Peter had watched his Spark sleep the whole night. It wasn't peaceful, but it was deep. The Demon didn't really have another choice but to watch the man-child. He was trapped in the bed. Stiles had grabbed his shirt when he went to slide away and he hadn't had the heart to pry the sleeping man's fingers off his clothes. Usually he would have drifted off himself, letting his human body recharge. But tonight, oh, tonight there was a low-burning rage deep inside him, that had stewed through the few episodes of Buffy Stiles had stayed awake for before the Spark had slumped and fell into fitful sleep. Peter hadn't been able to settle into sleep when he was like this.

Peter had stewed on how his Spark had been treated. Something was sticking out to him, though. In all of the information, the horrid tale Stiles lived through, he couldn't get the words " You were dead for 5 minutes ". Shrewd brimstone eyes studied his Bonded. Acting on a hunch, Peter breathed and calmed his mind. Focusing inward, following down the bond, a harsh chain full of pockmarks and burning edges, frozen shards and shadow bitten metal, he reached out for something… familiar. It took an age and a second, but he found it.

A dark, writhing mass, deep within the recesses of the Sparks heart, entwined deeply with his burning flame. It was the shadow of the time he spent not alive. It was a dark souvenir of his time spent in Pitkis' domain. Bright red eyes opening, Peter settled in to watch over his Bonded. His Spark was a tarnished, but still burning bright. The mottled chain was a blessing and a curse that linked them meant that he got to watch no matter what happens next.

Peter couldn't figure out if he was happy about that or not.

The next morning, Stiles felt raw. It was like someone had reached down inside him and scrapped sandpaper everywhere. He stretched and flinched when he felt something cold brush up against him. Hands instinctively starting to burn, he scrambled away and tried to figure out what was touching him.

He saw Peter's blank face, hands raised in a show of no harm intended.

It took a moment before Stiles brain caught up with his body, and all the fight seemed to seep out of him like a sad old balloon. He slumped back down, sighing.

"Morning Sparkling," Peter said softly, so as not to startle the man-child. He wasn't a big fan of the blank look on his Bondeds face.

Stiles didn't say anything. He stared at the Demon and just… didn't think.

Looking up at the wall, it took Stiles too long before he realised what was wrong with the light. It was coming from the wrong angle. It was so much effort to turn his head to look at his bedside clock, but when he did, he saw that it was almost 1pm. On a Tuesday. Sighing, Stiles had the vague thought of missing something important, before turning back to stare at the wall.

Peter didn't know what to do. He'd never been in a position to care about someone who'd shut down.

They were both silent for a while. Peter kept his breathing as steady as his bed partners, racking his brain for something to do to make his Spark bright again.

"It wasn't enough."

Peter looked over, the dead voice making something in him twist uncomfortably.

"It doesn't feel like it was enough."

Peter was silent. He looked at his Bonded's blank eyes, recognising the internal pain. Finally replying, Pitkis said firmly, "It wasn't."

Stiles sighed from the bottom of his lungs and said nothing more.

It was almost another hour of silence before Peter slid off the side of the bed. Stiles didn't react at all to the dip in the mattress.

Peter really didn't like that his Bonded's apathy. Revenge was to be fueled by a cold burning fire of hatred. You can't get revenge if you didn't have that drive.

He needed to get his Spark up. He needed to get him… alive again. He was seemingly more dead than some of the souls he had back downstairs.

Pitkis racked his brains for something to do . Humans needed sustenance right? That's a pretty standard need. So, he'll make food.

Stiles didn't even notice the demon leave the room.

Going downstairs into the kitchen, seeing all the modern appliances with their buttons and their knobs and their shininess, Peter was forcibly reminded that he didn't cook. Ever.

Peter doubted that the multiple cannibals that have passed through his domain, some even gourmet chefs (Hannibal Lecter was based on a real life person you know), would be able to help him right now. Especially, you know, what with the cannibalism.

Wait. Peter could have smacked his own forehead. He can teleport.

Without another thought, he dematerialised. Reappearing in the alley besides the diner from last week, Peter casually waltzed in.

"Welcome to Moiras Dinner, how can we help you this fine d-? Well, hey! You're the lad what was with my boy Stiles! How can I can you?"

Peter smiled as charmingly as possible. "Hello again Moira. I was wondering if you could box up some food for our Stiles. He's home sick and I'm afraid I'm a terrible cook, I just wont compare to your wonderful burgers."

"Oh, you've got a silver tongue," Moira laughed as she went back to the kitchen. Putting in a simple order of burgers and fries, and chicken soup.

There was no odd out of body creepy voices this time around. Thankfully. Peter had enough to think about with the whole actually caring about someone thing. He had things to focus on.

It seemed like barely any time at all had passed before Peter was being shuffled out the door laden down with food bags whilst Moira fluttered and shooed him, all the while telling him to give her best to Stiles.

Bemused and a bit railroaded, the demon walked back to the alley to go back hom- to the house.

He had plans to put into motion.