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It's Just a Flesh Wound - Seriously

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“I don’t like this,” Derek said as they were getting ready to take on the coven. The whole loft was turned into a free-for-all arms buffet - courtesy of Chris Argent, who was frowning at everyone and no one in particular from the corner.

“You don’t like anything,” Peter put in airily as he descended the stairs, making Erica snicker.

Stiles followed him with his eyes. It was weird. He couldn’t see any difference, but he could somehow feel the curse on him.

For the time being, Peter was human.

And ‘for the time being’ meant as long as the head of the coven who decided to spit in their soup was around. Stiles planned for that to be a very, very short time.

“I don’t know how to use a gun,” Scott said somewhat sheepishly, glancing at Allison from the corner of his eyes. She immediately stepped in, picking up a silvery little handgun and started to explain how it works.

Stiles sighed, suspecting that Scott was just fishing for Allison’s closeness, considering they were in the off part of their on-again-off-again thing. But there were more important things at hand.

“Maybe you should stay here,” Stiles told Peter. It wasn’t an outrageous suggestion; Peter was vulnerable without his improved healing and probably useless without his supernatural arsenal. And anyway, Peter never liked to risk his own hide.

The man raised an eyebrow at him, like he could read his thoughts. He reached out for a disemboweled semi without breaking eye-contact and put it together in five seconds flat. Without ever glancing down.

He cocked the gun and pointed it at Stiles, the barrel of it only a few inches from his forehead.

Stiles held his gaze, feeling his blood sizzle and heat up. It was hard to define whatever had been brewing between them for the last few months, but it was undeniably there, and it felt like it was getting closer and closer to spilling over.

The loft was completely silent, except for Chris shifting in the corner - probably trying to figure out how long it would take him to pull his own gun - and then Peter smiled, clicking the safety back and letting the semi spin around his finger on the trigger guard.

“You should take this one, darling. It’s reliable and easy to figure out,” he said.

Stiles took the gun from him with a snort.

“Your complete opposite, then.”

***

The coven - because of course - took up residence in an old, oversized mausoleum in the deepest bowels of the cemetery. The place always made the hair stand up on Stiles’ neck, and it was only worse now.

“What’s the plan?” Scott asked as the building came into view. Honestly, as much as they usually put a lot of thought into things like this, they haven’t really talked this one out… Stiles imagined humans and werewolves alike were pretty freaked out by the witches’ apparent ability to strip them of their supernatural powers.

Hence the guns.

We walk in and we kill everybody , is what Stiles wanted to say, but checked himself just in time. It wasn’t just that Scott would definitely be unhappy with that suggestion, but also… Sometimes he was taken aback by how effortlessly ruthless his mind was.

“We walk in and kill everyone,” Peter whispered from his other side, making him shiver.

Scott growled, but Derek cuffed him on the back of the head before he could get too loud.

“No, we will first try to make them reverse the curse and leave,” Chris said from behind them. “And if that doesn’t work… we will see.”

Which was basically what Peter said.

“Alright, let’s go. Don’t do anything stupid.” Derek sighed. Allison scurried up a tree that was perfect for keeping the entrance under fire, like a particularly deadly squirrel, and then they were off.

***

The inside of the mausoleum was badly lit and crowded with witches doing whatever the hell witches were supposed to do. Doing some incantation, if the chanting was anything to go by…

They didn’t take kindly to being interrupted.

The curses started flying almost immediately, and Stiles had to sullenly admit that he probably would have had his head hexed off, if not for Peter pushing him behind a cracked statue of an angel in the last minute. It was really unfair how the man still somehow had the superior reflexes.

It was pure and utter chaos.

But Stiles wasn’t there to hide behind angels, so he threw himself into the quickly forming battle gun first, and just in time to see Peter fall with a shout.

***

“Am I dying?” Was what Peter asked when he opened his eyes in the upstairs bedroom of Derek’s loft, jerking Stiles awake.

He had no idea when he fell asleep - he spent the better part of the night worrying by Peter’s bed after doctor Deaton left.

“You wish,” he said blarily. With great effort he checked his phone before he reached out to check Peter’s forehead. He was hot. And not in the positive sense.

The werewolf looked like shit, actually. Stiles could remember them first meeting, with the scars still marring Peter’s face from the fire, but even then, he looked… healthy. A bit crumpled on the outside, but still very obviously deadly.

Now he was pale with his skin sweaty and his cheeks flushed with fever. His eyes were too bright.

Stiles tried to tell himself that Deaton promised it was nothing. It was only a flesh wound. And anyway. Peter’s supernatural healing should return completely at daybreak, making him get better instantly.

Only two hours until sunrise.

“It feels like I’m dying,” Peter said, licking his lips, blinking slowly at Stiles in a way that could have been dazed or seductive. Or a combination of both.

“You are not dying,” Stiles told him with a bit more force than necessary, pulling the covers back to look at Peter’s thigh. And only at his thigh. In the first panic after they got back it had been easy to ignore that Peter was pretty much naked with only a pair of form fitting black boxers to cover him, but now that Stiles was tired and knew they were out of the danger it was getting… difficult. The bandage on his thigh wasn’t even bled through.

“I’m hurt and you are being mean to me,” Peter mumbled as he tried to get his hands on the covers to pull them back.

Stiles watched with exhausted fascination as the man broke out in goosebumps, his stomach muscles twitching... before he realized what he was doing and threw the comforter over him.

“Peter, come on . It’s only a flesh wound. The doc said you’re not even feeling sick because of that… you’re only feeling like this because the curse is wearing off and your body is going through a very slow and gradual change back into a werewolf.”

“Huh,” Peter said, slipping up for a second and sounding completely awake and normal despite how bad he looked. “Wait… this is what the bite feels like?” he asked incredulously. “Now I almost feel bad about Scott.”

Stiles shook his head with a grin.

“Yeah, well. Scott’s the one who shot you, so I imagine you’re equal now.”

Peter whipped his head around so fast that he visibly paled with the whiplash.

“He what ?!”

“Um…” for a second, Stiles was glad Peter wasn’t up to immediate revenge, cause he imagined that was exactly what he was planning. Instead, he picked up the glass of chilled water Derek brought up and held it out for Peter.

The man eyed the drink and then shifted up the bed with a wince of discomfort.

“It was an accident,” Stiles assured him, keeping hold of the bottom of the glass just in case. Peter’s hands brushed his fingers, and when Stiles looked up their eyes met for a second. He looked away quickly, watching instead the way Peter’s throat worked as he swallowed.

“He’s just a terrible shot, apparently. Allison promised to train with him... Oh, yeah, they’re together again.”

Peter finished his drink, licking at his lips in a way that was impossible not to follow.

“I imagine. They are bonding over how much they apparently want to kill me.”

Stiles rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, sure.”

Peter sank back into the bed. He looked more like himself with every passing second, but the paleness of his skin still lingered.

“I’m cold,” he said, and the fact that Stiles knew he was intentionally making himself sound pathetic didn’t really help quell the worry in his chest.

“Well, you will have to ride it out… or I can bring you another comforter?” he was pretty sure Derek didn’t own more than what was already on the bed, but he could always try.

Peter actually pouted.

“Or you could try tucking me in properly,” he said.

Stiles rolled his eyes, but got up. He could do that. Then maybe he could let Peter rest and go outside to have a bit of fresh air.

Maybe then he could stop worrying and thinking about the fucking guy.

“Alright, alright.”

He leaned over Peter, carefully smoothing the covers down around him, except the man was having none of it, and the next second Stiles was pulled down, his lips pressed against Peter’s.

Peter’s mouth felt dry and hot and better than he imagined, which was a feat in itself.

“What was that for?” he asked breathlessly when Peter let him go, though he still kept his warm palm on the back of Stiles’ neck.

“You’ve been a regular Florence Nightingale, darling, I couldn’t really help myself,” Peter said, grinning.

Stiles arched an eyebrow, his fingers twisting in the sheets by Peter’s shoulders.

“I will let you know she was a professional, and would probably be offended by your behaviour.”

“It’s a good thing you’re not her, then… I imagine I would have a much harder time convincing her to get into bed with me.”

Stiles swallowed, his throat dry all of a sudden.

“And you think you will have an easier time with me?”

Peter smiled, caressing Stiles neck until he had to close his eyes for a second.

“Oh, I think I can be very persuasive.”

“Okay.” Stiles said, clawing at the comforter and slipping under it, somehow managing not to kick Peter’s injured thigh.

“Well,” the man said, sounding a tiny bit baffled, but still pulling him closer. “You didn’t need too much convincing.”

“Shut up, it’s only because you’re dying ,” Stiles said, snuggling into his side. It felt somehow both unfamiliar and like it was exactly where he belonged.

Peter hummed under his breath.

“Ah. It’s fine, darling, I heard it’s just a flesh wound.”