Stiles glared at him, feeling his face heat when he remembered the last time they’d met. He dragged his hand through his messy hair. “Feel free to take a diversion away from my house next time if you want to avoid trouble,” he snapped, voice rough from sleep.
Peter gave a little laugh. “Oh, Stiles, I find the kind of trouble you invite quite diverting.”
The first night after they kill the nogitsune Stiles falls into bed and sleeps like the dead for fourteen hours. It is the first time in two months he gets a full night of an uninterrupted sleep and when he wakes up he’s so relieved he could cry.
Stiles has scars. He owns that, he accepts it, he's cataloged and memorized every single one, he's hyper fucking aware of them all.
//
"What do you want, Peter?" Having the more untrustworthy of the Pack getting protective weirds him the fuck out, leaves an odd fluttering in his chest, like moths, waiting perilously and suicidally to be burned.
He doesn't like it.
"You're injured," the man says, "and whatever it is, it's put you in enough pain that I nearly fainted when I-"
"- Used your werewolf mojo on me without my permission?" Stiles smirks, and Peter gives him a black look, crossing a leg over his knee and smoothing out some invisible wrinkle on his pants.
"Tell me the truth Stiles, how bad is it?"
[Or: The one where Stiles has scars, is more than a little fucked up, and Peter notices. He helps.]