The blood scent is fading pretty quickly from the wolf--if it clung too much his trail would be too obvious, after all--and once Scott reaches out to touch him too, Peter sits. He's never had much desire to be petted, never let Roman touch him, but Roman also understood this in a way he thinks these two don't. It's hard, he thinks, for them to reconcile the difference between the thing he is and the thing they are, the difference between a beast that isn't quite monstrous and the monstrous thing in them that isn't quite a beast. He has a word, a scent, for what they seem like to him, they have none for him. Definitions are so important to the human mind.

His eyes flick between them, yellow and calm, listening primarily to the rasp of uneven breath and the tone of their voices instead of their words. It's not that he doesn't understand them, they just seem less important, tell him less than sound and scent.