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By the time Peter reaches his apartment door, he already knows that Stiles is on the other side of it, and that he’s upset, which is something of a mystery. Peter likes Stiles, he always has, but he can’t say the feeling is mutual. Stiles respects him, maybe even understands him, but he was hardly Stiles’ first choice when it came to socializing. Or comfort. At least, so he thought.
Peter opens his door and stands back. Stiles stalks inside, but it’s not anger; he’s tense because he’s barely holding himself together.
“What can I do for you, Stiles?” Peter asks casually, as if he can’t smell the distress.
“You said once that your family didn’t love you,” Stiles says bluntly. “At least, not the way they loved each other.”
Peter doesn’t flinch; it’s a truth he’s had a long time to get used to. “That’s right.”
Stiles crosses his arms over his chest. “How did you make peace with that? Or get over it, or whatever.”
“Stiles,” Peter says quietly. “What happened?”
Stiles looks away. “My dad—” He swallows hard. “We were talking about the Wild Hunt. When I was taken. Scott, Lydia, they said they knew something was wrong even though they didn’t know what. But my dad…” Tears finally spill over. Stiles dashes them away impatiently. “He couldn’t tell. He didn’t realize anything was missing, not as long as he had my mom. He—” Stiles’ voice goes thick and choked, the tears coming faster now. “He was happier.”
Peter reaches out and pulls Stiles into his arms, half expecting him to pull away even now. But he doesn’t, instead burying his face in the curve of Peter’s throat and fisting his shirt in his hands. “He’s always— He thinks it’s my fault,” Stiles sobs. “He doesn’t want me.”
More accurate to say that he wants Claudia more, but Peter keeps that to himself. “I’m sorry, Stiles,” Peter says, rubbing Stiles’ back as he cries. “I never wanted this for you.”
A couple of minutes pass. Stiles’ shudders calm faster than Peter expects. Eventually, he pulls back—but not away—and meets Peter’s gaze again. “So how? How did you deal?”
“I went looking for someone who did,” Peter says. He snorts softly. “Can’t say I recommend that tactic. I got into a lot of trouble and never did find them.”
“You didn’t worry that there was something wrong with you?” Stiles asks. “Something that made you fundamentally unlovable.”
“I did,” Peter admits. “But you don’t have to worry about that.”
“Oh?” Stiles raises an eyebrow.
“The whole pack loves you,” Peter says airily, instead of what he’s thinking.
The calculation on Stiles’ face says maybe he heard it anyway.
Peter can’t bring himself to regret it.