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No one else notices.
Maybe Stiles does because he knows what it’s like to fade into the margins while the heroes steal the limelight. He’s not a hero; he’s just the spastic best friend of one. And it’s useful, sometimes, when no one sees you. No one sees when you fall.
No one helps you back up.
Or maybe it’s because he’s good at reading body language. So many bullies have been avoided based on the crook of their eyebrow or the flex of their arms, and he’s used to reading danger. Reading other things too.
Or maybe it’s just because he finally opens his eyes and looks.
Derek gives Peter a caveman-like shove into the wall after a too-dry comment that hits close to home.
And Peter flinches.
Now, Stiles has done the same when Derek decides that he needs to shut up—the man has the strength of a hurricane and about as much control over said strength. Still, Peter’s a wolf too; he should be able to handle a push or two without much to complain about. He thinks maybe he’s being a drama queen, until Derek just glares at him and Peter shies away again.
Then he starts looking.
No one but Derek touches Peter; it’s as though there’s a taint on him that the other pack members are afraid of catching. When Derek touches him, it’s rough and harsh and only meant to push away, like everything that Derek does, lately. And Peter smirks and scoffs and keeps mouthing off, but he still flinches when Derek gets too close (anticipation and fear) and there’s a way he navigates around the others, never letting them close enough to touch.
And Stiles thinks. This man spent six years stewing in his own self-hate and misery, unable to touch anything or anyone without excruciating pain. And when he healed, his only remaining family murdered him. After he was set on fire, every nerve ending sparking in frantic, familiar pain. Set on fire again.
And now he’s back and there’s nothing for him, really. Stiles wonders why he stays. A sense of guilt, maybe, of responsibility for his only remaining family after screwing him over before? Or maybe he just has nowhere else to go, and he doesn’t want to die a friendless, shunned omega.
He might be better off that way, how things are now. Nothing but too-harsh touches and wary, distasteful looks by the people you call pack--you call family. No one to trust, no one to touch. That sort of thing wears on you, makes you something less than you really are. And Stiles can’t help himself. Everyone deserves a friend, and few need them as much as he suspects Peter does.
“Hey, creeper wolf, snack time.” He says as casually as he can, and Peter looks up from where he is sitting staring at the wall and holy shit Stiles might have his work cut out for him.
“I wasn’t aware we were in kindergarten. Should I take a nap first?” Stiles snorts.
“After’s fine. Here, Pop-Tarts, the food of the gods.” He shoves the delicious pastry treat into the man’s limp hands and grins at him. “Nummy.”
Peter looks rather confused as Stiles sprawls down beside his feet and opens his own packet of flaky goodness like he’s done this every day since forever.
Peter’s too thin. He comes to pack meals but lurks around the edges like he doesn’t belong there. Maybe he doesn’t, yet, but Stiles wants him to.
“Stiles.” He says, both a question and a rebuke. You’re acting strange. Why are you acting strange?
And ‘nice’ is ‘strange’ and Stiles should have acted before this. He takes a too-big bite of tart and swallows before smiling sunnily up at the ex-alpha. Carefully, he nudges the leg beside his head in a teasing manner. Positive Reinforcement Touch #1 of Plan Stiles Stilinski: Wolf Whisperer (and Pop-Tart Provider), roaring success. Peter looks down at him like Stiles has just licked his leg rather than give it a friendly nudge, but he doesn't flinch and he doesn't move his leg away. Even better, he uses one dextrous claw to rip open the foil packaging in his hand and takes a bemused bite of his own Pop-Tart.
"Brown sugar?" He hums thoughtfully, and Stiles snorts.
"Yeah, sorry, they were all out of 'Raw Rabbit' Flavor--which, ew, I do not need to find out about the average were-diet by finding assorted mammalian carcasses in my bed, courtesy of a certain best friend who doesn't get that a normal present is, like, an iTunes gift card, not a blood-soaked bunny. And don't you go getting any ideas either, creeper wolf. This is not The Godfather; no severed heads in allotted sleeping spaces."
"How about if they're still attached?" Peter asks him innocently, and Stiles sticks his tongue out, half-chewed Pop-Tart still in his mouth. Peter wrinkles his nose in distaste. "Heathen."
Stiles beams at him in agreement and decides it's time to enact Touch #2. He casually leans back to settle his back against Peter's shins--only to slip right through the gap of the startled man's legs, banging his head against the floor between Peter's feet. Classic Stiles, right there.
The man looks down at him, and he seems torn between laughing and chucking holy water at Stiles' face to drive the demon out (Hey, does that work? Note to self: Pester Deaton about it.). Stiles decides to play it as cool as he can with his head between a man's legs--then realizes what that sounds like and squawks, scrambling back into a sitting position and deciding that Positive Reinforcement Touch #2 can wait for a more opportune moment (possibly after his traitorous blush has abated).
“So..." He starts, because he's never really talked with Peter, and what do you talk about with a snarky, undead werewolf that you want to like you? Clueless about topics that normal kids talk about, and relatively sure they don't apply here anyway, he decides to stick with what he knows. "I have to write a book report on a piece of modern literature. I’m thinking Twilight, due to its 100% accurate depiction of werewolves. Hey, are vampires real too?” Seeing the bewildered furrow of Peter’s eyebrows and the unwilling twitch of Peter’s lips, Stiles crows. “They are! Are they as sparkly as I think they are?”
And Peter laughs for the first time in a while. The first time Stiles can remember, actually. He blinks up at the man, mouth just a little bit ajar. Huh.
Peter Hale has a really, really nice laugh. Who knew?