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Peter left without saying another word. Deaton had given him a timeframe, telling him there was nothing either one of them could do. It was a side effect of his time dead and the poison coursing through his bloodstream. If he hadn’t died before, his body could probably fight off the poison, but he was living on borrowed time with a gaping hole in his abdomen.
Peter stepped into the loft for the “Pack Meeting”. He was barely pack, and he liked it that way. He found Stiles leaning against the staircase, watching the rest of the pack. Then, when his eyes landed on Peter, his eyes melted. It was a warmth that Peter didn’t think he deserved, but he would take anything Stiles would give him until the wound or something else killed him. He was a dead man walking.
Stiles motioned for him to come over. “How was it?” He motioned towards Peter’s stomach. “All good?”
Peter smiled. “Tip top shape.” The lie tasted foul on his tongue, but he could deal with it.
Stiles’ eyes narrowed before reaching out before Peter stepped back. “You’re a better liar than that, wolf.”
Peter scoffed. “Nothing for you to worry your pretty head about, love.”
Stiles rolled his eyes as Peter pushed past him and sat on the stairs. Stiles took his spot at Peter’s feet, leaning against his knees. “We’ll talk about this later.”
Peter hummed, trailing a hand across Stiles’ soldiers. “Sure, love.”
Peter tried to avoid Stiles on the way out and thought he was in the clear, but he knew Stiles better than anyone else. So, he shouldn’t have been surprised that Sties was already in his apartment by the time he made it to the door. Stiles was sitting on his couch, looking mighty comfortable.
“Sure, make yourself at home, Stiles.” Peter scoffed. Peter kicked off his shoes and pulled off his coat.
Stiles laughed, lounging back on the couch, dropping his sock-clad feet on the table. “If you’d just let me move in, it would be home.”
Peter couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “There’s only one bedroom.” It was a weak argument, and they both knew it. They had been dancing around each other for months, but Peter wouldn’t take it to the next level. He couldn’t. He’s never been accused of being a kind man, but he couldn’t be that cruel. He couldn’t give Stiles something he had hoped for and then pull it out from under him. Peter had even shielded their bond, not letting Stiles know how deep their connection went. He would let Stiles feel it all if Peter weren’t living on borrowed time. The warm joy when Stiles looked at him, or the butterflies in his gut that made him feel like a schoolboy again when they flirted. But it wouldn’t be fair to either of them.
Stiles smirked. “Sure, that’s the problem.” Stiles rolled his eyes and pulled out his book. He pretended to move down the page, but they both knew it was an act. He was biding his time to ask more questions about the mysterious Deaton appointment. He hadn’t seen the wound; Peter hadn’t let him, but Stiles knew it was there, and he knew it wasn’t going away. Or at least he suspected.
Peter left the living room without another word. He knew that Stiles would still be there when he got out. It was almost soul-crushing knowing that Stiles would probably be the one by his deathbed. He didn’t know what was worse, watching Stiles come to the realization that Peter was dying and there was nothing he could do or the fact that Peter had destroyed his bonds with every other person in his life and that Stiles would be the only one who cared.
His body was weaker every moment, each step taking his breath away. Deaton had told him that he was looking at days, not weeks, but he had difficulty believing it. He struggled to remove his clothes and move into the warm spray of his shower. Water rolled down his body, removing black blood from his wound to be replaced by the slow trickle that never stopped. He slid down the wall of the shower as his vision went blurry. He’d never trusted Deaton, so it wasn’t much of a surprise that he had lied about the end. He was disappointed that Stiles would have to find his body like this without warning of what was coming. As his vision went black, his mind brought forward Stiles’ face, honey-brown eyes filled with tears. It almost felt real.
Peter woke slowly. His body ached and burned, but it was nothing compared to when he passed out. His senses were coming back online, letting him know that something was wrong, but right at the same time. He wasn’t in the shower; he was neatly tucked into bed with the blanket tucked under his chin. Peter drug his hand across his abdomen, nearly crying out in shock when he found a scar. The wound was closed, only a little tender to the touch, but it was closed. Peter slung the blanket off to get a better look.
“It’s healed.” Peter nearly screamed. He hadn’t even realized Stiles was in the room, much less sitting in the chair beside him. Peter looked at him, and his fear and anxiety faded away, just to melt into anger. “Why didn’t you come to me?”
Peter was almost struck silent, confusion and shock burning across his mind. “Dear,” He stared, but Stiles cut him off.
“How can you still not trust me, you fucker? We practically live together.”
“Stiles.” Peter tried to calm him, reaching out for his flailing hand.
“But no, you had to go to the sketchiest prat on the planet. I don’t know what he told you, but fuck Peter, I was right here.”
“Dear.”
“Right fucking here to find you half dead in the shower, like some geriatric fuck that fell in the shower. Are you old, Peter? Is that what this is? You were ready to die.” Stiles’ entire body was vibrating with rage and anxiety.
“I’m–” But Stiles cut him off again.
“Do you know how hard it was to drag your limp body down the hallway? Of course, you don’t. You were unconscious, with no care in the world about how it would make me feel.” His face was red, and tears were building in his eyes, “Big bad wolf, always having to do things on his own. The lone wolf for fucks—--”
Peter did something he’d been dying to do for months. He wrapped his hand around Stiles’ collar and yanked him down. Their lips pressed together in a rough, salty kiss, malting away the rest of Stiles’ anger. Peter nipped at his lip as he pulled away. “I’m sorry, love.”
Stiles smiled. “I didn’t think those words were in your vocabulary.”
Peter couldn’t help but smile. “For you, darling, you’d be surprised what I am willing to say.” Stiles leaned over him, kissing him softly, then with more passion, electricity burning through them told Peter everything he needed to know. He pulled away a fraction. “There’s room in this bed for two.” Stiles couldn’t help but laugh as he crawled in next to Peter.