Only He saw

The Best Of Us

Peter stood silently next to Derek, not looking at his nephew. They both stared at Scott's body, the blood pooling around it. Crouching slowly, Peter stared into the glassy dead eyes of the young Were. Shuffling back, he reached in his back pocket and produced a lighter, flicking it twice, before producing a flame. A spike of confusion came from Derek, who stared on silently.

"I've got to purify it," Peter muttered, face hard. "Can't risk the idiot actually coming back to life, not that there was ever a chance."

Derek nodded faintly, eyes wide.

Peter gritted his teeth and brought the flame closer to the body. Behind him, he heard Derek's sharp intake of breath and the hammering of his nervous heart. He couldn't bring himself to care.

The flame caught on.

Twining swiftly around the swathes of fabric and then skin, they encompassed Scott's lifeless body, turning the mottled skin red, then smoking black.

Derek stumbled back, the acrid scent hitting the back of his throat, eyes wide, he turned around, running away from the scene of his uncle crouching in front of the dead body.

Peter turned, stony eyes fixed on the retreating figure loping through the woods. As the body began to smoke, long since recognisable, he stood up, eye twitching at the foul stench of burning flesh. Pocketing the lighter, Peter stood up and retreated leaning against a nearby tree to put distance between him and the stench.

Taking in even breaths of air, the Were tried to keep the tremble out of his hands. Seeing an all-consuming fire again after such a long time sucked him into a deep, dark hole of memories, making his fingers shake, and mouth set into a tight frown.

In, and out. In, and out. Peter reminded himself, shakily bringing his hand up in an aborted attempt to reawaken his eyes from their panicked daze. In, and out.

A while passed, the body becoming shrivelled and charred, the ground blackened beneath it as Peter waited. When the smoke began to diminish, he guardedly walked closer to the remains, nudging them with a boot. Face hard, he grimaced and rolled it fully over to reveal the sooty earth below it. Kneeling down, he steadied his hand and released his claws, letting them glint in the darkening light.

Beginning to rake at the ground, he internally grimaced, vowing to throw out every single piece of clothing he was wearing to rid himself of the dirt and remains. After a time, the ditch widened into a deep hole, and Peter stood up, coughing tiredly. Brushing off his jeans, he made his way over to Scotts' body and nudged it into the hole with his shoe, grimacing at the dull thud it made when it hit the bottom.

Staring down into the pit, he stared at the remains of the young Were. The circumstances were too similar to that of the past. But this time, there was no murder, his brain supplied, and Peter reluctantly squashed down the ache in his chest at the thought of another death.

After filling in the hole with tightly packed soil, Peter surveyed his handiwork, disdainfully glaring at the mud caked under his nails. The act of covering and burying the body had calmed him a fraction, allowing him to relax at the thought that Scott wasn't only purified with fire, but unable to get back out.

Looking up, he surveyed his surroundings, noting ho far into the woods the sight was. Making a note to talk to John, he turned home, already debating the least difficult way to smooth over the effects of Scott's death with his mother and his pack.

Shaking his head, and promising to think about it later, his thoughts strayed to Stiles. Batting a low lying branch out of his face irritably, he sighed, thinking about how the events would be yet another toll on Stiles. Even if the two were far from friends, they'd been tied at the hip for over a decade before that, and those memories were unlikely to disappear instantly.

Quickening his pace to a run, he berated himself for forgetting his phone as thoughts of Stiles pacing his house, finding new ways to worry about the events filled his head.

Relief filled him as he saw the dim lights of the now approaching town filling his vision. Slowing to a jog, he neared the door of the Stilinski household. Raising his hand to knock, he hesitated, then opened the door.

He heard Stiles' breath hitch, and then a loud clattering as he ran out into the hallway. He stumbled back as the teen hugged him ferociously, breath coming fast as he tightened his arms around the Were. Peter pulled him closer soundlessly, burying his face into Stile's neck.

Pulling back frantically, Stiles looked at Peter, a worried, panicked look on his pale face. "What happened?" He demanded, gripping Peter's hand like a vice.

Peter's face remained grim, and his jaw hardened. He struggled to find the right words but came up blank. Stiles gritted his teeth, and stepped forward, letting his palm cup Peter's cheek. A startled breath escaped the older Were's mouth, as he watched Stiles' face go blank.

Seconds went by, before Stiles yanked his hand away viciously, tragic shock painted onto his features. His mouth fell open, and his lip began to wobble minutely. Peter rushed forward, face collapsing as he realised what had happened.

Stiles saw his memories. Stiles saw Scott die.

The teen collapsed, Peter barely catching him, leading them to the sofa as Stiles began to sob. John rounded the corner to the room, eyes concerned as Peter shook his head minutely as he cradled Stiles in his arms.

They stayed in the position for hours, Peter quietly comforting Stiles as he dealt with the new addition to the deaths of Beacon Hills. His cheeks were puffy and red, raw from the many tears that irritated them. Entering a restless sleep, Stiles slumped into the cushions, hands growing slack around Peters.

Gently laying his mate down onto the couch, Peter stood up, eyes dark, to go and relate to the sheriff all that had happened. He found him in the study, bent over piles of paperwork. Looking up, he pushed the paper away and stood up.

"What happened?" He asked quietly, unwilling to wake up the teen in the other room.

Peter let out a drawn-out sigh and collapsed onto a nearby wall. John joined him on a nearby chair, fingers fiddling with the upholstery absentmindedly. Peter stared, noticing the likeliness between John and his son.

"Scott died." He murmured, eyes on the ground.

John's heartbeat hitched, and his eyes widened.

"He killed himself." Peter continued, Johns eyes widening more. "He thought he'd come back to life as a more powerful alpha." His tone turned disgusted and weak. "He killed Cora." He whispered.

John gritted his teeth, and stood up, hugging Peter tightly. Peter huffed, once again shocked, but took the hug for what it was. A silent apology.

The two sat down whilst Peter recounted the confrontation, and John rubbed a weathered hand over his stressed, tired face. "I'll have to talk to Melissa." He murmured, eyes cast on the clock, reading 2:47 am. "Does she know?" He asked Peter.

Peter looked confused before understanding dawned on him. "No. She has no idea werewolves exist. Or that her son was one." Shifting uneasily, he looked pensive.

"What?" John asked, expecting the worst.

"I just don't think she'll believe us," Peter mumbled, eyes downcast. "It would be best to let Stiles' show her. But..."

He exchanged looks with John, who frowned, unwilling to let his son rewatch the vivid memories again.

"Let me show what?" A drained voice came from the doorway, and Peter jumped, cursing himself at not listening to his senses.

John walked over, enveloping Stiles in a hug. Stiles returned it gratefully, wilting into John.

"Peter told me what happened," John said, voice low, avoiding the teens' question. Stiles tensed up, body stiff.

"It's...fine. I'm fine." He said steadily, but shakily. "The asshole deserved it." He murmured darkly. "I just wonder what that Scott did to destroy the one I loved, y'know?"

Peter frowned, wishing he was able to get rid of Stiles' pain. Stepping forward, he entwined his fingers with the teens', squeezing hard.

"Happens to the best of us." He mumbles.