[ Accepting the weapon, Peter uses his fingers to scrub at the blood around the remaining metalwork of the broken part, frowning at what he can see of the design. He doesn't recall what the broken off bit looks like. Probably neither of them had been paying attention, and it could still be lying in Chris's kitchen sink for all he knows. ]

It hurt a lot. But I guess I haven't been stabbed enough times to compare.

[ This casual reminder of the resilience of werewolves and werewolf sort-of-teenagers possibly sounds more palatable from this Peter as well, the sort of thing Malia and the others might say if, in fact, they had not been stabbed enough times to compare, which at this point, they probably have. Peter takes the next suggestion as well, placing the broken weapon back on the rack and shutting his eyes, taking a few deep inhales. ]

... Is that Old Spice? Really?

[ Having been in the bathroom, Peter should know damn well if it was Old Spice or not and also, is this really the time to be that kind of dick, but Peter grins as he hurriedly adds: ]

Not exactly, I can smell my own blood and it does seem. Weird. Can't tell if that's just, you know. Age. Or whatever happens to me.