When Stiles came home that evening, he wasted hardly any time before running up to his room and locking the door after him. Suspicious, he glanced around, making sure no werewolves unable to respect privacy were there, before he walked over to his bed, got down on his knees and stuck a hand under his mattress.
Having found what he had been searching for, Stiles carefully pulled it out, sat back on his heels and opened the inconspicuous looking folder. With a small smile he stared at the top picture, the first Peter had given him and the one that had started their little trade.
He had been worried the man would stop this little game at some point, but, so far, that hadn't happened, so he enjoyed it while it lasted. Well, he had also been afraid Peter would confront him about his stalkerish tendencies, but that hadn't happened yet either. Pot, kettle, black, he thought to himself.
Also, Stiles couldn't say he was sorry. After all, it wasn't his fault, was it? Whenever he looked around, it was the werewolf his eyes landed on first and he was what his gaze returned to, no matter how often he tried to focus on something or someone else.
He had been quite frustrated in the beginning, thinking Peter had to be doing something to attract his attention time after time. Or maybe his subconsciousness was trying to tell him something.
Therefore he had started watching the man, looking out for something he wasn't sure he would recognize, waiting for something, but not sure what exactly. And then he had begun to notice things.
It had actually taken him some time to figure it all out. However, all that mattered now was that once he had understood it, it explained quite a few quirks he had observed.
For example, Peter always needed something for his hands to do. If he wasn't gesticulating during some argument or another and couldn't get a hold of something to wrap his fingers around, he usually clasped his hands together or clenched them into fists.
When that wasn't the case, it seemed like his hands got a mind of their own, for they tended to shake and twitch slightly. Every time the werewolf noticed it himself, he either excused himself or simply sneaked out of the room silently.
Peter was also more or less an Omega. Admittedly, this was one of the less surprising aspects to realize, but the more he thought about it, the more he could empathize with the man who had been born in a pack and lived his whole life with them at his side.
For one thing, he never turned his back to the pack, never let himself be vulnerable. No matter the situation or how crowded a room was, he always found a way to keep them all in his field of view.
For another thing, he flinched, almost unnoticeable even when you knew what you were looking for, whenever Scott or Derek approached too suddenly. It appeared as if he was instinctively hunching his shoulders, before quickly pushing them back, attempting to look sure of himself.
So, although he still hadn't settled on a specific motive to do so, Stiles had decided to give Peter a helping hand. It was always good to know that you weren't alone, that you mattered and that someone actually believed in you, and for some unfathomable reason he'd really like to be that person for him.
Stiles just hadn't expected the werewolf to respond like this. But drawing had become somewhat of a therapy for him and he had figured it wouldn't hurt to let someone else be a part of it.
Thus he placed the latest piece of art he had found, pinned under the windshield wiper of his jeep, with the others. After one last look at his father standing before a surprisingly accurate portrayal of Roscoe, Stiles closed the folder again, before hiding it away, back under his mattress.
He wasn't embarrassed, quite the opposite, in fact. This was Peter's and his secret and as irrationally as it might be he wanted it to stay that way. The man had gifted these drawings to him and no one else and he wanted to protect them from prying eyes.
With a sigh, Stiles threw himself on his bed, massaging his temples with one hand, the other shielding his eyes from the setting sun. But soon enough he was pulled from his musings by his phone notifying him of a new message.
Pack meeting the next afternoon. Stiles wasn't too worried, considering how in recent times these gatherings were more about some much needed pack bonding time than anything else and there hadn't been any serious issues for some weeks now.
It was probably just the calm before the storm, but Stiles had learned to take what he got and make the most of it. Besides, it'd be a lie to say they didn't all benefit from it the one or other way.
