them on. He has to pull the drawstrings quite tight to keep the pants sitting snug on his hips but they're not too big on him, maybe a size up from his own.
"I don't...there's bits and pieces but most of it is a blank." As Argent speaks, he lowers the gun so it's pointed at the bed, rather than directly at Peter.
"Same," Stiles says.
Peter just nods.
"Okay. So," Stiles nods and rubs his hands together, ready to make a plan or something but he honestly has no idea what their next steps should be. "Now what?"
The thing is, the more he stands there, the more aware he becomes of his body. He may not remember what happened last night but his ass is pleasantly sore and his nipples are aching something fierce and the rest of his body feels a little like that one time they played dodgeball in gym class in middle school when Jackson and his cronies decided to gang up on Stiles to hit him with a dozen balls as hard as they could.
He was bruised for weeks back then, all over his torso and arms and legs, and it feels a little like that again now. He doesn't look, though. Not yet. He has bigger things to think about than exactly what he looks like.
Argent is looking, though. And he doesn't look happy.
"Can you...put a shirt on?"
Considering Stiles is the only one with any clothing on, it seems a little unfair but he rifles through the drawers to pull out a t-shirt that he immediately recognizes as Argent's.
"Is this your house?" Stiles asks as he tugs the t-shirt on. He tries not to think about how much he likes the idea of wearing the older man's clothes, even if Argent himself is scowling at the sight of Stiles in his apparel.
"Yes. It is."
It seems as though Stiles was the only one at all whose nudity was an issue because Peter is still laying there in all his glory and Argent doesn't say a word. He just sets his gun on the nightstand next to him and then moves over to the nightstand next to Peter to grab a tablet from the drawer, all without ever stopping for a stitch of clothing.
Stiles understands why the tablet is more important than clothing as soon as Argent speaks again.
"And I have a surveillance system."
That gets them all moving.
By the time Argent pulls up the video feed, Stiles is on one side, pressed right against his arm, and Peter is on the other side, with a healthier distance between them.
It's funny, but Stiles only now realizes that he has no idea where Argent even lives. However, as the video feed of the front door appears on the screen, it becomes clear that it's an apartment building and not one of the really nice ones, either.
Not that it matters. All that really matters right now is that the camera at his front door captured video of the three of them staggering off the elevator, and walking to Argent's apartment.
Or, perhaps more accurately, stumbling to Argent's apartment, because with the way they're all kissing and tugging each other close with hands that roam over one another's bodies with a single-mindedness that leaves no doubt as to their intentions, there's not a whole lot of walking happening.
A burning heat floods Stiles' cheeks as he watches Peter in the video slam him against the wall and then pick him up. As he watches himself wrap his legs around Peter's waist and grind against him as Argent pauses to pull out his keys and open the door.
Then the three of them are a tangle of arms and legs as they practically fall into the apartment as Stiles switches from kissing Peter to kissing Argent as Peter moves to suck a mark into Stiles' neck.
Watching it now, Stiles raises a hand to that spot, just where his neck meets his shoulder, and he has no doubt there's a bruise there with how tender it is.
And he suddenly understands the sensation of bruises littering his skin.
Argent taps a few times on the tablet and a view of the living room fills the screen. The room is just as minimalist as the bedroom, with only a couch, chair, and a bare coffee table, but institutional decorating choices are all but forgotten as Stiles watches the three of them fall into the room, shedding their clothes as they go. There's a moment of passionate kisses and hands wandering down below waistbands as they hurry to strip, tossing clothes to the side without thought.
Seeing it stirs up feelings of confusion and lust and maybe a little embarrassment, but then a shimmer at the top of the screen catches his eye and Stiles has never been so glad for the distraction.
"Wait, hold on," Stiles says, reaching out to press the pause button at the side of the screen. “Is there a zoom feature?"
"While I can appreciate your penchant for voyeurism," Peter drawls, but as hard as he's trying to sound unaffected, a vein of unease is threaded through the words. "Maybe now isn't the time for a close up?"
"Shut up," Stiles murmurs. There's no heat in it, however, because Stiles is already reaching out to zoom in on the screen where the door they just walked through is still sitting open, barely in the frame.
Sure enough, there's something there. Sort of.
"What is it?" Argent asks, but Stiles can only shrug.
Peter leans in, looking a little closer. "Can you go back to the hallway footage?"
Stiles doesn't miss the side eye that Argent shoots Peter but he taps the screen and brings the hall footage back up, right where they left off. This time, as the three of them move through the door, they continue to watch the hall.
Sure enough, that shimmer of light seems to step off the elevator just before the doors slide shut.
Peter squints down at the screen and Stiles wonders if his heightened senses can pick up on anything that theirs don't. "It looks like something, or someone, is bending the light around themselves to stay hidden."
Argent still looks to be caught halfway between confusion and anger, a combination Stiles is all too familiar with, even if his own emotions are quickly sliding closer to fear as Argent asks, "But why?"
"More importantly," Stiles answers, and then drops his voice to a barely there whisper, "are they still here?"