Author's note: For those curious, Russian translations are at the end of the chapter.
Prison. As much as Stiles knew about law enforcement, his expertise ended at the moment of arrest. What did he really know about prison? Let's see.
- Stick to your race.
- Everything can be turned into a weapon.
- The soap thing.
Hmm… Not much. Stiles wished he was more savvy, more prepared, more curious. But now it was too late. Without his phone, he couldn't exactly google tips & tricks on how to survive in jail.
The strip-search served as the breaking point when the realization finally sank in. Stiles was a convict. This was happening. He tried to persuade himself that it was just a prostate exam (not that he ever had one), but he couldn't help feeling violated. At least the guy didn't take pleasure in it. He didn't try to be gentle or soothe Stiles with words of comfort - it was 'bend over and drop your pants', and despite it being uncomfortable and humiliating, it didn't hurt and it was over fairly quickly.
Stiles tried to appear confident and calm as he was led to his cell, but he wasn't sure how good of a performance he was putting on. He wanted to cry, crawl up in a ball, and sob his heart out. He could do none of those things, so he held his head high and kept his eyes on the officer in front of him to avoid looking at anyone. There were a couple of whoops and whistles which Stiles desperately tried to ignore even though they made his skin prickle with dread.
The cells were lined in 3 floors in a square-shaped block with an open space area in the middle. Stiles's cell was number 215, on the second floor close to the staircase. He had no idea whether it was good or bad. He settled on 'not bad'. The room was empty, which was unexpected but SUCH a relief. How lucky was he not to have a cellmate? Even so, the first thing that hit him was just how small it was - to the point of claustrophobic. It never looked so small in the movies.
There was a bunk bed, a chair with a shelf screwed into the wall representing a small table, toilet, and a sink. At least the two were separated. Stiles heard of prisons where it was one thing and he would rather not drink toilet water.
He sat on the bed and stared at the wall. Three years. No way. His dad will get him out. Derek said they were already working on it. Stiles will be here a day or two and that's it. He just had to make it through today. One hour at a time. One minute at a time. One breath at a time. In and out. Nice and easy. In and out.
He wiped a tear from his cheek, but more sprung out from his eyes. So much for staying strong. Couldn't even stop the useless sniveling. And not just useless. Dangerous. Stiles glanced outside, half expecting to see a bunch of bloodthirsty inmates ready to jump him and punish him for his weakness. But no one was there.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself and pull yourself together! Think about something else.
The irony. He chose BRP to avoid prison. And ended up here anyway. They both did. Even though he was forbidden to go looking for Derek, just the fact that he was there brought him comfort. What would Derek do if he was here right now? He would hug him for sure. Derek got so much better at showing affection lately. Even confessed his feelings for Stiles. That was arguably the happiest Stiles ever felt in his life. He replayed the scene in his memory and smiled.
...
After two hours spent staring at the ceiling and drooling over Derek, a prison guard came to see him.
"Stilinski. Get up, you have a visitor."
Stiles's heart fluttered as relief mixed with trepidation. He both wanted and not wanted to see his dad. He knew he was innocent, but just the fact that a son of the Sheriff landed himself in prison was embarrassing.
However, the person waiting for him in the visiting room was not his dad.
"Peter?"
"Stiles," the Alpha greeted him and then smirked. "Orange becomes you."
"Thanks. I was really worried about that," Stiles deadpanned. "What are you doing here? Have you spoken to my dad? Did you get us a lawyer? Am I getting out? Is Derek ok? How did they plant the drugs? Is..."
Peter grimaced at the flood of questions. "If you are going to be this annoying, you won't survive a day in here."
"Stop deflecting, I'm serious."
"So am I." Stiles gave him an impatient look and Peter raised his palms in surrender. "I don't know how they got the drugs into your car or apartment, but the security camera should have caught it. There is also a chance they didn't do it at all and fabricated the evidence, given how quickly they made the arrest."
That made sense. For one, Davidson certainly didn't look like the by-the-book guy. Derek and Peter were rightfully skeptical about the police in Baker. A corrupt prosecutor and a corrupt judge wouldn't be unlikely. Arrest first, cook evidence later. "Ok, so what now? Did you tell my dad? Got a lawyer?"
"Yes, I got a lawyer and several PIs working on it. I haven't told your dad yet."
Stiles frowned. "Why not?"
"Because he is busy making sure the plan we put in motion works out and all this is not for nothing."
"He would wanna know that his son is in jail."
"And he will." Peter lost his smirk, his voice getting a steely edge. "Right now his priority is Liam's safety. It's not so long ago that you actually cared about that part and not just about your pretty little ass."
Stiles immediately deflated, dropping his gaze in shame. He was complaining about being in prison for a few hours while Liam was risking his life dealing with mafia. When did he become such an egoist? "Sorry." He ran a hand through his hair. "I'm kinda freaking out."
Peter squeezed his shoulder awkwardly. They haven't exactly developed a cordial relationship but Stiles appreciated the gesture nonetheless. "Understandable. But rest easy, I got you protection. A new cellmate. He will keep you safe."
Stiles's eyes lit up. "You got Derek transferred to my cell?!"
"No. Derek will be able to protect himself better if he doesn't have to worry about you, so I got you a babysitter."
"A what now?"
"He is an experienced con, big, bulky, and doesn't speak English. Perfect for you."
Stiles grimaced. He was rather enjoying having the cell all to himself, he didn't need a company of a convict. And he certainly didn't need a babysitter. "Yeah, I'm not sure if that…"
"You'll be fine. Just do as you're told and don't get on his nerves." Peter stood up patting Stiles on the shoulder a couple times. "I have to go now. Stay safe."
"Wait. How long will I be here? Did you see Derek?"
"Derek's fine. We will get you out. Be good."
And he was gone. And Stiles was alone again. Peter's visit didn't feel as reassuring as Stiles hoped it was going to be. Oh well… time to meet the babysitter.
xxx
Oh shut the front door!
Stiles did a double-check whether he was at the correct cell. There on his bed sat a fucking ogre. A behemoth. A blond, scary version of Hagrid. If Ser Gregor Clegane and Hulk Hogan had a baby… well, you get my point.
"Ty Michislav?" the dude asked when Stiles failed to enter, hovering by the door in horror.
"Huh?"
"Pol'sha?" the con pointed at him.
Stiles' brain finally wired up under the emergency mode. "Name is Polish. I'm American. Stiles."
"Budesh Slavka," the guy waved his hand with a smile. Stiles wasn't sure, but he had a feeling he had just been renamed. "This is prison. You nickname Slava," the giant confirmed.
The thick Russian accent was giving away his babysitter's nationality but Stiles figured it would be safer to ask than to assume and die a painful death for guessing wrong. "And what's your name? Where are you from?"
"Ya Mikhail. Mishka. Little bear. Here nickname Big Russian." The guy extended his not-so-little bear paw for a handshake. Stiles prepared to have his fingers broken but didn't dare to refuse.
It hurt. He survived.
"So you want to be on the bottom, right?" Stiles asked, trying to make small talk. "I mean the bed of course, not that you would... I mean I don't care what you prefer, everything is fine with me. No. NO!" he waved his hands in panic, "That's not what I meant. I am taken. You are perfectly good looking and all, but my heart already belongs to somebody else. No hard feelings... I'll shut up now."
Fuck. Stiles wasn't sure whether the fact that Mishka kept smiling was a good thing or whether he had last seconds to live.
"I no understand."
Thank fucking God. Stiles gave him a sheepish smile. Perhaps Peter was right about the language barrier being a good thing. What was he thinking anyway? Not like the top bunk could support those 300 pounds of flesh.
"You new." It wasn't a question, but rather a statement. "You obey - you okay. Ponyatno? Eto… kak ego tam… Understand?" His tone was friendly. The Russian didn't try to intimidate him. Not that he had to, he was intimidating by default. An Alpha without a question. You would hardly find such a build on a Beta.
"Yes," Stiles nodded, wondering if he had to add some kind of honorific in a show of respect. He would much rather pretend that he was Mishka's client than his bitch.
Thankfully, the man didn't correct him. "How old?" he asked.
"I'm twenty."
"Heh, shchenok," the Alpha chuckled.
"What's that?"
"Shchenok eto… nu eto…" he scratched his head searching for the word, "Dog, little dog."
"Like chihuahua?"
"No. Young little dog," Mikhail clarified, gesticulating with his hands.
"Puppy?"
"Vo, tochno - puppy! You puppy." The way he pronounced it, it sounded more like "papi" (Spanish for daddy) and Stiles couldn't help smiling. As far as formidable cons went, so far this one seemed surprisingly friendly.
...
For the next hour or so the two chatted about dogs and cats (Stiles figured it was a safe topic). Though 'chatted' was a strong word as Mishka's limited vocabulary made it quite a challenge. Big Russian (or Big-R) was 40 years old, he came from some small town in Russia called Narofominsk and he liked dogs. He did teach Stiles a couple words and phrases in Russian and Stiles's anxiety over prison somewhat abated. He didn't feel like crying anymore and once he established that his bodyguard didn't intend to do him bodily harm he started to relax around him a bit.
They kept a perfectly friendly tone up until Stiles got off the chair to go out for the yard time. Big-R caught him by the arm and raised an eyebrow in disapproval.
"I'll go outside for a bit."
The grip on Stiles's biceps didn't ease up. "No."
"Well, you should probably come with me," Stiles agreed. He wanted to go outside because Derek might be there.
"No."
"I'll just go for a bit and…" Stiles tried to gently remove the restraining hand, but the grip only tightened.
"No. You stay." This time the firm tone left no doubt that it was not a suggestion but an order.
Stiles felt the frustration build up on the tip of his tongue, but he bit it before he said something he might regret. "Ok." He sat back down and tried to keep his voice and face from showing attitude.
"Good. You obey - you okay. You no obey - big punishment. Understand?"
Great. As if he didn't have enough bossy Alphas in his life already. Be as it may, Stiles had no desire to find out what Mishka considered a big punishment. Fuck Peter and his good intentions.
"Ponyatno," Stiles nodded, showing off his newfound Russian knowledge to score some points.
Mishka let go of his arm and patted his shoulder with his heavy hand. "Molotok. Voz'mi s polki pirozhok," he said approvingly. Stiles guessed it was some kind of praise.
"What's kirozhok?"
"Pi-ro-zhok. Pie. Good job, go take pie from shelf."
Stiles had no idea what it meant. Was pie a code for something? Or maybe it was some Russian proverb, the meaning of which he didn't get. One thing was clear though. Stiles was stuck in the cell.
...
He wasn't even surprised when Big-R didn't let him go for the dinner either and the food was brought to the cell by a guard. Apparently protection that Peter arranged for meant zero freedom for Stiles.
All Stiles' requests were met with the same answer - "No". No to the shower, no to the walk, no to attending any meals at the dining hall, no to work assignments, no to the library or recreation center, no to anything and everything.
At first, Stiles didn't dare to argue. But as time went, being caged inside the tiny room was getting increasingly bothersome. Mikhail wasn't particularly talkative and Stiles spent most of the time inside his own head. By the end of the third day, his self-preservation instincts started to get overshadowed by his need to get the hell out of there.
"You can't keep me here!" he snapped. "I need to stretch my legs. I need to breathe fresh air. I need a fucking shower. And actually, you need a fucking shower as well!"
"No. You stay," Big-R said calmly.
Same shit every fucking time!
Stiles glanced at the door, trying to calculate if he could make it without being caught. But Mikhail read his mind and blocked his exit before Stiles even tried.
"Let me go! Or come with me, but I'm not spending another minute in here!"
"No."
Stiles felt his temper boil. "Move!"
"No."
"For fuck's sake!" Stiles tried to squeeze past him but to no avail. The guy was a fucking mountain. "Let me go! Let me go! Let me GO!"
"Prekrati isteriku," Mishka said firmly.
Stiles didn't know what it meant but he could guess that his bodyguard was not happy with him. Even so, his temper got the better of him. "Speak fucking English!"
"Schitayu do trekh. Raz."
"Let me go!"
"Dva."
The warning tone gave Stiles a hint as to what Mishka was saying, but Stiles refused to back down. "Help! HELP!" he yelled over him, trying to attract the attention of the guards.
The Russian rolled his eyes completely unphased. "Tri," he said simply as he took Stiles by the ear and dragged him to the corner of the room placing his nose in it. "Budesh stoyat' v uglu, poka ne uspokoish'sya."
Stiles had no doubt that he was being scolded. His face went crimson with rage and humiliation. He tried to turn around but Mishka grabbed him by the scruff and forced his nose back in the corner.
"Ne zli menya, shchenok," the Russian growled. "A to vyseku, malo ne pokazhet'sya."
Tears welled in Stiles's eyes. "I don't know what you're saying."
"Stay or I beat you."
Stiles figured it was something of the sort. Feeling cornered and powerless, tears spilled on his cheeks and he wiped them away with the back of his hand. He didn't try to turn away anymore and Mikhail let go of his neck and sat down on the bed.
"Everything ok in here?" Stiles heard somebody ask. He recognized the voice of the guard who kept bringing them food to the cell. Whatever arrangement Peter had with Mikhail, this guard was in on it. And even if it was some other guard, Stiles knew that snitching in prison was the fastest route to the grave.
"We good," Big-R said.
The guard lingered probably waiting to see if Stiles disagreed. Stiles most certainly did disagree. He was anything but good. He was in prison! Caged in this tiny cell with an overbearing Russian Alpha size of a mountain troll. And he couldn't do shit about it.
A sob ripped through his throat as he heard the guard slowly walk away. Out of all the things one could experience in prison, being put in the corner was hardly the most traumatic one, and yet it felt like the end of the world. It was as childish as it was humiliating. Anyone walking by could see Stiles standing in the corner like an unruly kid. He hated it. He hated it all.
Why was he even still here? He thought he would be out the next day, two days max. Nobody even came to see him! Why hasn't his dad come yet? Why hasn't Derek? Did no one really care?
Stiles's shoulders shook with quiet sobs, as he cried his misery in the corner feeling utterly pathetic. The more he cried, the more humiliated he felt, but he couldn't seem to stop it. This was so unfair. He didn't belong here. He didn't know what to do with himself. He was going crazy. Was everyone ok? Did something happen to Liam? He had no way of knowing. Hell, he wouldn't know even if something happened to Derek, because he was stuck to this stupid cell. And now he was stuck to this stupid corner!
"Nu che? Uspokoilsya?" Big-R asked and when Stiles failed to answer clarified, "You done?"
Yes, I'm done with you. Done with this prison. Done with everything.
"I won't run away," he said instead, trying to get a grip on his emotions.
"Lan, ne revi. Idi syuda," Mishka's voice came out way softer this time. "Come."
Stiles stumbled away from the corner, embarrassed to show his tear-streaked face but unable to do anything about it. Mikhail sat him on the chair and produced a paper tissue (god knows where from). Stiles wiped his face and blew his nose, stealing a careful glance at his captor. Big-R didn't look angry or annoyed. He didn't smile or frown, there was no judgment in his expression. It wasn't exactly compassion, perhaps understanding would be a better word.
"Here safe, there no safe, kak ego tam… dangerous," Mikhail said placatingly.
Ye, no shit sherlock. "I really need a shower. And I need to go out. Do something. Exercise, play cards, watch tv, wash dishes, or whatever people do in prisons. I mean if I knew I'm getting out tomorrow, then sure, I'd sit here, suck on my thumb, and wait it out, but I don't know that. I'm here for 3 fucking years!"
More tears spilled and Stiles automatically reached for another paper tissue. Mishka probably didn't understand most of what he said, but he must have gotten the general gist. Stiles was pretty sure that his babysitter's task was to keep him alive, not happy. Still, he didn't expect to be denied basic human needs.
"Ladno, ladno. Vse, ugovoril." Big-R waved his hand in defeat. "Budet tebe dush."
Stiles recognized the word dush. "Shower?" he asked with hope.
"Yes. Later."
Stiles's lips stretched in a tentative smile. Well, who would have thought, the Russian wasn't completely heartless after all. Stiles couldn't wait to get out of that room. Just as long as he didn't drop the soap he should be fine, right?
TBC
I hope the foreign language wasn't too disruptive for the flow. I tried to hint at the general idea of what was being said so that you wouldn't have to scroll back and forth all the time. Anyway, here are the translations:
Ty Michislav? - Are you Mieczyslaw?
Pol'sha? - Poland?
Budesh Slavka - You will be Slavka. (Slava/Slavka a common diminutive for the names which end on "slav", e.g. Vladislav, Rostislav, Bronislav, Vyachislav, Stanislav, etc.)
Misha/Mishka - a common way to name bears. The stuffed bear is also "mishka".
Ponyatno? - Is it understood? (without question mark - "it is understood")
Eto… kak ego tam… - That... what it's called... (a filler you use when you try to remember a word)
Vo, tochno - Yes, exactly
Molotok. Voz'mi s polki pirozhok - Good boy. Go take a pie from the shelf. (often used in a sarcastic way - you acknowledge the good deed but also make a point that there will be no reward)
Prekrati isteriku - Stop the hysterics
Schitayu do trekh. Raz. Dva. Tri. - I'm counting to three. One. Two. Three.
Budesh stoyat' v uglu, poka ne uspokoish'sya. - You will stand in the corner till you calm down.
Ne zli menya, shchenok. A to vyseku, malo ne pokazhet'sya. - Don't make me angry, puppy, or I'll whip you, it won't feel like not enough. (meaning - I'll whip you good)
Nu che? Uspokoilsya? - Well? Have you calmed down?
Lan, ne revi. Idi syuda. - Alright, don't cry. Come here.
Ladno, ladno. Vse, ugovoril. Budet tebe dush. - Alright. Alright. You persuaded me. You will have your shower.