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Stiles has no idea how long he's been down here alone. Peter took his watch and phone, leaving him only his clothes and shoes, which is good because it's cold. Beacon Hills is suffering a late winter cold snap and there's no heat yet in the old Hale House.
He knows the renovations continue above his head but the basement door is locked, the walls and ceiling thick stone to keep in the howls of wolves. His pathetic cries aren't going to be heard by any humans.
If they're heard by wolves, they're ignored.
Curled in a corner of the cell he's locked in, Stiles wraps his sole blanket tighter around himself and leans his head against the grimy wall. There's still soot ingrained in the stone and the smell of old smoke lingers in the air.
His stomach rumbles and he hesitates, then reaches for the last protein bar. The three bananas and three oranges have been gone a while. There were ten bars to start with along with an equal number of bottles of gatorade. He's down to four of those.
He can make those last a couple days.
Of course that depends on how many days the first six and the food lasted. Without any windows, without a watch, without any sound but his own breathing, he's completely disoriented. He sleeps when he's tired--which is most of the time as the thing inside him has begun to feel heavy, dragging him down--but can't tell if he's out for six hours or one.
When Peter first locked him in here, he was sure it would just be for a few hours, maybe one day, but he knows it's been longer than that.
And no one's checked on him.
Peter hasn't returned.
Appetite gone as quickly as it came, Stiles sets aside the unopened bar and pulls his knees up to his chest. Despite the bump across his mid-section, he can still do that, and he's cold and scared and worried.
Really worried.
And he's beginning to fear that some time when he wakes up there'll be a new supply of food and drink. If he does, he knows he's screwed and he'll be here until...it's time.
But, surely Peter wouldn't risk it.
That thought is the only one that gives him any hope he'll get out of here.
He dozes off.
When Stiles wakes, he's on his side, still curled up to ward off the cold, and he's hungry again. To his relief, there's no new food, so he eats half the bar and drinks a quarter of a bottle of blue gatarode, his least favorite, but he needs the electrolytes and sugar.
As he gets up to use the cracked but functional toilet and sink--the water is, unfortunately, not potable, something he learned to his dismay that first day--he wonders what Peter's told his dad.
If anything.
Depression settles over him and he forces himself to walk the perimeter of the cell. It warms him up a bit, keeps his joints from stiffening too badly, and he knows he needs exercise. He hates doing anything for it, but his refusal to follow Deaton's instructions, take his prenatal vitamins regularly, and just bad attitude about the situation are what landed him in here.
He knows that, subconsciously, he's been trying to miscarry. He doesn't feel bad about that, but he also knows it's unlikely now.
He's past the dangerous first trimester and while the whole nine months are going to be hard and risky, that was the most likely time to lose it. Now the dangers are more to himself and he's not masochistic enough to want to cause himself long-term damage. Stiles knows he's going to have to start eating right and exercising, stop sneaking booze and coffee and doing everything else he's been doing in violation of Deaton's instructions, Peter's wishes, and all the so helpful pregnancy books Lydia got him.
The more time he's spent in this cell, the more resigned he's become to that.
He's not going to lose it and in five or so months they're going to cut it out of him.
A shudder of distaste goes through him and Stiles moves back to his corner, slumping down and wrapping the blanket around himself again.
More time passes and this time when he wakes up he just knows he's not alone. Physically there's no one in the basement, but someone is watching. Listening. He just knows it. Maybe because he's accepted what he has to do, the burgeoning powers inside him have alerted him to the precense.
"Peter," Stiles says softly, because it's Peter; it has to be. "I'm sorry. I've learned my lesson." He hates to admit it, but it's even the truth. "Please let me out. I don't want to be here anymore."
Sighing heavily, he buries his face in his knees and waits.
It's not a long wait. The door creaks open and then there are light footsteps on the stairs before a figure in a pretty green coat crosses the floor and unlocks the cell door.
"You're an idiot, Stiles." Her words are caustic but, ignoring her stockings and silk skirt, she's on her knees pulling him into her arms before he can retort.
"How long?" he chokes out, the scent of smoke erased by her light perfume, her apple shampoo as he buries his face in her neck.
"Four days. You've been here just over four days. Jesus, Stiles."
She's frustrated with him. He can handle that. Because she's here.
As Lydia helps him up, he grips her arm tightly, new fear filling him because what if this is a trick. "Do I get to leave?"
"Yes." Of course she sees everything in his face and smiles tightly at him. "I swear. We're going home now."
Home, but not really. Peter's.
"My dad..."
"We had to tell him the truth." When he stops walking, heart pounding in fear, she forces him onward. "He's fine, Stiles. I sugarcoated it somewhat. You were being isolated as punishment for not taking care of yourself, but not deprived of anything."
Stiles snorts.
"Yeah, I said I sugarcoated it. He doesn't need to know you were locked in a freezing pit where ten people died, with barely any food or drink." She's angry on his behalf, and he loves her for that.
Leaning against her slightly, Stiles lets her guide him up the stairs.
There's light coming in a few of the newly replaced windows, hazy light, but enough to make him blink. The lone bulb in the basement was dim and in a far corner from his cell. They step out into the brisk morning and then they're in her car and she's blasting the heat. On the dashboard is a bag from McDonalds and in the cup holder a large milk. As Lydia starts to drive down the repaved lane, Stiles chugs half the milk and unwraps the breakfast sandwich. When he groans in delight at the first bite, she chides him softly, "Don't get used to it. You get a couple of days eating fat but then you're on the diet you've been ignoring."
Swallowing hard, he nods, because he'll do it. He's not going back to that hell hole.
She reaches over and squeezes his arm in sympathy. "We all tried to convince Peter to let you out sooner, but he's been a real pain in the ass about the whole thing. You really pissed him off."
"I know." Stiles shudders at the memory of the argument that led to his imprisonment. For the first time he'd been afraid Peter would lose his temper so badly he'd hit him, but the wolf reigned himself in and ordered him to the car instead. Another bite of greasy sandwich and he drives away that memory, replacing it with a question. "Was he listening to me?"
"Camera and microphone." Lydia's look is one disparaging his intelligence if he didn't figure that out.
And he didn't until this morning when he just felt he was being watched. "Yeah, well, I was a bit too scared and freaked to think straight," he mutters before drinking more milk. He's pretty sure he's not going to want gatorade for the rest of his life.
"He never let any of us monitor you, but he did pretty much twenty four seven, Stiles."
"Because of this thing, not me," Stiles replies bitterly.
"And we're back to you being an idiot."
Not wanting to argue with her, he lapses into silence to finish his sandwich, but her hand remains comforting on his lower arm, her fingers on his pulse, and he slowly relaxes.
"We will help you anyway we can, Stiles," Lydia finally says softly as she pulls into the apartment's parking lot. "But you have to help yourself, too."
"I know." He's resigned and he knows it comes through in his voice when, after she parks and turns off the engine, she pulls him into her arms for a long, hug. He can feel her trembling against him and tries to sooth her as much as she comforts him. "It'll be okay, Lydia. I'm not an idiot, I promise."
She chokes out a laugh, then kisses his cheek, before pulling back to check her make up, which makes him laugh for the first time in what feels like forever. It gives him enough strength to get out of the car and face his mate.
End