Only He saw

Nothing

The pack slept soundly on their return to The Stilinski house, where John firmly told Peter to sleep in the spare room because it was way too late for him to be driving, he was a wolf, but he was still tired. So none of them woke until the early afternoon, the indignant sun shining through useless curtains into their darker rooms until finally, they woke up.

Stiles was the first to wake, his pale skin glinting in the dappled light of his room as he stretched, rising sleepy hands to rub at his disorientated eyes.
The house was in a peaceful silence, encapsulated in a zone of serenity: pack. Stiles soaked up the benefits of being the first to wake, lying peacefully in bed, searching for any noises, and satisfied when he heard none.

After a few minutes, boredom seeped into his awake brain, like the light glowing through the still closed curtains. He stood up, ambled over to the light of the windows, and drew them aside, opening the window, then basking in the fresh, morning air.

Stiles pulled a ragged shirt over his bare chest, and left his room, in search of nutrition. As he walked towards the stairs, he halted, in front of the guest room door. Peter. He silently debated the pros and cons of checking on the Were, then jumped guiltily when his muffled voice sounded from the other side.

"I can hear you, Stiles." Stiles blushed. "Just come in, your heartbeat is so loud I can't think."

Stiles opens the door hurriedly, stepping inside and shutting it, leaning against it awkwardly. It surprises him, seeing Peter lying so casually in bed. He didn't see the man like that often. His hair was spiked in several different directions, and his face looked open, his face unshaven. He looked adorable. Deciding to ignore the confusing emotion, Stiles did what he did best: talked.

"Surely if my heartbeat was loud out there it's louder now?" He quipped.

Peter rolled his eyes, his hands resting on a book propped in his lap.
"You sounded like a rabbit that was being chased, god knows what was going through your mind." Peter grouches. His eyes show his concern, though, so Stiles smiles reassuringly, mindful that the Were had promised to heal him. He was trying, in his own way!

As he settles into the wicker chair situated in the corner of the room, he stares out of the opened windows, as he gazes at the passing street, his eyes widen, and his heartbeat speeds up. The eyes, the red orbs outside his window so long ago...he'd forgotten all about them...he discretely stares at Peter, who had gone back to his book. Stiles coughs, loudly, awkwardly. Peter looks up, unimpressed.

"Is there something you wanted to say?"

"Were you the red eyes?" Peters' face looks blank, confused. Stiles persists. "The ones outside of my window, it was about half a year ago?"
The Weres face shows a dawn of understanding, but after a few moments, he narrows his eyes again.

"Red?" He asked. Stiles nodded warily. Peter hummed, a wondering look creeping onto his face.

"I thought you were a beta now? Why didn't you tell me you were an alpha?" Stiles half-shouts, gripping the chair like a vice.

Peter huffs angrily. "I'm not! I'm still a beta, I don't...I don't know why my eyes were red that night..." He drops the book onto the bed, his eyes now cloudy, preoccupied.

Stiles crosses his arms, unbelieving. Peter sighs, and warps his face, the smooth skin turning furred and gnarled. Stiles looks on, baffled, as the man's eyes shine blue...beta blue.

"Oh..." His shoulders wilt, but he absentmindedly rubs his arm, wondering why Peter's eyes had changed that night. "And why pray tell, were you outside my room, anyway?"

As he watches, Peter blushes, shifting uncomfortably in his bed. "I just got back to Beacon Hills...I was checking up on everyone!" He looks defensive, and Stiles laughs, relieved he had no ill intentions. Peter growled playfully, throwing the book at Stiles, who squeaked, alarmed, and dived out of the way.