I see Derek Hale raised by his uncles Peter and Chris celebrating after being told that Derek and Stiles are engaged. Stiles filming the whole thing of course.
“I’m home,” Peter calls out as he shuts the door, and damn does it feel good to be able to tell someone that. To share a home with someone he loves. It goes deeper than he can explain, this need for
companionship. It comes from before the fire.
“Welcome back.”
Chris looks happy and sleepy, and it does something funny to Peter’s heart to see his mate wearing nothing but boxers and one of his shirts. Chris kisses him in a way that’s both tenderly and firm, and all the more meaningful because of it.
They talk little after that. Chris pulls him into the bathroom, revealing the bath he had run while waiting for Peter to get home. They get in together and just enjoy each other’s presence. Peter falls asleep with his back against Chris’s chest, his steady heartbeat and the warm water easing all the tension Peter gathered throughout the day.
He wakes when he hears the water being drained. He’s shushed and gathered into his mate’s arms.
He’s taking care of me, Peter thinks sleepily. It’s nice in all the ways he never thought he’d want. His wolf is pleased, too, that Chris is so competent and kind and mine.
Chris depositshim into their bed and pulls the blanket over them both.
“Sleep, darling. I’ll wake you up if you have nightmares,” Chris murmurs, and it’s more than enough for Peter to push himself further into his embrace and let his eyes droop.
When Cora looks dubiously at the Fluttershy doll and tells him that she likes cars now, Uncle Peter, Peter hides his flinch between a slight smile, and murmurs something like, “Of course you do. Of course.”
Six years have passed for them, but for Peter it only feels like yesterday that the pain from the burns finally climbed high enough to overcome his werewolf healing, and he passed out. It feels like only hours, but it also feels like an eternity. He hurt for so long, but in a strange dream-like place where time had no meaning.
But it’s been six years.
His pack is gone. Only Derek and Cora remain. And Malia? How can Peter have a daughter who is almost grown, when just a moment ago he was rolling the ground with the cubs, letting them climb over him and growl him into submission? How could Talia take the memories of Malia away from him? How could she do that, and still smile at him and embrace him?
There is so much Peter doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand what happened when he came out of the coma. He doesn’t understand who the alpha was–how she smelled familiar, but somehow wrong. Not Talia. A usurper. Not Talia. It wasn’t until she was lying dead on the ground that he realised what he’d done. Laura.
Derek is broken now. Cora isn’t much better. And Malia doesn’t feel like pack. These aren’t pups that he can tickle into smiles, or chase their nightmares away. These are adults.
Peter leaves college brochures around the loft for Derek, and catches him flicking through them more than once. He takes Malia on runs through the Preserve, and shows her how much easier it is to hunt with a partner. She begins to spend more time with the other unshifted too, begins to find herself a place in the pack. Peter helps Cora buy a car for herself. It’s in worse shape than Stiles’s Jeep, but they work on it together for weeks until the engine purrs.
When it’s done, Cora takes Peter by the hand and pulls him around to the back of the car. There’s a shiny, glittery sticker on the back bumper. Fluttershy. She smiles at him proudly, and Peter’s eyes unaccountably sting with tears.
For the @sterekdrabbles prompt: wolf, conversation, grateful (bonus theme: family)
Stiles had grown accustomed to walking into his room and finding a Hale sitting on his bed. That didn’t stop him from flailing and demanding, “What? What! What do you want?” Because it had never been Peter before.
The wolf flashed blue eyes and a fanged grin at him, then had the nerve to condescendingly say, “Just a conversation, Stiles.”
Dropping his bag, Stiles crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows. “Conversation.”
“You’ve been… taking care of my nephew.” Peter paused again and Stiles braced for something creepy and euphemistic; instead, sounding like it pained him, Peter finished, “I’m grateful.”
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