Only He saw

Little Spark

Dragging groggy hands through his unruly hair, Stiles blinks slowly, seconds passing in a haze of confusion and bewilderment. Only after sitting up slowly in the tangle of sheets does he remember the past events. A lance of pain makes him jolt, and the memories come rushing back. Gingerly lifting his arm onto his lap, Stiles' face is carefully blank. If no one sees the emotion, then maybe...maybe he can convince himself it's not there.

Blinking hard, the teen screws his eyes shut, watching the events flash vividly across his eyelids. Jackson. He hurt him. Isaac, he didn't say a word, none of them did...not even Scott. As if recalling the experience revived the pain, Stiles gasped, hunching over as his ribs began to ache, a dull, then sharp pain spreading as every movement highlights the damage done to his body.

Heaving his body off of the bed, Stiles grunts, the effort taking energy away from his shaking frame. Limping over to the window, he stares out, daylight slipping through the opened curtains. It was the morning, he'd been asleep for a long time. As he stared out at the quiet street below, he glimpsed his reflection, standing defiantly in the panes of glass. It warped, twisted inhumanely, but showing every flaw littering the body of the injured teen.

Bruises scattered over his face, gathering around his neck, shadows of the hands that gripped him, throwing him across the clearing. Cuts stung on his cheek, the faint memory of the claws that hatefully caressed his breakable skin. The skin had turned dark purple, black, and grotesquely yellow in places, swollen beyond recognition. It blistered, where it had been rubbed raw underneath ridged hands.

Raising a single trembling hand, Stiles breath caught, the effort excruciatingly hard in the confines of his damaged throat. He brought it to his eye, gently tracing the swollen shape, wincing sharply. A cut snaked out from his hairline, coming to a stop in the concave arch of his eyebrow. The raw, red line contrasted sickeningly with his pale, feverish skin.

Stiles felt the outline of the gauze under his shirt and encasing his arm. Under one, there were cuts he'd done himself. The thought sickened him now, with the sun shining onto the clinical bandages. Under the other, the produce of hatred so painful, so raw, that it had exploded, harming Stiles indefinitely.

Slipping into the nearby desk chair, Stiles panted, jagged gasps alleviating the pain in short, sharp bursts. As he sets a bandaged arm carefully onto the desk next to him, he jumps, cursing his erratic behaviour as it sends another spark of pain travelling through his body. The door cracks open, and Peter stands quietly at the opening.

Seeing the man again triggers Stiles' memories, reminding him of the man bandaging his wounds.

Stiles whimpers, pulling his arm away weakly from the Were, who gently pulls it back.

"I'm sorry, little spark. I really am. The less you move, the less painful it is."

He reaches a quivering hand to the boy's hand, clasping it firmly. Black shoots up his veins, and he hisses, shocked at the vast, excruciating pain. Finally, his arm filters back to its normal tan russet. Stiles closes his eyes, mouth going lax as he quietens, delirious under the immensity of the pain that pinpricks, curling up his arm and encasing his rib cage.

Peter looks up, acknowledging the Sheriff quietly, then goes back to bandaging the sickly boys' arm. John sits slowly at his side, his jaw clenching, his hands trembling.

"I'll catch them. I'll make them pay for what they did to my son." He says, his voice like stone, unwavering face staring at the bruises snaking up his son's throat.

Peter nods, standing up, shoulders slumped. "We both will..."

They look down at Stiles, but the boy had succumbed, finally, to sleep.

"Hey..." Stiles murmurs, unsure, remembering what he had called him in his haze.

My beloved.

"How are you?" Peters' face softens, and he stares at the teen, the morning highlighting the damage, more monstrous, more shocking than it seemed in the dim light of his bedroom the night before.

"I'm..." Stiles' voice drifts into nothing, his face downcast, and he shakily sits on the edge of his bed.

Peter shuts the door behind him, standing helplessly, unsure of how to continue, unsure of how to approach Stiles, who looked so alike to a caged animal, cornered prey that was so sure of its demise. As he watches him, Peter steadies himself, slowly walking to his side.

Stiles avoids his eyes, staring instead at the floor and tracing the gauze outlining his arm.

"You could've told me, Stiles." Peters' voice is low, his eyes searching out his mates, willing him to confide in him, to trust him. "You don't need to hide anything, you can tell me...I can try to understand, and I won't ever judge you, not for a second..." His voice breaks, and Stiles stares up at him, his eyes filling with hot tears. Peter pulls him over to the bed, guiding him gently by his hands, afraid of hurting him.

They sit with their back against the wall, legs pressed against each other's, staring silently at the wall, scared to say something, anything. The wrong thing.

Heaving a long, tired breath, Peter grips Stiles hand, taking the boy by surprise, black lines leaching the pain from him.

Stiles jerks, eyes widening. "Peter no...."

Peter shakes his head vehemently, gripping his hand tighter. "Stiles. Stop saying no... please." His voice is strained, and Stiles sits back, the protest rushing out of his body.

"I'm sorry..." He whispers his knee twitching, his agitation leaking out of his scared brain, betraying his expression. Peter looks at him, shaking his head and chuckling bitterly. His hand falling to his lap, pulling Stiles' with it. The boy gulps, cheeks blotchy and pulse quickening.

"You never need to apologise to me, Stiles...you've done nothing but make my life better..." Stiles rolls his eyes, disbelieving. Peter carries on, determined to make him believe. "You've made my life amazing Stiles...you've given me a purpose...a pack! Everything I had was destroyed...my family, then my sanity." His eyes glazed over, and Stiles frowned, feeling the tremors in his hand.

"Then you brought that back to me, and it breaks my heart to see you so destroyed..." His voice is gruff, and he angrily wipes a tear off his cheek, fingers shaking violently.

"I'm going to make you better, I'm going to be here, even when you feel like this...if it helps you...I'll never leave your side. I won't let you do this to yourself." Peters' voice turns hard, and he turns to the faint teen, looking into his glassy eyes earnestly.

Stiles sniffs, a small wobbly smile working its way onto his blotchy face. He gulps, tears running down his face freely. Peter unclasps his hand from Stiles' and gently wipes the rough pads of his fingers across his hot skin, wiping away the tears. Stiles ducks his head, his smile turning embarrassed, his face turning red as he leans into the Were, turning slowly to rest his cheek on his chest. Peter lets out a surprised huff, prompting Stiles to sit up, heatedly apologising, but his words die, as he is expeditiously pulled back into the older man's warm embrace.

They sit in silence, staring contentedly at the confines of Stiles bedroom, ignoring the bustle of the world outside, ignoring the issues that ruled their lives constantly for as long as they allowed it. Finally, Peter gently rouses Stiles, murmuring quietly in his ear.

"There's breakfast downstairs...do you think you can do it?" He asks, carefully assessing the fragility of the boy in his arms.

Stiles hums, steadying himself. "I think so, but don't leave my side." He addresses Peter, smiling cheekily up at him, trying to distract himself from the ever-present pain crawling under his skin. Peter slides his hand into the boys, taking his pain, then gently pulling him up off of the bed.

"Never, little spark."