Only He saw

Deserving Better

Stiles tapped impatient fingers against the ungiving desk, blotting out the droning voice of Mr Harris in an attempt to make the hour pass quicker. Jumping violently, Stiles jerked upright as the teacher barked his name, turning red as the class snickered.

"Mr Stillinski. Do you care to tell me why you think it is acceptable to sleep in my lesson?"

"I wasn't. I just...wasn't listening?"

His plea ended on a questioning note, people around him snorting at his attempt to avoid the professor's wrath. The teacher's eyes narrowed, and Stiles internally groaned, willing the man to somehow know all of the reasons he could get a detention.

"Perhaps you'll be more inclined to listen in a detention."

Stiles groaned.

"However, I'm sure you'll be able to take this warning seriously. I won't be so accommodating next time."

A grin spread across Stiles' face, and he nodded quickly, contentedly sitting up, incredulous but immensely thankful for the unlikely turn of events.

"Definitely! For sure."

"Hmmm." Harris scowled, his usual facade slipping back on, but it seemed like life was finally being kind to Stiles Stilinski.

As he eased back into his seat, he once again stiffened, deadly aware of the quiet growling emanating from the Were behind him. Jackson. Stiles hurriedly moved his chair as much as he could, but the space between the two was smaller than ever. Anger and fear sliced through him, and he felt hot air on his neck.

"Fucking kill yourself you worthless piece of scum..." The Were was growling now, enraged at Stiles turn of luck. Shocked gasps were heard around the room, and all eyes drew to Stiles: quivering and terrified, and Jackson: trembling and enraged.

Mr Harris stalked over, grabbing Jackson by the arm and practically bellowing with anger.

"How dare you! This is absolutely unacceptable Whittemore! Get yourself out of my classroom right now! I have never in all of my years of teaching dealt with something so disgusting!"

As the Were shook with rage, a cold, clear cough sounded from the other side of the classroom. Lydia. She gazed coolly at Jackson, grounding him, and yet still showing her distaste at the boy he attacked, yet again blaming the victim for the criminal's crime.

Mr Harris was practically vibrating with anger and violently pointed to the door again. Jackson trooped out.

"And you, Martin! Do not get involved in an issue with another student, unless you want to face their consequences with them! You'll be in detention with Mr Whittemore as well!" The man muttered angrily, watching the girl stiffly exit the classroom. The look of shock on her face was foreign, and it wasn't something Lydia Martin had often.

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Stiles gleefully smirked, hiding his grin as Harris returned to his desk, but his mood remained elevated for the rest of the lesson.

As the class herded out of the door, Harris called Stiles to stay behind. The boy shifted uncomfortably, aware of the man's scrutinising look.

"If there is an issue with any of the students in this school, I hope you realise you can talk to any of the members of staff here."

Stiles blinked, shocked. "Uh, yeah? Thanks..."

Harris nodded to the door, sitting down and leafing through the work piled on his desk. Stiles left, bewildered at the strange behaviour of the professor, had he had some sort of personality transplant? But the thought slipped his mind as he headed for the parking lot, Peter was waiting, with the promise of someone who knew about his spark!

He spotted the car, excitedly running over, ignoring his bemused classmates. Peter grinned, holding the door open for Stiles. As he ambled over to the driver's seat, Stiles gleefully recounted what happened in Harris' class. Peter laughed, delighted at how happy Stiles was, the boy he knew before was coming back.

"I can't help but feel like they had it coming..." Stiles laugh turned into a frown, the happiness slipping off his face. Peter reassuringly smiled, squeezing his shoulder.

"They did." He wanted Stiles to be comfortable without the pack, and he'd do anything to help that. "It's your turn for the music...please don't make my ears bleed..." Peter grinned playfully, snorting at Stiles excited squeak. He scrabbled for his phone, linking the device to the sleek, elite speakers.

"Bring Me The Horizon?" Stiles asked Peter, who hummed, debating.

"Sure. Blasphemy?" The two smirked at each other, and Stiles hit play. The song seemed fitting for what had happened, the pack really did have hell to pay.

Peter revved the engine, the two leaving the parking lot, unaware of the glaring pack behind them. As the music changed, lighthearted and happy, so did Stiles. He hummed along, tapping energetic fingers along the upholstery of the vehicle as Peter sung along. Stiles turned to him, watching happily as the man let go of his fears, in the action of saving Stiles, he was saving himself.

They'd moved on.

But the pack were puzzled, why was Peter still talking to Stiles after he found out what he'd done? For the first time since they left him behind, a seed of doubt was planted in them, had Stiles really betrayed them? The sour feeling of loss made them angry, twitching eyes glowering at passers-by, who steered clear of them. Darkness had reached the Hale pack. But all their wounds were inflicted by themselves.

Boyd watched silently, his stomach churning in a bitter pit of pain, suddenly unsure if he was fooling himself. They never saw Stiles tell Gerard anything, but surely that's the only way he could've gotten the information he had? Erica clasped her fingers through his, the two watching the retreating vehicle.

"Fuck Stiles." She muttered, her childish actions banishing Boys humanity, and he gripped her slender fingers, grunting in agreement as he glared at the car.

Stiles didn't deserve the pack.
The pack deserved better.

He repeated this mantra as the group slouched to different cars, muttering and emanating foul thoughts. The pack deserved better. But did it?