Stiles shoved another bite into his mouth, glancing over at Boyd and Erica. Boyd was smiling down into his eggs benedict and Erica was grinning at Stiles.
He frowned in confusion, his chewing slowing. Tucking the food into one cheek, he asked, “What?”
“Nothing. It’s just nice. I like when the four of us come out together. Our little double dates,” she teased, stabbing her fork into a strawberry and putting it between her lips.
Stiles snorted at her comment, since this wasn’t a double date—he wished—but didn’t comment on it because he liked their outings, too. Even if he whined incessantly about it until he got there, it was always a good time.
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.]
