Chapter Text
Somewhere, water is dripping. A steady and monotonous drumming that echoes in the hallway. The noise forms a strange, nerve wrecking symphony together with the heavy groans and the high-pitched whimpers coming from a cell.
It’s night at Eichen House but without windows and with lights never being switched off, the inmates can’t know that.
Peter is sitting on the floor of his cell, his arms wrapped around his body and his head leaned against the rough wall. He falls asleep now and then but jerks awake after only a few minutes, when there’s another cry or sob coming from another cell. He hasn’t had a proper night’s rest since he had been thrown into this cell.
He shivers and pulls his knees closer to his body in an unconscious attempt to warm himself. Down here, it’s always cold. The thin scratchy clothes barely help. In a particularly cold night, Peter’s toes went numb and he had to rub them back to life.
The guards don’t care. Peter knew from the start. There are no doctors or therapists down here. They never leave their cell for a walk or for group meetings. The only medicine they get is poison. Poison, that weakens Peter’s wolf and makes him harmless. Obedient. Pliant.
In the beginning, Peter still had the energy to growl and snarl at the guards. Still had the energy to flash his eyes and bare his fangs. He still had enough strength to make them take a step back. He told himself and them over and over again that he was going to be out of this cell in no time. But the drugs worked fast and effective. Soon, the slurred words sounded empty to himself. He knows the truth now. He is never going to get out.
And he deserves it, doesn’t he? He deserves to be alone, cold and drugged out of his mind. He deserves the blows and kicks, the insults and the mocking. He deserves it. They tell him so and they are right. But that they are right doesn’t mean that it doesn’t hurt.
In one of his restless dreams, Peter sees Talia. She is standing in front of him, on a meadow covered in wildflowers. Her skin is covered in old ash. She is looking at him with sorrow in her eyes.
Peter feels the urge to explain. He wants to talk about pack, about dangers and about the meaning of power. But he suddenly feels so tired. It doesn’t matter. Nothing does. Not anymore.
He just lowers his head and looks at the burnt plush toy suddenly laying in the grass. He knows it. Knows who it belonged to. The kid is gone. They are all dead and gone. He chokes on his tears.
Talia comes closer and rests a hand on his shoulder.
Peter wants to reach for it. Wants to feel at least a hint of pack, of family, of safety. No matter if it’s real or not.
But in the end, what he sluggily reaches for is just the hand of a guard, roughly shaking him awake, telling him it’s time for his “medicine”. This is how far they have come. They can just step in and touch him, he’s no danger to them. Nothing more than another defeated broken dog they have to keep alive. And they do nothing more than that. They keep the creatures in the ward alive and actually let them die a bit more every day.
Most of the time, Peter sits slumped against the wall, wishing there would be at least a window in here. A window to see the sky.
Most of the time, he’s left alone with this thoughts, memories and dreams. Which are worse enough.
The guards entering his cell from time to time are the only distraction he gets. Most of them only look at him in open disgust. But there’s one man who fulfills the cliché of asshole prison guard incredibly well. Peter doesn’t know his name, but he calls the man Scarface, since he has a ragged silver scar right above his right eye. Peter wonders if it comes from a werewolf.
Scarface likes to mock Peter, likes to taunt him and call him names. When Scarface realizes how little Peter can do when he’s drugged up, he adds beatings and kicks to his visits. Since Peter’s wolf is exhausted and confused and since he’s alone - no pack bonds to give him energy - his wounds don’t heal as fast as they used to. A lot of bruises stay for days.
One day, Scarface brings a lighter. He crouches down and holds it in Peter’s face, switching it on. Peter flinches back so fast, he hits the back of his head on the wall hard. The world goes black for a moment. He whimpers and tries to get away from the flame dancing in front of him, tries to get away from the heat and the smell and … the screams. He can hear them screaming. His nose is filled with the gut wrenching smell of burning flesh. His pack, his family is burning, and he can’t do anything. He can’t save them. The fire is everywhere, cracking and roaring. It reaches for him and licks him and God, it hurts … “Stop,” he pleads. “Stop, stop, stop …”
All the memories, he desperately tried to bury in the farest corner of his mind come back at once, and it drives him crazy.
Scarface watches him closely. He laughs and grins in ugly glee. “Look at that. Big bad wolf is afraid of the fire. Are you going to piss yourself, huh?” He moves the flame from side to side and Peter follows it with his eyes, whimpering, pressing his body against the wall firmer.
Scarface scoffs. “Maybe it would have been best if you’d burned with the other mutts in the house. Who cares for you, anyway? You’re worthless. Just a useless, pathetic dog crying out for his dead friends at night.”
Peter’s wolf suddenly stirs, angry and desperate. Peter lunges for Scarface, his fangs bared. At least that’s what he tries. What he manages is a weak forward motion that sends him stumbling to the floor, and he hisses in pain when the rough floor cuts into the skin of his hands. Scarface flinches back a little, but he only chuckles. “Why don’t you stay like this,” he taunts, pulling Peter’s head down by his hair, pressing his face against the tiles. “Suits you.”
Another guard passes by, looking at Scarface and rolling his eyes. “Stop fooling around. We have actual work to do.” He sounds annoyed. But also a little bit amused. There’s no one here who would stop a guard abusing an inmate, Peter knows. There’s no help. Scarface lets go of him and leaves the cell, smiling brightly at Peter and waving his lighter, “I’m coming back, mutt, don’t worry.” He leaves with firm steps and Peter slumps, heaving out a sob. The fire is still raging in his head.
He wonders not for the first time, if he could smash his head against the wall hard enough to end this. But he doesn’t even have the energy to sit up. So he just stays where he is, with his forehead pressed against the floor, trying to fall asleep. Sleep is the only short escape he has left.
Time passes.
Peter doesn’t know how much. But things change around him. The smells change. One day, there is a lot of noise. A lot of screaming. Glass breaks somewhere. Peter doesn't find the strenght to care. He just curls into himself and tries to sleep.
Things change further.
They don’t bring food anymore.
Scarface doesn’t visit him anymore. No more lighters and kicks and mocking words.
One day, the lights go out. It shouldn’t make a difference. But it does and Peter feels a weak hint of shock when he realizes, he can’t see as well in the dark as he used to.
Somewhere, someone - something - is crying. Heavy sobs and wails that echo through the whole dark hallway.
Peter sits and waits. For something. Someone. Nothing. No one.
Someone has to check eventually, if he’s still confined and behaving well, right? Someone …
When someone does come, it isn’t Derek. It isn’t Deaton. It also isn’t McCall or a member of his pack.
It’s Chris Argent.
Peter first thinks, Argent is a ghost. A walking memory. But when he blinks, Argent is still standing there, in front of the glass, his eyes wide and filled with something, that makes Peter close his eyes, because he can’t stand it.
Of all people who could have seen him like this, it had to be Argent. The irony …
The first thing Argent says is “Shit.”
Then: “Peter?”
His voice sounds … worried. It reminds Peter. Reminds him of the past.
A club, flashing lights. Too loud music. Dancing humans. The smell of sweat, sweet liquor and sex heavy in the air. Peter’s senses are screaming and he lost Derek. He stumbles around, searching for his nephew, feeling lightheaded and worried. He was supposed to take care Derek is safe. What is Talia going to say? God. Why the hell did Derek even want to go here?! It’s horrible.
He has to lean against a wall for a moment, while the world is swaying around him. Or is it him, who’s swaying? Suddenly, there’s a cautious hand on his shoulder. “Peter?” A worried deep voice asks.
Peter startles and turns around.
Christopher Argent is standing in front of him, slowly pulling back his hand and shoving it deep into the pocket of his leather jacket. Like always, he smells of oil and gunpowder. But today, he’s also smelling of a new strange perfume. It’s too sweet. Peter wrinkles his nose.
“You’re okay?” Chris asks.
“I’m fine. What are you doing here?” Peter snaps. “Are you making sure I eat no teenagers?”
Chris flinches. He shrugs, kicking against a pebble that flies away. “No. I’m here with a, uh, a girl.” He makes a vague gesture towards a girl standing a few metres away, leaning against a car and looking at her mobile.
Peter knows who she is. Victoria. Smart, pretty, sharp. It’s … fitting. “Good for you,” he murmurs.
Chris stares at him. “How are you?” He asks.
“I told you. I’m fine.”
“No. I mean … How are you, generally? You’ve been avoiding me,” Chris says and the last few words sound mildly accusing.
And Peter doesn’t want to, but he feels a bit guilty. He remembers. Remembers a certain night all too well ...
It all started with glances in the classroom. And it ended with a kiss in the woods in the middle of the night. It was chaste. Barely more than a peck. But it was there. It was warm and soft. Peter liked it.
“I like your eyes,” Chris said, cupping Peter’s face in his calloused hands. “Both.”
Peter chuckled and flashed them golden for Chris. “I like your French. Talk some more to me?” He asked, winking.
Chris grinned. “Tu as les plus beaux yeux du monde.”
“What does it mean?”
“Google it,” Chris suggested, mischief gleaming in his eyes.
Peter snorted. “Jerk!”
Chris just grinned again and leaned forward. Maybe for another kiss. Peter shuddered when Chris' warm breath tickled his skin. But suddenly, a searching voice echoed through the forest. “Christopher? Where are you?”
Both boys froze. Chris took a step back, his eyes widening.
Peter knew who that voice belonged to and the hairs on his neck stood up while his wolf growled.
Gerard Argent. He saw him on the hunt, only weeks ago. He knew he hated the supernatural, hated werewolves. He was dangerous.
Chris looked afraid too, and that was what freaked Peter out way more than his wolf’s own fear.
“You should go,” Chris said in a low voice.
Peter’s chest ached. Chris didn’t want to be seen with him. Of course. What would his father think? And … God. What would Talia think? And the others … Suddenly, Peter felt cold and he asked himself, what the hell he was even doing here. With a hunter? With an Argent?
This could all be a trap, he suddenly realized with terror making his throat feel tight. Christopher could be trying to get to him. To gain his trust. This … this was a mistake.
Peter turned around, feeling numb.
“Peter,” Chris said, urgently.
Peter took one last look back. “See you tomorrow?” Chris asked, looking hopeful and nervous at the same time. Peter didn’t answer. He ran.
He ran all the way home and immediately disappeared in his room, ignoring Derek’s questioning call and slamming the door shut. He threw himself on the bed and buried his face in the pillow. He could still feel the echo of Chris’ lips on his. Soft and warm. But … he had to keep his family, his pack, safe. He couldn’t do this with someone of the Argents. It was wrong. It was forbidden. It had to stop.
From then on he ignored Christopher as best as he could. He avoided him in school, didn’t answer his messages, and didn’t try to find his scent in the forest.
Christopher eventually stopped trying.
Peter kept the memory of the kiss. He replayed it a few times, imagining it could have been more:
Now, Chris is staring at him with his sparkling crystal blue eyes, the stubble on his face a bit more pronounced than usual. It makes him look good.
“You should go to your date,” Peter says, trying to turn away.
But Chris reaches out and touches his shoulder. “Wait. Listen … What we did. It was … I wanted that.” He hesitates and Peter can hear Chris’ breath coming heavy and fast. “I still want it,” the other boy says quietly.
Peter freezes.
Chris isn’t lying, he knows. His heart is beating steady and strong.
He could have that again, Peter realizes. The kiss. The gentle touches and playful mocking words that are actually clumsy flirting. He could have even more. But … No. He remembers Gerard. Remembers wolfsbane and mountain ash and swords. He has to keep his family safe. He has to …
“Peter?” Chris asks.
Peter takes a deep breath. He clenches a hand into a fist. “It was just fooling around,” he murmurs. “It didn’t mean anything. And it shouldn’t. We’re enemies.”
Chris gasps. He takes a step back and his hand disappears from Peter’s shoulder. He smells of disappointment. And … hurt. For a moment, Peter wants to pull him back, wants to kiss him again. But Chris is already looking at Victoria, who waves at him. Chris looks at Peter with sorrow in his eyes. “Bye Peter,” he says curtly and turns around.
Peter says nothing. He watches after Chris for a moment, watches how he reaches Victoria and wraps his arm around her. Peter pushes the feeling of hurt aside. He made his choice. He turns away and leaves.
After half an hour Peter finally discovers Derek.
The boy is standing close to a girl, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and grinning. She laughs at him. They look happy.
Something tugs painfully at Peter’s heart. “Derek!” He barks.
Derek startles and looks at him, the grin on his face dropping a bit. He says something to the girl and she nods, still smiling. Derek walks towards Peter, clearly reluctant. He’s keeping his shoulders high and his hands in his pockets. “What?” He asks.
“Time to go home,” Peter grumbles.
“But …” Derek starts, stopping when Peter glares at him, growling low in his throat. “Alright, alright,” Derek mumbles. “Can I say goodbye?”
Peter shrugs. He watches Derek running back to the girl and his heart aches again.
When the memories fade, Argent is already in the cell somehow, wrapping Peter into a blanket. “We’re leaving,” he says, his voice firm and his eyes hard. “Can you walk?”
Peter just smiles weakly. Walking? He can’t even move. This is pathetic. He is. Pathetic and weak and broken. Scarface was right. No one cares for him. No one should care for him. He’s worthless. He doesn’t understand why Argent is here, after Peter stabbed him. Left him bleeding out against a wall. Maybe, he wonders vaguely, they have a problem and need him to solve it?
After a moment of hesitance, Argent picks Peter up bridal style, like he weighs nothing and carries him out the cell.
The hallways they cross reek of blood and terror and people Peter thinks he knows. But there are too many layers of smells, so he stops to try to decipher them.
Eventually, they are outside. The night sky is covered in stars. Peter stares up at it, transfixed. How long since he last saw the sky? He has no idea. The air is fresh and smells of spring. It’s overwhelming.
Argent puts him in the back of his car carefully. He hesitates, but then he lays a calloused hand on Peter’s forehead and murmurs, “It’s going to be alright.” Peter closes his eyes and involuntarily leans into the touch. It’s been so long since he’s been touched by a gentle hand. And when he tries hard enough, he can imagine he’s somewhere - sometime - else. Chris still smells of oil and gunpowder.
Way too soon, the touch disappears. Chris gets into the car himself and starts driving. Peter falls asleep as soon as they brought some distance between them and Eichen House. He doesn't dream.