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Considering how difficult it was for Stiles to pull a full breath into his lungs, he might as well have been the one who was clinging onto life by a thread—but no, it was Peter. Impulsive, reckless, infuriatingly protective Peter Hale, who Stiles wanted to strangle. For someone so damn intelligent, Peter really should have known that throwing himself onto the claws of a wendigo was a terrible plan. And honestly, the fact that it was for Stiles—who the wendigo was clearly barreling towards—didn’t lessen his anger in the slightest.
Maybe once upon a time, before Stiles knew Peter, he would’ve agreed that the world was better off with himself in it than a psychotic, vengeful werewolf—but he knew Peter now. He knew the way he traced the ridges of his teeth with the tip of his tongue when he lost himself in a good book, he knew the way his nose crinkled every time he smelled scallions, he knew the way he avoided mirrors when he thought no one was looking, he knew the way his hands trembled when he tried to cook meat—he knew him. And so, he knew that Peter didn't think he mattered.
Peter never said it, and Stiles would be horrified if he ever got to a dark enough place to actually admit it out loud, but he knew. He saw it in the way he always lingered on the edges of the pack, as if he assumed he wasn’t wanted. He saw it in the way he always paid for things for the pack, as if he had to prove that there was a reason to keep him around. He saw it in the way he would make himself seem large— powerful, useful —then slink away to the shadows and hope someone would seek his help at some point.
Before Stiles had learned to read Peter Hale, beyond the arrogant persona he so beautifully crafted, Stiles would have been okay with Peter putting his life on the line for him. But that wasn’t the case anymore, so Stiles wanted, needed, Peter to wake up—so he could kill him again for being so unbelievably stupid.
“I believe this should work,” Deaton announced as he quickly approached the metal table— operating table, considering how often the pack seemed to nearly bleed out on it over the years—with a vial of pink liquid. Stiles had no idea what the pink goo was, or what it was supposed to do, but Peter had stopped breathing three times in the last ten minutes, and Stiles was getting desperate for anything that may help.
Despite half of the pack being reluctantly civil with Peter at best, the entire room seemed to hold a collective breath as Deaton poured the liquid over the deep gashes in his chest and abdomen—where they had literally had to hold his organs in his body as they sped to the clinic in Theo’s truck. Finally, slowly, Peter’s wounds began to stitch themselves back together—and Stiles saw his vision blur with unshed tears before he even registered the urge to cry.
It felt like far too long, but eventually, Peter’s eyes snapped open with strangled gasp—and the pack sagged in relief. If Peter was conscious, he’d be okay. He was a survivor, after all.
“Gods, I hate Mondays,” Peter said hoarsely.
“You bastard,” Stiles chuckled, or maybe sobbed—it was hard to tell. He brushed a blood-stained hand through Peter’s hair, his nails lightly scraping across his scalp, then tightened his fingers in the sweaty strands at the top of his head.
“That was a bit rough, I’ll admit.” Peter glanced around the room, a vague semblance of discomfort passing over his features at the attention from the pack. “Please tell me nobody kissed me. No offense, but I’d rather have stayed dead. Unless it was Stiles—in which case, I could probably find it in my ghost of a heart to forgive.”
This was normal—the flirting. Peter did it with Stiles shamelessly, relentlessly, since the day he turned eighteen—and in their private moments of late night researching on Peter’s couch, Stiles would occasionally indulge it. Sometimes with a lingering touch, a wink, a clever innuendo that would make Peter laugh. But it was always playful. They dipped their feet in just enough to enjoy the great banter, soak up the solid chemistry between them—but they never dove in. At first, at least for Stiles, it was because he was Peter Hale. That was a load of complicated disaster that he didn’t want to deal with on all fronts—not until he realized that Peter was indeed someone he’d be willing to brave it for. Then once that revelation came to light, it just never seemed like the right time.
Though now, covered in Peter’s blood, Stiles figured there probably wouldn’t be a right time—but there would definitely be a time when it would be too late. It was very nearly that time today. Stiles couldn’t risk waiting around anymore, when they weren’t guaranteed tomorrow.
“Well, as long as I’m forgiven,” Stiles quipped, before ducking down and pressing his lips to Peter’s.
Peter froze—maybe out of shock, maybe because he was afraid that if he moved, the illusion would break and none of it would be real. Either way, his lips stayed soft, pliant, wanting —and Stiles took that as his invitation to dip his tongue into his warm mouth. Peter tasted like coffee and blood, and Stiles thought that was rather fitting for a zombie wolf. Though, he was going to make Peter brush his teeth, and preferably not have internal bleeding, next time.
“I’m gonna puke,” Malia bluntly interrupted their moment.
Stiles pulled away, just barely, just enough to see Peter’s eyes while staying intimately in his space.
“Am I dead?” Peter whispered, and Stiles felt a pang of sorrow over the raw vulnerability in his voice. Before he knew Peter, he might’ve thought he was teasing—but there was nothing amusing in the way his eyes were almost frantically analyzing Stiles’. “Because, you know, this is exactly how I picture Heaven.”
Perhaps Derek could hear the sincerity in the question, too, because his voice was solid, reassuring, when he told him, “You’re alive,”—then turned into an awkward grumble as he added, “but I kinda wanna be dead after witnessing that.”
“We’d never get into Heaven,” Stiles told him, because who were they kidding? Though, neither of them believed in Heaven, anyway, so what did it matter? It seemed kinda overrated, in Stiles’ opinion.
A smile flickered across Peter’s lips, and Stiles couldn’t help but fall forward into another kiss—though Peter was ready this time, and brought his hand up to cup the back of Stiles’ head.