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safety is just an illusion

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Peter eyes the pile of clothes on the floor with growing suspicion.

"Is there a reason you're naked in my bed, Argent?," he drawls, leaning against the doorframe.

The lump under the cover jerks, then Chris Argent's bleeding head sticks out from what used to be a nice set of sheets. Peter hopes he won't need to burn them, that the faint scent of wolfsbane in the air isn't indicative of some sort of pesky contamination.

"'s the only safe place nearby." Chris' voice slurs when he answers, and that's even more alarming than his unnatural pallor.

"Leaving the fact that you shouldn't even know where my apartment is in the first place by the wayside for the moment, what could you possibly have run into that was so dangerous that my place is a safer choice?"

Or, who does Peter need to be sending a Thank You card because this has got to be good.

Argent doesn't disappoint.

"Relatives of a pack Gerard murdered a decade ago. Tried to go after Allison, knocked her out, so I left her with Stiles and all the mountain ash I had on hand."

"While you went after them." Of course. Peter hums. "She's not going to thank you for that when she wakes up."

"Probably not," Chris mumbles and sticks his hand out to wave towards the pile. "They hit me with something, got all over my clothes, soaked through everything, disoriented me."

There's a towel hanging on the door that Peter somehow missed, too distracted by Chris in his bed, not that he needs the excuse. It explains things, except—

"So knowing why they're after you, you still chose to come to the one person who should be sending this pack condolences and an offer to help?"

Chris snorts and slowly turns over under the blankets. Peter can see his grimace from the doorway.

"That's not you anymore," he says, then adds a soft, "Or me."

Interesting. Making his way towards the bed, Peter strips down to his boxers and pauses to toss his own clothes in a hamper.

"I can't say this is how I expected to get you into bed," he says as he slides in between the sheets, getting only a glare in response.

Chris' skin is hot when Peter makes to shove him over, and Peter's fingers dig in reflexively when he's hit with a wave of pain. Chris hisses, and some part of Peter is irrationally annoyed that someone else managed to hurt the man.

He leaches it away before he really realizes what he's doing, then has a sudden urge to squeeze harder, leave his own mark.

"We'll take care of it tomorrow," he says, nearly growls.

Chris, who'd slumped into a boneless pile a moment earlier, laughs, only a little hysterically. "We?"

Sighing, Peter wonders when explaining Chris Argent to an angry pack of werewolves became a thing he did willingly.

"You owe me pancakes in the morning, Argent. Blueberry. And if you bleed out I'm not taking you to the hospital."

Silence.

Peter's last thought before he too drops off is that Chris still never explained why he got in the bed.