munsters | - OPEN -

[ It's the one thing all professionally paranoid (former? sort of?) hunters love seeing after the turning point of a drawn out war between terrified humans with guns and the supernatural and technically still in the middle of the conflict upon returning to whatever passes for home these days — something off about the premises, the curtain in the window of the door not quite where it was when one left, the indefinable disturbance in the air of the house. Like the quality of light has changed. Like another terrible twist is lurking around the corner from all the preceding terrible twists.

Peter has been out of communication for a few days, and that is totally unremarkable from him, perhaps even a bonus in some people's eyes. Well. In most people's eyes. ... Everyone's eyes? The man simply won't die, so what are the odds he got picked off by any of Monroe's twitchy newbies?

Then again, the odds are always pretty fucked up for them. What are the odds, for example, that there's a young man on the floor of Chris Argent's kitchen, his back against the cabinet beneath the sink, one chair of the table knocked over and lying askew from the sprawl of one of his legs, eyes shut, shallow breathing. A couple of sluggishly healing knife wounds, but not much blood anywhere for a goddamn change; he must have come in after he finished doing most of the bleeding. His hand is resting over what is probably some other injury on his stomach.

And it is, of course, Peter. A much younger Peter, just a few years older than Scott and the others are now. Back in those days (and why isn't he there instead of this kitchen), he hadn't been known for being aggressive and this is an all too picture perfect scene to emphasize it. That he hasn't even opened his eyes yet either makes the situation more dire, or more suspicious. They probably hadn't interacted much all those years ago, but Chris knows him, doesn't he? Knows how he works, how he is. Besides, there's always so much bullshit that this could be, some kind of illusion, whatever. ]

[The mess doesn't stop just because Scott McCall saves the day. There's legions of other hunters out there with a taste for the kill, all of whom have been waiting with baited breaths for a war to start. He's ashamed to be tied to the man who instigated it, ashamed of his own name sometimes in ways that could drive him crazy, if he let it. But he remembers Alison, who also had his name, and it's easier to live with it.

He's back from what could have been a peaceful negotiation, except Chris has bruise forming on his arm and an ache in his back from where Scott threw him out of the way of a bullet. Sometimes this is just how it is, bullets before understanding. He's getting old, though, and Scott might be likeable, and sweet, but even Chris has to admit that he does have a face that you want to punch first. He's tired, and when he finds the door isn't locked, and that he's sure he closed the curtains on his way out, he instinctively reaches for his gun and loathes the thought of having to move yet again to avoid hit and run's.

He's expecting to be ambushed; what he's not expecting is to find someone on his kitchen floor, bleeding out, that much obvious even with the lights low. When he flips them on, bright and an unforgiving yellow, he's fairly certain he's stepped outside the realm of reality. He remembers Peter in some vague capacity; pictures on walls, brief glimpses from old recon missions where he wanted desperately to impress his father and do better than Kate, who was always more ruthless and more keen for the kill. He approaches on soft steps, sliding his gun onto the kitchen counter and crouching down for a better look at Peter's face. It is him, the same way it was Derek a couple of years back, fifteen and better tempered.

The question, then, isn't is this really Peter Hale, and more why the fuck is Peter Hale on my kitchen floor. He's tired. ] Give me the goddamn strength, [he mutters under his breath, and inches close again, reaching to press two fingers under Peter's jaw, testing his pulse, and then after that, he rakes his eyes over to try and assess the damage; try to assess if there's any wolfsbane he has to purge. ]

[ The pulse is there beneath his fingers, annoyingly strong despite Peter's apparent state. So like him. Fucking drama queen, even if he must be genuinely out of it to not react right away. Or perhaps it's just that he's never been the strongest werewolf, not at this age, definitely not in his family. Which is not to compare Talia to Kate... or maybe he would, if he and Chris had ever cared to hold a conversation.

Still, the ol' werewolf senses are kicking in, which Chris must have seen thousands of times before on occasions of varying morality. The eyes open, the adrenaline kicks in practically before he can process what he's seeing, the body reacts because that's the problem with all of them, especially at this age: instinct overrules. In this case, it's tempered by his injuries. Peter sure does try to launch himself backwards and away from the hunter he recognizes as an Argent, the same distant and anxiety-inducing way Chris recognized him, but he can only slide like, a foot to the right on the kitchen tiles before falling over.

And what a time for nostalgia; his eyes are still yellow, though they shut quickly. Ah yes, pain. The reminder that he's the one who showed up here, one way or another. After a moment, Peter wheezes a sort of laugh out, the fatalistic kind that indicates he has some grasp of the situational irony involved. ]

Mr. ... Argent.

[ It must not be that bad if he can sound like that, like somebody's polite classmate who's shown up to work on a school project with your son, ma'am, who wouldn't mind staying for dinner, with the faint sheen of parody. Not wolfsbane, maybe, but some other less effective poison, or a low dosage. ]

[He notices the eyes, too, and isn't sure what to do with that brief, perhaps hallucinatory piece of information. Maybe this is a dream; maybe he's still back at that old warehouse, knocked unconscious with Scott McCall somewhere close by. What a terrible dream, though. Has to be the top ten worst possible dreams of his life. ]

You recognise me. That's good. [He's not sure that it is, actually. There isn't a protocol for this, really. He doesn't even like Peter, either, and yet -- he's here, on his kitchen floor, and so many people have died already. It's not really a choice. ] Can you stand? You're healing, but slow. You know what you were shot with?

[Movement isn't fluid or graceful at this angle, but he does side-crouch to hook one of Peter's arms around his shoulder, and then gently starts to lift. Less weight than the Peter he's used to, and he thinks about saying that as a jibe. He's got questions, and not the faintest clue where to start. ] C'mon, over to the counter.

[ The kindness of it, which is to say beyond the typical hunter-werewolf interaction and well into considerate, gentle territory, must be inexplicable to Peter, and the reason behind the panicky huff of breath he lets out against his will when Chris stoops to lift him up as well as the stiffness in his shoulders — but he grabs for the counter to help when it's in reach, and though his eyes have been fixed warily on the other man since he managed to pry them back open, he seems to be making some effort to be... agreeable. As cooperative as he can be while not removing his hand from his stomach. ]

Can't get it out.

[ "It" being whatever he's covering up down there, probably something still lodged in his body, per the good old traditions. ]

Told me to come here.

[ This is as much explanation as he's currently up for giving, and he only gives it because he has an urgent need to understand how this is going to work, if he's actually safe. ]

Who did? Derek? [That does seem like a Derek thing to do. Who else can I inconvenience with this turn of events? Oh right, Chris. He thinks Derek left for Mexico already, though, and Malia would almost definitely patch Peter onto Scott. The questions just continue to mount, but in the mean time, he hoists Peter up onto the counter and starts rummaging through cupboards for the Basics. Something to clean the wounds; something to force the poison out. He's not Deaton; he doesn't have everything lying around for emergencies.

There is a small, petty voice in the back of his head that says: and it's not like Peter deserves it. He ignores it. It doesn't sound like him, anyway. It sounds older, and crueller, and Chris is done with it.

When he has what he needs (which are the basics needed to remove a bullet), he shrugs his jacket off and tosses it onto the opposite counter, where the stove is. He tries to think of a weirder night than this, and finds that he can't.] Lie back for me. You can tell me how the hell you managed to shave off twenty years, while you're at it.

[Was it Kate he wants to ask, but it seems like a stupid question. Why would she bother? And with Peter, of all people?]

[ His uncomfortable grimace might be for Chris merely saying Derek's name, or it may be about being put onto the counter like a lanky toddler, or both. Either way, he doesn't complain about either thing, or about makeshift medical supplies. This is weird for him too, Chris!! Unless he's pretending for his own amusement, which while possible, isn't really characteristic of the Peter Hale of recent events. That Peter has always had better things to do, though they may amount to buying luxury cars or hitting on people's moms.

This Peter, on the other hand, watches Chris with the dazed concentration of someone who is concerned that a moment's lapse of attention will render him vulnerable again. His eyes track, though they sometimes lose focus, and the consternation that crawls across his expression at the bizarre question Chris asks him would be funny under other circumstances. Besides the beard, he doesn't think Chris looks that much older. (Because everybody older than 30 is "old.") ]

You know Derek.

[ Like. Know him, not just as a photograph with a target on him. The disbelief in his voice might even make someone forget that Peter absolutely doesn't deserve help, or that he is who he is, and always has been. Unless Chris can see how hard he's thinking, trying to math meme things out, and probably getting a lot further than the fifteen year old Derek did. In any case, he has leaned back, he has with some trepidation removed the hand from his stomach and the deep puncture wound there. ]

[More than Peter being younger, the statement rings as particularly odd. He doesn't quite verbalise this with anything other than a soft hm, and his eyebrows doing a brief lift, like the statement caught him off-guard too. Derek had been young young; it makes sense, to some degree, that Peter would be the same. That he would have no memory of his life after the fire, or even the fire at all.

Briefly, Chris feels a pang of misplaced guilt. He's quick to squash it. ] Yeah, I know Derek. [He doesn't say well or unfortunately. Humour beyond this version of Peter, and Chris isn't sure where he'd begin with the explanations. Instead, he concentrates on the wound; lifts Peter's shirt high enough to get a good look at how deep it is, and try to hazard a guess and the cause. Not a bullet, he thinks, which is good. Something sharp and laced with poison, which isn't an Argent trait. Worse, maybe shrapnel, which could be an Argent trait.] You got any idea what hit you? [as he starts cleaning around the wound with an antiseptic-damp cloth. ] Or who, more specifically?

[Not being Deaton is, at this specific moment in time, a little bit of a hindrance. He thinks about calling, and maybe he should if the very basic herb combination that he has, fails to work. ] Might give me a better idea on how to fix this.

[ It's not very often that one can suppress Peter's most annoying traits as an adult, and that usually involves unconsciousness, mortal danger, and/or turning him into a statue, so the novelty of him being injured and too busy going ?????????????? to spout any of his usual nonsense is... probably still not worth all the problems inherent to him showing up like this in the first place. He hiss-inhales when Chris starts to clean around the wound, but his body going rigid like that is at least a sign of his control. Staying still, not lashing out, thinking. ]

I think it was like a — barbed spear or something, it's broken off in there. Just get it out. I tried, I just —

[ That's probably why he was passed out initially. Not tough enough. Never strong enough. Maybe he would have been able to do it as an adult, maybe not. As a data point, though, bossy even at this age. And cagey too, if neglecting to answer the who part of Chris' inquiry was intentional. ]

I don't know what's real.

[ Maybe it isn't, though, he really sounds out of it, understandably confused about why he was directed to an Argent's house in the first place, and why the Argent in question is actually helping him. ]

You and me both. [There is even a kind, self-depreciating smile for Peter's benefit. At this point, it's just what he does. He's lost track of how many kids he's had to try and reassure over the last four years. Too many, actually. ] This is going to hurt, so try and keep talking. I know usually that isn't an issue for you.

[Belatedly, as he's preparing something that looks vaguely like tweezers, but larger, he realises some of this familiarity might be alarming. But maybe not; he's never known Peter in recent times not to role with most things, if only just to look like he knows everything. ] Tell me the last thing you remember, before this. [There's a lul as he slips on some blue latex gloves. Or rubber. It's possible these are for doing dishes, but anything works in a pinch. Next he starts prepping for the extraction, which is just more dabbing, and then spreading the wound in a way he knows hurts. He's been in this position more times than he cares to count. ] Might give me a good benchmark to what might come as a shock. I'm guessing everything, at this point.

[ It's exactly that quality, that of the long experience dealing with stressed out teenagers, which has kept Peter in place. He could have tried harder to scuttle around the kitchen and get out. He could have snapped and snarled. That's never really been his way, though. If the familiar quality Chris has pushes things in the opposite direction, well, it's not enough, it only makes things unsettling — and the longer Peter thinks he'll come out of this okay, this can be downgraded to interesting. He huffs another incredulous laugh which trails away into pained noises, kept faint and locked down with the set of his jaw, as soon as Chris starts gearing up to get into the wound and remove whatever's lodged in there.

Keeps him awake, at least, which he ultimately wants because this is all too weird, too interesting. One for the memoirs, should he ever write any. Not the easiest thing to try to focus through while answering, sure. ]

I was — underground? Stuff on shelves. Some of it was mine.

[ A note of hey... MY stuff enters his voice and is chased away immediately by whatever Chris is doing. He's trying not to watch, though not out of squeamishness. It's just distracting and he would be trying to backseat surgery, which nobody likes. ]

Not sure how I got there. Then, hunters... I guess.

[ Not ones he recognized and they were using different gear than he's used to. ]

Other werewolves. Don't know them.

[ Another annoying point. He's very nosy and he should know most werewolves in Beacon Hills. Though he's not sure they are in Beacon Hills. ]

Teenagers? [Maybe he'll call Scott, after this. Just a polite, totally normal call to ask hey, what the hell Scott?

There is, unfortunately, some niggling around, digging deep for something that is difficult to grasp onto. He has steady hands, at least, at the ability to focus through even the worst of Peter's winces. ] Almost there. [More or less. Just a few more inches, slowly does it --] The hunters are gonna be sniffing around some more, probably. You're going to be more vulnerable if you can't remember what's happened.

[Peter and vulnerable in the same sentence. Now that is a laugh. There's no dry humour on his face, though, while he's working. A narrowing of his eyes, his tongue poking out from between his teeth; the kind of effort one might extend to someone who can't supernaturally heal. Maybe that's just habit. ] Almost got it --

[ This entire time he's been thoughtful enough to only dig his nails into his own clothes/palms rather than leave an unsightly crushed portion of kitchen counter, and in any case, the pain is supposed to help him heal; speaking of vulnerable, he sure sounds like all the others when they're hurting, if marginally better at keeping it in. Okay, the heel of one of his boots probably has dented one of the cabinet doors or knocked off the knob or something. ]

Yeah. Clueless.

[ Which implies it isn't Scott or the others. Then again, Peter is rude and judgmental. ]

Ah — gnh —

[ Really dignified sounds here, as tends to happen when spiky bits of metal being extracted from one's body are snagging on bits of the aforementioned body on their way out. Not Chris' fault. There's only so much room to maneuver. Once it's out, though, he relaxes in a way that would be alarming to someone who didn't know what he is. One bloody hand limp at his side, ruining a towel, eyes sliding almost blissfully shut. For someone who was just warned about being more vulnerable, Peter appears to have decided that's not a concern for the moment. Chris could have finished him off the moment he stepped in the kitchen, and instead, he took care of Peter.

Hah. Funny. And interesting. ]

Most of 'em are. [Clueless. He's adding Peter to the list, albeit temporarily. There is an eye roll, the blissful relief of being reprieved of intruding metal apparently worthy of it. It is, he thinks, just like Peter Hale to make an inconvenience of his kitchen and then decide to take five. Chris doesn't; he cleans up, which mainly consists of depositing the instruments into the sink and running the hot water over them, before leaving them to sit. He can clean up properly later, alone.

More pressing matters need attending. Arms folded, eyebrows lifted, he waits patiently for about half a minute. It's more patience than he's shown Isaac or Scott. Less patience than he's shown Stiles, admittedly. ] Peter, focus. [The tone is still familiar. He thinks that might be for the best, otherwise antagonism might just cause an unnecessary headache. ] Start talking. The last thing you remember, before the hunters and the werewolves.

[His phone, slotted into his back pocket, makes a ding. He's ignoring it for now. ] You were surprised I knew Derek. You don't remember that?

[ Is there anything more soothing than lying back, knowing your body has kickstarted its ludicrous healing properties, while someone else cleans up around you? Peter hasn't yet discovered it. Chris gives him peace for a lot longer than he anticipated, and since he's been so sweet tonight, he makes the effort. He opens his eyes, he considers the obstacles involved in gingerly sliding himself off the counter and back to his feet, how far away a chair would be, and, oh yes, all those questions. He confirms, vaguely: ]

I don't remember that. Or you growing a beard.

[ The implied judgment there is very slight, and also not particularly true. It kind of suits Chris? His personality, what Peter knows of it? Peter drags his much more alert gaze from aforementioned facial feature and gives himself an experimental push, boots settling to the floor and his body issuing some complaints about the decision, about the renewed demands of gravity. His hand goes back, hovers over the wound, but Chris was so kind as to clean it and though he doesn't have much to worry about infections, he lets it be, focuses on staying steady on his feet. ]

Are you... beeping?

[ Not something he finds terribly suspicious, under the way more bizarre than unknown noise source circumstances, and almost certainly another way of avoiding explaining his whereabouts. No matter how familiar Chris is being, which is absolutely delightful now that he's more in a position to enjoy it. When did this happen? How? Is it just a ploy, and how long can/will Chris keep it up? ]

Yeah. I'll call back later.

[Despite the obvious, Peter has always reminded Chris of a cat. Annoyingly lazy, and always choosey about when and where to help. He's leaning back against the stove, trying to place Peter's face with the vague memories of Kate and Gerard's target boards. He looks so young, is the problem. Less dignified and smug that he's used to. More annoying, he thinks, in the same way Scott's troupe of teenagers are. ]

Jesus, [is a conclusion he comes to, deflating and running a hand through his hair. ] I'm not really equipped to deal with ... With whatever this is. It's usually Scott, or Derek. [Badly, he doesn't add. It's not a fair thing to say, it's not Scott's fault that he has two brain cells, or that Derek has the people skills of a feral dog.

What is the protocol here? Does he speed Peter up on the last twelve-ish years? Does he not? Is it even his place to? Probably not, is the unhelpful conclusion to that. He doesn't even want to, really. It's been a day enough as it is. ] You can use my shower. I'll -- call Derek. He should really be the one to fill you in the last -- I'm guessing, eleven years.

You're helping us, you've been helping us for a while, so you've turned against your family. That must've taken something seriously traumatic. You haven't even mentioned Talia. She's dead or unavailable.

[ Step by patient Step, Peter nudges a chair into a more convenient angle for him to collapse into, and does so, grimacing at the jolting of the action. ]

But you're not too worried. You just came from some other fight, tonight. Whoever these hunters are, you think it can wait. It can, by the way. I'm pretty sure they're all dead.

[ Peter sighs in the undeserved peace of someone who, if he was wrong in any of the previous points, does not mind at all. If he were in better condition, if things had gone differently tonight, his little recitation would be all slick smugness. It's still inherently smug, to be sure, but he's also rolling his shoulders tiredly, his head isn't held high, and there's some sense of evasion still. Like he's giving himself time to maneuver around. ]

No need to explain, Mr. Argent. I can take you back in the morning.

[There is something that crosses his face -- regret, or pity -- at Talia's name. It lingers, and whatever it begins as, it definitely becomes pity. He's used to feeling this, now.]

Glad to see you've got enough of your wits to stay perceptive. [Is it unnerving? Sure. Is he used to it? Yeah, more or less. He shifts on his feet, leaning his weight to ease an ache in his back. He could do with a shower. Hot, or scalding. ] But you really should hear it from Derek.

[Is he carefully avoiding talking about the Argent's? Well, yes and no. He will, for however long he can. It's a sore point; he doesn't mind saying that Gerard is probably dead. He doesn't mind saying that Kate has become more of a monster. It's Allison that he wants to avoid. It's Victoria, too. The first mistake, the second, and then the rest. A weakness Peter should know already, and one he isn't really interested in sharing with this one. He has some instincts left; he hasn't gone completely soft on werewolves. ] You didn't kill the hunters, though? Which means the teenagers weren't Scott's pack. [That's a big maybe. Not everyone Scott has taken in is wholesome. Theo, for example, is a big what even is his deal.

His hand, dangerously close to ripping his own hair out, scrubs over his face instead, and wearily, he sighs. ] Never a dull moment in Beacon Hills, as usual.

[ Some part of him smarts to see the pity, and if he really were a teenager, it would be a problem. He's old enough, however, to deal with it internally, to know it represents something he can use. Of course he doesn't want Talia to be dead. Of course that's bad, and scary. It's just that there's always been something a little wrong with Peter, and he can handle certain kinds of bad and scary things much better (for a certain kind of "better") than most people, and always has. ]

I don't need to hear it. I won't be here long, I'm sure.

[ That said, the fact he wants to avoid meeting Derek for however long he is here, that's. Something. He's hoping Chris doesn't know enough about their relationship to pick up on it. ]

The place, the ... vault, it had a security system. The hunters set it off when they came after us.

[ He doesn't want to specifically say "vault" because he doesn't want to acknowledge the existence of the one near the school, but he can't think of a different word right now. ]

I got the others out, they ran off to do... something, get someone.

[ Who knows! Who cares! It'll all be explained in the morning, implies Peter's insouciant voice, only fractionally at odds with his bloodied look. ]

You shower first, I'll just get blood everywhere.

[ So polite, so seemingly reasonable. Leave him here, unattended? Well, he probably won't be doing too much... ]

Not that I don't appreciate the consideration, but I'll feel better if you try to run off looking less like that. [Older Peter would run off, he thinks. He would have an excuse ready to go, because Chris isn't entertaining, really, and there's no secrets left between to unravel. He's operating under that same assumption here; that now that Peter is healing as he should, he'll just go. Do his own thing, and get into more trouble. Isn't that just what werewolves do? Get into trouble?

Maybe just the Beacon Hills ones. Vaguely, he thinks about Isaac. Wonders if he's been in trouble lately. ] I'll get you some clothes. They might be a little big, but it'll have to do for now.

[Chris is so considerate. He might, actually, have some of Isaac's clothes from before. Stuff that was left behind and packed away after he left the apartment complex. Or stuff that mixed in with his own, when he left France in a hurry to get back and help Scott. They're the same height, more or less. ] Come on, I'll show you hot to turn the hot water on. [With a nod towards the hallway, he pushes away from the stove and extends a hand to help Peter up. He does look like rough, which isn't as satisfying when he's this young. The night truly is just full of disappointments. ]

[ Peter laughs at the first part, because ordinarily, he would do that, run off at the first opportunity, and he can't tell if Chris merely took his comment to be more time-relevant than he intended it or if Chris really knows him that well. Or is just has the weary experience of like, a dozen teenage werewolf types for what, three years now... yeah, that's probably it. Still funny, though, like the illusion of being known.

The other parts are equally amusing. Wear Argent's clothes, use Argent's shower. It should be inducing prickles of paranoia. Peter is young enough to be carefree, to want to see where the hell this could go, to find it secretly hysterical that there's any location at all to go to. He lets Chris pull him up, he sways briefly into him and then corrects his own balance, and. Isn't this all so nice. Yes, he's laughing again, because he's that awful combination of tired and wired that this lifestyle engenders. ]

Were you always this nice, Chris? Could we have been friends all this time?

[ The mockery is double-edged, because of course they couldn't have, and Peter is no friend to anyone, even in times of relative peace. But here they are, an unimaginable situation for him, a moment he'd like to stretch out beside and stare at unnervingly instead of what's actually happening, which is him shuffling after Chris to the bathroom while trying not to touch anything with his bloody hand. ]

[He laughs, not unkindly, while hoisting Peter down the hall, flipping a switch along the way.] You and me? No.

[He's just speaking from experience. There's a brief glimpse of a living room, then a bedroom, and then finally the bathroom, which is the smallest room in the house. He switches a light on in there too, and leads Peter to the toilet seat. Even with Peter, Chris is careful. Habitual niceness he doesn't try to fight, ordinarily.]

Hot water, you turn this round -- [He's pointing to a dial that is. Super self explanatory; red all the way to blue. ] I'll leave clothes in the bedroom. [His phone beeps again, and this time he does take it out to check. Scott, of course. A lot of Scott. ] If you're hungry, I can call in take out. The only food here is some tinned corn.

[He glances from the phone, to Peter. Runs his eyes over again, checking for signs of improvement. Signs of deterioration. He doesn't think he'll pass out in the shower, but when do things ever go the way Chris thinks they'll go? Never. He's used to it. ] If you feel worse, you call. You got it? The last thing I need is you dying in my shower.

[ The trip, short as it is, leaves him momentarily sluggish and it's terrible to be grateful to be plunked down on the toilet. He does his best to look unaffected, a ground-in way of acting that he makes no effort to shake at this time and place. Sometimes it's nice to be taken care of, isn't it? This has several added bonuses of not being done by family, who would all judge and reprimand and be disappointed at him, to say nothing of the novelty factor. By the time Chris looks up from his phone, Peter is gingerly shucking his shirt, and has the temerity to wink at Chris when his head emerges from the pull of cloth. ]

Don't worry, Chris. I'll behave. For you.

[ Not... actually what Chris asked, though it was perhaps an unspoken concern. ]

And yeah, something to eat, if not for tonight, the morning. Hate to put you out of corn.

[ Who could deny the classic breakfast of leftover pizza. He still gives off the air of huge amusement as he bends down to unlace his boots, despite the stabbing pain that occasions. It's healing. He can work through it. And more to the point, Chris is unlikely to help him with this part. Perhaps at this point Chris is already on his way out, but even if not, he can catch a ghostly soft thanks from Peter's bowed form. Ordinarily an occasion to stop the presses. Since there are no witnesses, however, it will just have to languish as an unbelievable anecdote. ]

[He dwells on Peter as a whole as soon he's clear of him. The age, the strangely elusive manner in which he has approached Chris. He's very used to a certain kind of Peter; a Peter who has absorbed knowledge and who keeps his cards close to his chest, except when he simply can't. It's a rough night when this isn't even the weirdest thing to happen this year.

The clothes he leaves out are pyjama bottoms and a tshirt that almost definitely did belong to Isaac. There's another that he leaves folded over a chair, and the jeans he figures can be washed. Nobody cares about some holes in jeans.

After that, he sheds his boots and takes a seat in the living room, phone pressed to his ear. Derek, when he answers, is as helpful as one can imagine. Keep him there, he says, like Chris doesn't have a life of his own, or his shit to do. Keep Peter Hale close by for a couple of days while Derek drives country back from wherever he's ended up this week? More difficult, he thinks, than Derek is aware of. Or appreciates. Chris really is so tired.

He should call Scott too, he thinks. Maybe in the morning. It's a difficult call, but he's almost certain he'd have Scott, Malia, and the rest of his ragtag pack in his kitchen within minutes. He's just. Not up for it. Not tonight. He has limited energy left, and he's choosing to use it to order pizza. For Peter Hale (lite). ]

[ He has a bit of time before the sound of the shower makes straining to hear past it more effort than it's worth to eavesdrop the way werewolves can. Keep him there isn't so bad, depending on how Chris interprets that. The patching him up and giving him clothes and food can still be a precursor to more underhanded things, and Chris is the kind of human who has the nerve to pull that off. Would he, though? These are the things he thinks about in the shower, shuddering when the spray hits the wound directly.

Not, he's guessing, without giving Chris a reason, and fortunately/unfortunately, Peter doesn't have one at the moment. Even if he's back to one hundred percent tomorrow, he doubts the idea of slipping out some window in the middle of the night will prove any more appealing. Unless Chris gives him a reason.

He doesn't take very long to finish; undressing probably took the bulk of it, and then he has to drag his boots and complaining body down the hall, where thankfully, pyjama bottoms are easier to get on than fitted jeans are to get off when one has been stabbed in the stomach. When he come out to the living room, there's entirely too much in common with Isaac and the others, the slouching posture, the yawn he has one hand over, the imprecise way his wet hair has been combed, how he collapses bonelessly on the couch. It's not entirely deliberate, though he can smell the shirt belonged to another werewolf before him. Some of it is just him being this age. ]

So Derek's busy.

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