Only He saw

Moosleute

Peter opens bleary eyes, sleepily surveying the room he woke up in...Stiles room. The few seconds in which he took to figure out where he was were enough to wake his companion, who drowsily stretched his sore limbs.

"Stiles." Peters unused gravelly voice seemed to wake Stiles up completely, and the boy bolted upright, detangling the twisted sheets the two were in. He looked alarmed, a blush working its way onto his cheeks.

Peter smirked, twitching his half-closed eyes to the frantic boy who flails out of the small bed and bangs into the doorframe cursing wildly. As the Sheriff's mild protest drifts down the hallway, Stiles trips over his desk, to the amusement of Peter, before flopping in a chair to stare dolefully at the floor.

Stretching slowly, Peter feels the tens eyes on him. As he looks back at him, Stiles smiles, a quiet, happy smile. He's content.

"Morning," Peter says quietly.

"...Good Morning, Peter." Stiles cracks a grin, crawling back into the warm bed, ignoring Peters disgruntled face. "We can do this. We're pack." Stiles looks up at the Were, seeking his approval. Peter nods happily. "Yeah," Stiles reassures himself. They're pack. It's a pack thing! Nothing more.

It takes another hour and a half for the two to properly wake up, then they talk for another thirty minutes. About their pack, the Hale pack, Nadia, school, everything bothering them.

A calming silence follows, and the two meld closer to the mattress, and to each other.

"Pack life is great," Stiles mumbles.

"Uhuh." Peter hums.

"Like, a real pack. Not like...Derek and his. They're all so...vengeful. Everyone hates everyone. I hate it. I hate them sometimes." His voice quivers, and he grips at his pillows, wet eyes staring at the ceiling. Peter tightens his arm around him and burrows into the pile of the duvet.

"I...I sometimes hate Derek too. He's changed so much. I hate who he is now, he hates me...I remind him of the past." His voice is strained, and Stiles turns around, wide eyes staring at the Were. Peter brings an absent-minded arm to the mark left on the side of his face: Burns.

"It seems like we both have a vendetta against that pack then, huh?"

Peter chuckles sourly.

"And..." Stiles hesitates. "I think...I think you're beautiful." He blushes, averting his eyes. Peter smiles sadly.

"I appreciate the thought, I really do. But nothing about this-" He roughly jerks his head towards himself "-is pretty." The Were glowers at the floor, avidly avoiding Stiles' gaze, seemingly fascinated by the patterns on the carpet.

Glaring at him, Stiles sits up, taking Peters face in his hands. He tries to move away, but the teen keeps persisting, he's angry now.

"Don't let that fucking fire define you, Peter! You are you, not a shadow of your trauma. Just because its there doesn't mean it has to overshadow everything you do. You are you. I know. So please, please believe you aren't broken, or unfixable..." His voice cracked. "You're trying to help me, I know you are. But let me help you too okay? Deal?"

He looks desperately into Peters' eyes, seeking the acceptance he knew he needed to find. Peter stared at the floor until the scowl slipped off of his face. "Sure. If that's what you want." Peter mumbled, avoiding Stiles happy gaze. Letting out a content sigh, Stiles settled back into his bedding.

"Thanks, Peter." Twisting around the mound of bedding, Stiles smiled at him. Peter deserved better.

Another twenty minutes pass, until finally, the two drag themselves out of the safe haven of the bedding, trudging down the stairs, heading straight to the plates of food on the kitchen table. Nadia and John exchange a knowing look, smirking at the oblivious couple.