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For a long time, no one comes.
Peter isn’t surprised. He didn’t expect anyone to care enough to visit. Once again, he’s trapped in a room with only himself and his mind as company.
When someone comes, it’s Stiles. He is fidgeting with the hem of his baggy shirt, staring at Peter behind the glass. Peter is aware he looks miserable. It’s not like he can do anything about it. Eichen House is not famous because it has great service. It’s famous because every supernatural being knows the basement is a final destination. There is no way out of this cell or the building. Eichen is a terminal solution for lost cases and rabid dogs like him.
“Tell me why you did it,” Stiles says, sitting down in front of the cell, hugging his knees and pulling them to his chest. “I want to know.”
Peter is surprised. It’s not like anyone has ever cared about the why. “Did Scott send you?” he asks, stopping the slow process of carving another spiral into the wooden leg of the cot. Maybe, they want something from him. He knows a lot after all. He feels a tiny hint of hope. If they want something from him, maybe he can get something in return. A book or two, for starters. Anything to distract him from being too far in his own mind.
“No. I’m here on my own. Tell me. I want to know,” Stiles says, rocking back and forth slightly. "It's not like you have anything else to do, right?"
Peter smiles. He likes Stiles. Likes his bluntness and his determination. The snark. Sometimes, Stiles even reminds him of himself. Like he has been, eternities ago, before his mind was filled with the echo of smoke, fire and the screams of his family.
He tells Stiles everything he wants to know. The blunt truth. He doesn't care if Stiles likes it or not. The truth is always ugly. To Peter it's like a stain one can't scratch away. Once upon a time, he wanted to fit in and have at least a little bit interaction with the rest of his family. Once upon a time, he tried. But something has never stopped feeling wrong. Maybe, his mind is just too damaged and now it wants to destroy itself. Maybe, he's always going to be a ticking time bomb. Because what Talia took from him and the fact that he rambled about the damn list in front of a Banshee when he was out of his mind, it tickled that bomb inside of him. Add the fact that the territory doesn't feel safe with a young Alpha who knows almost nothing and learns little to it. Just a few more triggers for that time bomb.
It's ugly, but it's the truth.
Stiles takes it and leaves.
The next time someone appears in front of the cell, it’s Derek.
He looks like his usual gruffy self, but Peter has known him long enough to catch the hint of worry in his eyes. Which he doesn't want. Not at all.
“You’re leaving,” Derek says.
Peter blinks. He thinks he’s misheard, until he’s pushed out of the cell and Derek shoves a bag with fresh clothes into his arms.
“You can thank Stiles for this,” he mutters, eyes narrowing. “He threatened to break in and set the place on fire. Since it’s Stiles, I didn’t want to find out if he’s bluffing or serious. He also said he would keep an eye on you by the way.” He shakes his head.
Peter’s lips twitch. Yes. He really likes Stiles.
It’s a shock to step outside. He freezes, completely overwhelmed by the sensations. All that sudden daylight instead of artificial lights that randomly flicker on or off. All those noises. All those smells. Peter sways.
To his surprise, Derek reaches out and takes his arm, steadying him. “Come on,” he mutters, leading Peter to his car.
Peter almost laughs when he learns that he’s been at Eichen for six months.
Six years in a coma.
Six months in Eichen.
He was six weeks old when his mother died.
Six times he thought of a plan to become an Alpha.
Peter is not exactly superstitious, but some things … they make him think.
Stiles visits regularly.
“I’m keeping an eye on you,” he tells Peter.
“How do you know where my apartment is?” Peter asks in return. “Where did you get this key from?!”
Another month passes and in one of the many sleepless nights, Peter has to admit to himself that he has a problem.
It started at Eichen and now continues. His wolf is restless. He is craving pack. Pack, bonding, scenting, touch … Peter hasn’t had any of that for ages. And the lack of interaction starts to make his skin crawl. He grows so irritated, Stiles finally notices.
And of course, Stiles asks.
Stiles doesn’t only ask, he also listens patiently. And offers a solution.
Peter is desperate enough to agree.
In the end, it is an arrangement they both benefit from. Because that’s the only way Peter can do things these days. He gives something, and takes something else in return.
He teaches Stiles self defense, some archaic languages and provides him with knowledge about the supernatural.
In return, Stiles sits on Peter’s couch and doesn’t say a word when Peter rubs his cheek against Stiles' neck and snuggles against the human, face burning as he is trying to hide how desperate for touch - for connection - he really is. He closes his eyes and focuses on Stiles’ heartbeat. It is slow. Always slow. Because Stiles is not afraid. Or embarrassed. He’s just … calm. He rolls with it. Peter doesn't know if he deserves what Stiles is willing to give. But he has to take it, if he wants to stay sane. And for some reason, he does want it now.
After only a few days, Stiles behaves more like a wolf than most of his werewolf friends.
Peter’s wolf settles down whenever the human is close. He starts to feel more at ease and even has a few good night’s rest instead of the usual restless hours interrupted by nightmares and the paranoid feeling of never being safe.
Six weeks later, Stiles takes Peter to a pack meeting, because they have a fae problem and Peter is the only one who still knows how to talk to these creatures without getting killed on the spot.
“Dude,” Isaac says, wrinkling his nose. “You two smell so much like each other, I wouldn't even be able to tell who is who."
Stiles just shrugs. Deal with it, his expression says. Peter loves it.
Derek glances at Peter, arching a brow.
“What?” Peter asks, sitting on his old spot on the stairs.
“Nothing. Just … you smell content,” Derek says, surprise resonating in his voice.
“I am,” Peter says, almost surprised. He looks over to where Stiles bickers with Scott - who doesn’t want Peter closer than he is right now, which is fair enough - and smiles mildly when he thinks about being alone with Stiles later. On the couch. With his head in Stiles’ lap and his mind at peace.
Gods. He really, really likes Stiles.