Peter leaves the hospital behind and heads for the woods. He passes buildings and streets along the way, staring out at a dull landscape that's jarringly familiar and utterly unwelcoming. He supposes he ought to feel some sense of nostalgia for Beacon Hills - it was is home for 40 years, after all – but he doesn't.
Peter struggles to remember a time when he didn't hate Beacon Hills. He knows those moments exist, buried far back in the pit of his mind, where a fragment of childhood frivolity still remains, blurry and mostly forgotten. There were years in his life, where he ran through the woods and played in the river with a sister he loved dearly. There were days when the forest was an eternal wonderland and the town was a blossoming community full of friendly faces. There was a time when Beacon Hills felt like heaven.
Things changed. Peter's not sure when, but as he got older, the town shrunk, the forest became hazardous, and the sister he loved dearly turned into a distant, overbearing alpha that he couldn't wait to get away from. He suffocated, slowly. He waited, like a lovestruck teenager, on a man he knew wouldn't come back to him. He devoted himself to a pack he didn't like. He turned himself into a sad wretch and he can only blame himself for it.
Peter thinks about Allison's question and his brain fogs over, head feeling like it's full of still-water instead of working neurons. He never put much thought into why he stayed. It seemed like the thing to do, somehow. But after the year he's had, after all this time, he finds himself reflecting, honestly turning the question over to make sense of it. He thinks about what happened with Fake Chris and how he's been processing it, and wonders if it was really so important to wait for the hunter the first time around. Something tells him it wasn't. 18-year-old Peter could be foolish, but not that foolish.
Peter parks on the edge of the woods and sighs. It's no use trying to remember on his own. Whatever memories were there have either been taken or so deeply buried he can't get to them anymore. He rubs his temple, trying to alleviate the headache, and exits the car.
As Peter approaches the tree line the rest of the pack appears. He's not sure if Chris called them or if they were already prepared to search for Malia, but it works out either way. They pair-off and Peter ends up with Lydia.
"You're not…sensing anything, are you?" Peter asks, trying to keep the hesitation out of his voice as he looks back at the banshee.
Lydia shakes her head. "Not yet."
Peter relaxes marginally. "Your abilities, have you honed them?"
"No thanks to you." Lydia says. Peter frowns, glancing back at her.
"I can't teach you everything."
Lydia glares. "You didn't teach me anything."
"I taught you to listen." Peter snaps. "So listen."
Lydia huffs and keeps moving, straining to hear Malia. Minutes tick by and Peter looks over at her contemplatively.
"Memories." Peter says, drawing her attention. "Can you retrieve those yet?" He asks.
Lydia frowns. "You mean like with Malia?"
Peter nods.
"I haven't tried it." Lydia says.
"I can help you with that." Peter offers. Lydia narrows her eyes suspiciously.
"Why do I feel like this is more of a favor for you than me?" She mutters.
Peter doesn't give her an answer.
December 11th, 1993
Peter sits in the booth across from Miranda, watching her warily. "So, we went to prom together?" He asks, taking a swig of his drink.
"Yeah, Peter, we did." Miranda says, jiggling her leg under the table and studying him. "You really don't remember?"
"Sorry." He says, not quite sure if he means it or not.
Miranda sighs. "You told Talia didn't you?" She asks before remembering that he wouldn't know that.
Peter stiffens. "Told her what? How do you know my sister?"
"Here's the rundown: I'm a werecoyote-"
"You're a what?" Peter interrupts.
"I wasn't one, when we met. But some stuff went down." Miranda says. "I was with a pack out in town. They, uh, they're not there anymore."
"What happened?" Peter asks.
"It doesn't matter." Miranda says. "Look, a while ago I told you something, about the Argents and the Hales."
Peter frowns.
"I made you promise not to tell Talia, but I guess that didn't work out." She says.
"What did you tell me?"
Miranda studies him, jaw clenching. "Why are you still here, Peter?" She asks.
"What?"
"What are you doing in Beacon Hills? What are you doing with the Hale pack?" She asks.
"Where else would I be?"
"Los Angeles." Miranda says. "That scholarship you told me about, the basketball one. You were so excited."
Peter frowns, confused. "I…" He stops, shaking his head and thinking.
Miranda's brows come together. "God, how much did she take from you?" She mutters.
"Nothing." Peter protests, glaring down at his drink.
"What happened to Chris?" Miranda asks.
Peter shrugs, sipping his whiskey. "He left." He says.
"Sorry." Miranda says. "I was really rooting for you guys."
Peter looks up sharply. "You knew?"
"That you were friends?" She asks. "Yeah. It was kind of obvious when he drove us to prom."
Peter gets a vague snippet of Chris and Cindy as Prom King and Queen, but that's all he can get from the night.
"Oh, right." He says.
"So he decided to hunt?" Miranda guesses.
"Yeah." Peter says.
"That blows." Miranda mutters.
"Yeah, it does."
Miranda sighs, studying him curiously. "Seriously, Peter, why are you here?"
Peter looks up at her, feeling the odd connection running between them. "I don't know." He confesses. "Why are you here?" He asks.
"It's my home." Miranda says. "Plus…" She holds up her hand, flashing the engagement ring.
"You're getting married?" Peter says, surprised and not sure why. She's just a stranger to him, even though she doesn't feel like one.
"Yeah." Miranda says. "Soon to be Mrs. Tate." She says.
"You don't sound too excited." Peter notes.
"I'm…happy." She concludes, staring down at her ring. "He's a nice guy. Has a job, treats me right."
"Does he know about you? What you are?" Peter asks.
"No." Miranda says. "I thought it would be better that way."
Peter nods.
"God, I wish you remembered me." Miranda says, looking up at him. "You know, you still owe me a kiss."
Peter raises his eyebrows. "What about Mr. Tate?" He asks, nodding to her ring.
"I'm not asking for anything. Just a night." Miranda says. "I can satisfy my curiosity and you can have something to remember me by."
"That is the weirdest proposition I've ever heard." Peter notes.
Miranda smirks. "You get a lot of propositions?"
"I do okay."
"Modesty, I like it." She says wistfully.
"Why are you marrying him?" Peter asks curiously. "You're my age, right?"
Miranda shrugs. "22." She says.
"Not exactly a spinster." Peter points out.
"I know." Miranda says. "But it doesn't matter. I got no family, no pack, nothing."
"So you're settling."
"No, I'm not. He's great, he really is." Miranda says.
Peter chews his cheek, thinking. "But not great enough to keep you from coming with me to the hotel across the street?" He asks.
Miranda perks up. "Is that an offer?"
Peter smirks, slipping out of his seat. "Follow me and find out." He says, dropping some bills on the table and heading for the door. Miranda grins and hurries after him.
They find Malia stuck in her coyote form again. She transformed defensively when she and Allison got attacked and hadn't been able to turn back again. Scott knocks her out of it and Peter feels some of the tension and worry leak out of him. He gives Malia a brief nod when she passes, but otherwise doesn't engage her. She spares him a glance and moves on, unaware and uncaring of the significance of his presence.
"You could tell her." Lydia says quietly, standing by his side.
"You think she'd be better off?" Peter asks, watching Malia embrace Stiles.
"I don't know." Lydia says, thinking. She looks far away and Peter guesses she's remembering Jackson. "I think you don't know until you try."
"Would you want to know, if I was your father?" Peter mutters, arms crossed over his chest and expression taut.
Lydia looks over at him thoughtfully. "No." She admits. "But I'm not her." She says, glancing at Malia.
Peter frowns, watching his daughter curiously.
"Her mom," Lydia starts. "Do you remember her?"
Peter frowns. "We should go to Derek's." He says, avoiding the question and moving toward his car. Lydia sighs, put off by his evasiveness but following after him anyway.
December 11th, 1993
Peter and Miranda lay in bed, watching the sun set reflect off the hotel room ceiling. Miranda's head rests on his chest and Peter's arm loops around her back, his palm rubbing circles into her shoulder blade. She looks up at him, smiling softly.
"This is nice." She says.
Peter's lips twitch. "It's okay." He says.
Miranda snorts. "Don't be a jerk." She admonishes.
Peter grins. "It is. Nice." He admits. It's better than nice. There's something about Miranda that makes things feel so easy, like being with an old friend and a soulmate. It's like finding someone who just getsyou without having to know the details. It's not the same type of love he had for Chris. It's not better or worse though, it's just different. Peter wonders why Talia would take the memory of Miranda away from him.
"What is it?" Miranda asks, noticing his frown.
"That thing you told me at prom, what was it?" He asks, looking down at her.
"I don't know if it matters now." She answers. "The Argents are gone, right?"
"For now." Peter says. He doubts they'll be gone forever, not as long as the Hales are around.
Miranda hums thoughtfully. "You should leave, before they come back." She says.
Peter falters. "I don't think I can." He says uncertainly.
"Why not?" Miranda asks. "It would be so easy. You and I could get in a car now and just drive."
"What about your wedding?"
"Let me worry about that." Miranda says. "Seriously, Peter, think about it. Freedom. Being away from Beacon Hills. Isn't that what you want?"
Peter gives a short nod. "Yeah." He says, contemplating it and feeling like he's thinking properly for the first time in years.
"Then why not have it?" Miranda asks.
"What about you?" Peter inquires.
"I'm not saying I want to leave, but I would, if it was with you."
Peter frowns. "Why?" He asks, trying to understand.
"I honestly have no idea." Miranda admits, laughing.
Peter lets out a small chuckle of his own. "This is ridiculous." He notes.
"It is, but so what?" Miranda says.
"Okay, let's do it." Peter says.
It's exhilarating, pulling their clothes on and rushing out to the parking lot. Miranda hotwires a truck and they hop in, racing toward the way out of town. They're nearing the edge when Peter stiffens, seeing Talia standing in the middle of the road waiting for them. Two betas flank her. They're relatives of Peter's, but sometimes he thinks of them less as family and more like pawns.
"Fuck." Miranda curses. "How the hell did she know?"
Peter swallows thickly, heart racing in his chest. He glances at Miranda then back at Talia. "If they don't let you pass, reverse back into town." He says, unbuckling his seatbelt.
"Peter?" Miranda asks.
"Maybe next time." Peter says, grabbing the door handle.
"No, Peter, we can get around them."
Peter looks at her wistfully. "It was nice." He says.
"Wait!" Miranda asks, grabbing his wrist. He glances out at Talia, whose brows furrow. "If the Argents come back, don't go near them." She warns. "I can't tell you how I know, but they'll destroy you and your pack."
The betas come closer and Peter nods. "Okay." He says. "Piece of advice," He starts, eyeing the approaching wolves, "Punch it and aim for him." He says, pointing at his cousin Ian. Miranda nods, pressing down on the gas, and Peter dives out of the car. The truck barrels forward, slamming into the Ian and sending him back into the trees. Talia growls, torn between Miranda and Peter. Peter rolls out onto the pavement and lands in a crouch. He straightens quickly and the still-standing beta grabs him in a rough grip.
Talia glances at Ian, who's groaning and laying on the ground. His bones are broken and he's got a large gash on his temple that's leaking blood. Miranda's already off in the distance, getting out of the city limits and heading toward the highway.
"Peter." Talia says quietly, walking towards him.
"Sister." Peter says, smirking. It's a habit he's developed lately, to be as flippant as possible with regards to his relations. It's better than moping and it has the upside of driving everyone to extreme states of irritation.
Predictably, Talia's jaw ticks and her eyes narrow. She steps into his space and places a hand against his cheek, cupping his face and staring at him in disappointment. He tries to flinch away and she grabs his chin, holding him in place. "So much darkness." She says sadly.
"It was just a trip out of town." Peter says.
Talia frowns. "And what if the Argents come back while you're gone?" She asks. "You gave us away, Peter. Anything that happens to us now is on your shoulders." She says. "You're a traitor. The minute you leave town, you're a fugitive. You know what other packs do to those like you."
Peter grits his teeth, keeping his glare steady on his sister.
"I'm protecting you, Peter. And your friend." She says, referencing Miranda. Her hand moves to the back of his neck and Peter feels claws prick the skin.
"No!" He protests, trying to move away.
"I'm sorry, brother." Talia says, letting her nails sink in. Peter clenches his jaw and muffles his scream. His eyes squeeze shut as burning pain flashes through his spine and up to his brain, where the organ's compressed as the memory's pulled out.
After a minute, her hand retreats and Peter blinks his eyes open, looking around in confusion.
"Talia?" Peter asks. Hands release him and he looks to his side, spotting one of his cousins. He looks back at his sister then over her shoulder, where Ian's limping toward them and glaring.
"You little sh-"
"Ian!" Talia says, interrupting the wolf.
Peter watches in confusion then hisses, lifting his hand up to his neck, where the flesh stings as it stitches back together. "What's going on?" He asks.
"Just a spot of trouble, but we ran them out of town." Talia explains.
"Why don't I remember?" Peter mutters, frowning.
"You got hit pretty hard." Talia says, tracing his temple. "We'll have Deaton look at you." She places a light hand on his shoulder, steering him back towards town. Peter goes dazedly. He glances back, looking at the road out of town, bewildered. He blinks and sees a brief flash of a truck barreling down the street. He blinks again and it's gone, like a piece of memory he can't quite place. He tries to shake it off and focuses back ahead, something unsettling twisting in his chest. With each step back into town, he feels slightly more like he's suffocating.
Peter sits in Derek's loft, watching Lydia carefully. They're in the living room, seated at the coffee table, and Lydia's studying Talia's claws, picking up each one then setting it back down.
"What do you hear?" Peter asks.
Lydia shuts her eyes and tilts her head. "It's like static. And there's this hum. Voices. So many voices." She mutters.
Peter nods, hope dwindling. He's not sure exactly what memories he's looking for and he's growing less confident that Lydia will be able to find them.
Derek sighs from his spot on the staircase and moves to get up.
"Don't." Lydia warns. Derek's too distracting to have in the room with them and she needs to focus all her energy.
Derek huffs and settles down again.
"Maybe you should leave." Peter notes. His nephew glares.
"No." Derek says, arms crossed defiantly. He doesn't trust his uncle enough to leave him entirely alone.
Peter sneers. "Really, nephew, exactly what do you think I'm going to do?"
Derek glares and opens his mouth to answer. Whatever he's going to say is cut off by Lydia.
"Both of you shut up." She hisses, leaning in closer to the claws and furrowing her brows.
"What are you getting?" Peter asks.
"Won't know until you shut up." She grits out. She concentrates forcefully and the claws vibrate on the tabletop, moving together and pointing upward. Peter watches them in surprise, feeling the raw power emanating off Lydia and flowing down into the nails. "Talia?" Lydia whispers, her hand coming upward. She places her fingertips on top of the claws, each pad connecting to the matching digit, mirroring Talia's hand. It's silent and Lydia reaches her other palm out, grabbing Peter's wrist. The wolf looks down in surprise.
"Lydia?" He says curiously.
Lydia's breath stutters and she twitches. "No." She whispers. "Don't."
Peter frowns. "Lydia?" He asks, trying to pull his hand away. Lydia's grip tightens and her fingernails dig into his wrist. He cringes.
"Don't forget me." Lydia says, breath quickening.
"Peter?" Derek says, rising from the step and watching nervously.
Peter tries to move his hand away but Lydia's grip is strong, supernaturally so. Power pulses around her, her aura tinging green, and Peter's eyes widen.
"Let me- let me go, Talia. Talia, let me go. Let me-" Lydia freezes, everything going eerily still for a moment, and then she throws her head back. Her eyes blow wide, glowing green, and she screams. The windows rattle and the light fixtures shake.
Peter cries out, dropping from his seat and clutching at his head as flashes of memory transfer from Lydia to him.
September 20th, 1994
Peter stands in the hospital, staring at the room and trying to convince himself to go in. He hears a baby crying from the other side and gulps. His hand rises hesitantly, feeling the cool metal handle under his palm, and he pushes it down, stepping inside the room.
There's a woman in there, looking sweaty and exhausted. Her matted brown hair is pulled back in a ponytail and her face is ruddy from exertion. Her head lolls back on the pillows as she rocks a small bundle.
"Peter." She says softly, looking at him.
"I got your letter." Peter says, holding the folded parchment up. It was tucked in his windowsill, snuck there during the night by a friend of Miranda's. Peter studies the woman's face, trying to summon her memory but not able to.
"Good." Miranda says. "Peter, this is your daughter."
Peter's breath gusts out of him. He steps closer, staring down at the little baby. "How?" He mutters.
"You read the letter." Miranda says.
"Prom, one-night stand." Peter nods. "We tried to run away together?" He asks, recalling the detail.
"Yeah, we did." Miranda says.
"You got away." Peter says. "Why'd you come back?"
"I found out I was pregnant." Miranda says. She looks down at the baby and smiles. "William thinks she's his."
"Boyfriend?" Peter asks.
"Husband." Miranda says, showing him the wedding band on her finger.
"Oh." Peter says. "Congratulations."
"Thanks." Miranda says, smiling up at him. "We're good. Happy."
"That's great." Peter tells her, looking down at his daughter.
"I thought you should meet her, at least once." Miranda says. The baby's still crying and Peter struggles not to reach out toward her.
"Can I hold her?" He asks.
"Of course." Miranda says, handing him the child. Peter wraps his arms around the baby, leaning her head against the crook of his elbow and rocking her. The crying stops and he smiles. "She likes you." Miranda says happily. "Must take after her mother."
Peter looks up at the woman. "What's her name?" He asks.
"Malia." Miranda says. "After my mom."
"It's a good name." Peter says, looking down at his baby. Her fingers twitch out and he shifts, letting her curl tiny digits around his thumb. "Malia." He says, testing out the taste of it. He feels the letters on his tongue and the echo on his teeth. His lips form the unfamiliar shapes, assigning them to the tiny child in his arms. "I like it." He decides. "Malia." He repeats, grinning as the child coos. Tears prick at his eyelids and he looks up at Miranda and lets out a small, joyful breath of laughter. "I have a daughter." He says, struck by the realization.
"Yeah, you do." Miranda says. She reaches out, gently gripping his wrist. "I'm happy you're here."
"Me too." Peter says. He stares down at his baby. He sniffs her, smelling the fresh scent of his child. She's a mixture of him and Miranda, with a touch of canine in the mix. "She's not a wolf." He notes.
"Coyote." Miranda says. "I was right about the genetics."
Peter looks at her in confusion and she waves it off.
"Another thing you don't remember." She says.
Peter nods, taking in his little baby. "Hey, Malia." He whispers. "It's your dad."
Miranda gives him a sad smile.
"What?" Peter asks, frowning at the pain in her face.
"You're not gonna remember this." Miranda says, voice tinging with resigned distress.
"I will." Peter says.
"No, you won't." Miranda says, clutching his arm firmly. "But it's okay." She assures him. "It's not your fault."
Peter swallows around a ball of terror in his throat. "I don't want to forget." He says. Malia starts crying and he stiffens, the hairs on his neck standing on end.
"It's too late." Miranda says.
Peter turns, watching shadows pass by the window outside. "No." He says, tightening his grip on Malia.
"It's okay, Peter." Miranda says.
"No, it's not. She can't take this from me." Peter shouts. There's a pause outside the door and then it opens. "Talia, don't." He says.
Talia glances down at the baby and looks up at him regretfully. "I'm sorry, Peter." She says, stepping into the room. Her betas follow after her, four of them this time.
Peter gapes in horror. "Don't do this, Talia. Just, let me have this. Please, let me have this."
Peter screams, convulsing as his mind twists with a memory. It's winter of 93 and he's with Miranda. He remembers the bar and the hotel room. He remembers trying to run away. He remembers Talia stopping him. He tries to pull away from Lydia as he fills with pain and sorrow, each emotion clawing at his chest and making him wish it would stop. He's changed his mind. He doesn't want to remember anymore.
The scene changes, 1994. A hospital. Malia's birth. Peter grips at his temple, wailing in pain.
Derek clutches at his ears, vision going blurry from the vibration of Lydia's roar. He tries to work closer to them as the lights shatter and the walls crack.
September 20th, 1994
"You can't keep her." Talia says as the betas advance, flanking Peter. The wolf's trapped. He can't do anything, less out of fear of drawing attention and more out of fear of hurting his daughter. "Peter, let go of the child." Talia says, equally reluctant to hurt Malia.
"No." Peter says. As long as he holds her, Talia can't steal her from him.
"Leave us." Talia orders her betas. They file out of the room and Peter watches his sister warily. She takes slow steps around the bed, studying Miranda. "You're very stubborn." She notes, tone neutral but eyes simmering with anger.
"He deserves to know." Miranda says.
"Does he?" Talia asks. She comes up beside Miranda, whose eyes flash warningly. She's too weak to properly fight, but that doesn't mean she won't try. "I always thought Peter was the problem. Him and that hunter. But it's you. You just won't leave him alone."
"He's never alone, is he?" Miranda points out, glowering.
"No, he isn't." Talia says softly. "He has a pack, a family."
"He's a hostage."
"He's loved." Talia counters. "And he's safe." She says. "You're not going to take that away from him." Her hand comes up, stroking along Miranda's neck, and the coyote stiffens, lashing out.
Peter watches with wide eyes. "Don't, Talia." He says.
"I have to or she'll never leave us alone." Talia replies, slipping her claws into Miranda's spine, despite the woman's struggles. Miranda cries out, back bowing and eyes squeezing shut.
"Talia, stop!" Peter says, panicking. "No, Miranda, no. Talia, stop! Please stop." Peter urges, coming up beside her and trying to shove Talia away.
Two betas come in, grabbing Peter and stilling him. Malia cries in his arms and Peter watches in horror. There are too many memories, too many moments for Talia to find and erase, and they're all years apart. Talia's eyes are shut as she seeks them out, tugging them away from Miranda.
"No." Peter whispers. "Please, Miranda, remember me." He urges. "Please, remember me." Tears drip down his cheeks and his heart snaps in his chest. "Remember me." He whispers, like a mantra over and over again.
Talia pulls away after ten minutes, gasping and tilting from the strain.
"Talia?" A beta asks, concerned.
"I'm fine." She says. "Get the baby."
Malia's taken from Peter and he feels the loss tear at his insides. Miranda opens her eyes, panting and looking around. Peter's breath stills and he watches, hoping and praying that it didn't work.
"Malia?" Miranda says, staring at her baby in the foreign beta's arms. "What are you doing?"
"We were passing through." Talia says. "We heard there was a new were in town and wanted to offer our congratulations.
Miranda looks at Talia suspiciously. She glances at the other wolves and her eyes linger on Peter, curious at the distress on his features. "Are you alright?" She asks.
"You'll have to forgive my brother." Talia says gently. "He recently lost his child." She says, gesturing for the beta to hand Malia back.
"Oh, I'm sorry." Miranda says, taking her baby and looking at Peter as though he's a total stranger.
"Thank you for indulging us." Talia says. "She really is a lovely baby." She says, admiring Malia.
Miranda smiles uncertainly. "You're welcome." She says, dazed and bewildered.
"Goodbye." Talia says, turning away and exiting the room. Miranda stares after her distrustfully.
Peter's steered away by the betas, too shocked to even move properly as he feels everything crumbling down around him.
September 23rd, 1994
"Come in." Talia's voice rings out crisp and clear from the room. Peter steps inside her study, staring at where she's seated in the large oak chair behind the desk. It's plenty warm, even at this time of night, but there's still a fire going in the hearth, lighting her features dramatically. "Peter." She greets. "How are you?"
Peter doesn't bother answering the question. He's broken out of his shock and now it's just pain. He feels hollow and pointless.
"Peter." Talia says softly, rising from her seat and approaching him. He flinches away and she stills, watching him sadly. "I wish it didn't have to be like this between us."
Peter's jaw ticks and he clenches his hands into fists. "Maybe it doesn't." He mutters. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out the letter from Miranda. He sniffs, staring down at the well-worn creases. He steps over to the fireplace, hesitating for just a second before he puts the paper in. He watches the edges turn black and curl as the flames consume them. He looks back, meeting his sister's eye. "Can you take it away?" He asks quietly. Talia tilts her head curiously and he swallows against the lump in his throat. "I want to forget." He confesses.
Talia smiles softly, looking almost proud. "Of course, Peter." She says.
He lets out a strained breath and comes closer to her. "Thank you." He whispers, because it's fucked up but he's so grateful to her at the moment.
"You're welcome." Talia says, cupping his cheek in a gentle gesture before sliding her hand around.
Peter clenches his jaw, blinking away tears.
Ma-li-a
He says it in his head, sounds out each syllable while he thinks of the little baby he held so close in his arms. The large break in his heart spans out into spider-web cracks, fracturing the two halves into smaller pieces. They shrink and crumble into dust, leaving him empty and full of hate.
Talia embeds her claws in his spine and he doesn't even flinch, doesn't even close his eyes. His knees go weak beneath him and he kneels on the carpet in front of her, staring out unseeingly as Malia's taken from him. Tears fall from the edges of his eyelids, leaving tracks down his cheeks. He doesn't sob or sniff. There's no energy in the crying, just hollow sorrow that fades along with Malia's memory. Rage builds in its place.
Talia's hand leaves him and Peter stares ahead, taking in the walls of her study and frowning. He never comes in here.
"Peter?" Talia asks.
Peter looks up at her and something dark twists in the back of his chest. He feels hatred burn acrid in his abdomen and he's not sure why. "Talia." He says, rising from the carpet and looking around the room. He wipes at his cheeks, wondering why they're wet.
"Are you alright?" Talia asks, looking genuinely unsettled by something in Peter's demeanor. He's not sure what.
"Perfect." Peter says dismissively. There's no reason he wouldn't be. Talia nods, watching him retreat with furrowed eyebrows.
Peter steps out into the hall.
"Uncle Peter." Laura says, coming toward him. "What are you doing up here?" She asks.
Peter looks at her, staring into the glimmering eyes of his niece. He feels…annoyed. Which isn't unusual, but it's a cold, distant annoyance, completely barren of familial affection.
She'll be alpha one day, he thinks idly. If he lives long enough, she'll be his alpha. Peter's fingers itch.
"I came to read you a bedtime story." He says.
Laura blinks. "I'm a little old." She says.
"Only eleven." Peter says. "Come on, I'll read it to you and Derek." He insists, gesturing her down the hallway.
"Okay." She says, a little confused. "Which one?" She asks.
"How about Little Red Ridinghood?" He suggests.
"Oh, I like that one."
"Me too, Laura." Peter mutters. "Me too."
Derek manages to grab Lydia and she flinches back, releasing Peter and losing contact with the claws. She takes in ragged inhales, staring around with wide eyes. Her hand flies up, covering her trembling lips and muffling frail sobs. Peter drops back against the armchair and sits frozen. His eyes move back and forth wildly as images dance in front of him. The stolen memories slot themselves back into place, making him dizzy. It's not all of them. He knows there are more hidden in his sister's claws, but he's seen enough. He at least knows how Malia came about and why Talia stole the recollection from him, though he wishes now that he didn't.
Lydia shudders and scrambles away from the couch, looking at the claws in horror. "So much pain." She gasps, gripping at her chest. "I can't…" She mutters, shaking her head.
"Lydia?" Derek asks, watching her in concern.
"I could feel everything." Lydia chokes out, fingers clenching over her heart.
"I'll take you home." Derek offers and Lydia nods faintly, grabbing her bag and fleeing for the exit. "What the hell did you see?" Derek asks, looking down at his uncle like it's Peter's fault.
"Enough." The older wolf says quietly. "You should go after her."
Derek's jaw clenches. "I'm hiding these." He says, scooping up his mother's claws and dropping them back into the container.
Peter nods, feeling no need to protest.
Derek studies his uncle, waiting for retorts or barbs or any of his normal behavior, but the wolf just sits there, stunned.
"This is the last time." Derek says sternly. "Don't ask Lydia to do this again."
"Don't worry, nephew." Peter murmurs, looking faint and far away. "I don't plan on it." He says, pushing himself up from the floor.
Derek frowns, studying is uncle. "Are you okay?" He asks.
"Perfect." Peter says, shuffling through broken glass and passing tipped over furniture as he walks towards the exit.
"You forgot your jacket." Derek points out. Peter ignores him.
Miranda Tate
(1972-2002)
Loving wife and mother
Peter locates the gravestone quickly. He stares at it, mind turning over spent possibilities and soiled opportunities. He feels the breeze caress the side of his face, kicking up the smell of Chris on the borrowed clothes Peter's wearing. The small comfort is far-outweighed by the regret.
Peter looks at the fresh tulips on the grave. They must be from Mr. Tate. He has good taste, Peter thinks, looking at the yellow bulbs. There's another bouquet on the grave next to Miranda's, for her other daughter. Peter stares at them, taking in the way they're lovingly placed on the memorial.
Footsteps draw Peter's attention. He waits till the person's next to him before looking up and meeting Chris' eye.
"Victoria's just over there." Chris explains quietly, gesturing to the rows on the other side, near the trees.
Peter nods sedately and looks back down at Miranda's grave.
"Allison in the hospital kind of brings it all back, you know?" Chris says.
"I can imagine." Peter replies, glancing at the hunter. He moves his hand hesitantly and pats Chris awkwardly on the shoulder.
"What about you?" Chris asks. "What are you doing here?"
Peter gestures at the gray stone. "Malia's mother." He says, letting his hand drop back at his side.
"Miranda?" Chris mutters, face scrunching in thought. "That wouldn't be the Miranda from prom, would it?"
Peter looks at Chris in surprise. "You remember?" He asks. The prom memory isn't one of the ones Peter managed to get back.
Chris tilts his head in confusion. "You don't?" He asks.
Peter could roll his eyes at himself, realizing that of course Chris would remember. "No." He answers, eyes tracing the letters of Miranda's name. He can feel the weight of Chris' stare burning against the side of his face. "Talia took some stuff." He says, tapping his temple.
Chris frowns. "Why?"
Peter sighs. "She was a," He grasps for an adjective, "complicated leader." He concludes.
"Is that good or bad?" Chris asks.
"Depends on whose side you're on." Peter says.
"And if I'm on yours?" Chris asks.
Peter looks up at him, staring into the hunter's eyes and feeling the world slow. "She took my child from me." He whispers.
Chris' hand wraps around his, holding it in a gentle grip. Peter squeezes his fingers and looks down at the graves.
"Malia's dad," Peter mutters, trailing off and clenching his jaw.
"Does he know?" Chris asks quietly.
"No." Peter says. "Miranda told him Malia was his."
Chris nods.
Peter sighs, glancing at the grave beside Miranda's. "He already lost a daughter."
"So did you." Chris points out.
"I asked Talia to take the memory away." Peter confesses guiltily.
"What?" Chris asks.
Peter pulls away from him and turns, staring out at the view of Beacon Hills from the cemetery. "She took Miranda's memories of me and I…I couldn't live with them out there, not knowing who I was."
"That's not a bad thing, Peter." Chris says, staring at him seriously.
Peter sighs, reaching up and wiping a hand over his face. He clears his throat, shoving his palms in his jeans and watching the clouds move up ahead. "I hated Laura." He says quietly.
Chris frowns, watching him.
"I hated all of them, but Laura…she had so much power. She was Talia's little girl, the next alpha." Peter says. "She got everything. And I loathed her. She was just a child but I hated her voice and her scent and the way she looked." He lets out a breath and steadies himself. "And I could never figure out why."
The hunter studies Peter carefully, taking in the frown lines around his mouth and the haunted look in his eyes.
"I was relieved when the fire happened." Peter says. He's never let himself acknowledge that, plagued as he is by burning flesh and ash and screams, some part of him, some part that was so filled with hate, was glad for it. "Then I survived and Laura put me in a hospital and left me rotting for six years, like I was nothing. Do you know how many years of my life I wasted catering to that little brat? And then when I needed help, she just tossed me away, like I didn't even matter. I wasn't any use to her anymore. I knew then that I was going to kill her."
Chris falters, not sure how to react to that.
"I'd thought about it before, but I never had the nerve." Peter confesses. "But that was it. She was the alpha and she trapped me in Beacon Hills, just like her mother." He looks over at Chris, taking in the guarded expression on the hunter's face. "I'm not a good man, Chris. I thought I could be, but I'm not."
Chris steps closer, placing a hand on Peter's shoulder and staring earnestly into blue eyes. "Stop that." He says. "You're gonna go back to New York and you're gonna keep taking those ridiculous selfies of you having breakfast in your douche-y scarves and thousand dollar jeans and things are gonna be fine."
Peter stares back at the hunter. "You think my scarves are douche-y?" He asks.
"Stiles' word, not mine." Chris says.
"But you agree?"
"Yes." Chris says. "But it's just another thing I love about you."
Peter's breath catches and Chris falters at the slip. The hunter shakes his head.
"I'm not gonna ask for anything, Peter." He says.
"Good." Peter replies. "Because I don't have a lot to offer right now."
"I'd settle for a phone call." Chris says.
Peter's eyes crease with the hint of a smile, even when his lips can't summon one. "I can do that." He says.
"Good." Chris replies, giving a small stroke to Peter's hair. "And Spring Break's not too far away, Allison and I will see you then."
"You're talking like I'm leaving now." Peter notes.
"That's because I know you." Chris says.
Peter's lips manage a twitch. "That you do."
"You can keep the clothes." Chris offers, nodding to the jeans and t-shirt Peter's wearing.
Peter relaxes. "I left my suit at your apartment."
"You want to come back and get it?"
He shakes his head. He and Chris are pretty much the same size, funnily enough, so he's fine leaving it with the hunter. "Keep it." He says. "You can wear it to Allison's graduation. And I want pictures."
Chris nods. "Allison wouldn't mind seeing you there."
Peter hesitates then frowns regretfully. "I think this is the last of Beacon Hills for me." Unless someone has another emergency but Peter doesn't add that, preferring to wait and see how he feels when it happens.
"What about Malia?" Chris asks.
"She's better off where she is." Peter says. Chris nods and Peter looks at him, studying his features and letting them burn into his memory. "I'll see you." He says, figuring he'll leave the goodbye there.
"Yeah, you will." Chris promises. Peter moves to head over to his car and Chris stops him with a hand on his shoulder. "And Peter," He says, "I think you're a better man than you realize."
"You're wrong." Peter says, looking at Chris with a gentle expression. "But it's just another thing I…" He hesitates. "Like about you." He says, backing out of quoting Chris directly.
"I'll take it." Chris says, grinning.
"Good, because it's all you're getting." Peter says.
Chris pats his shoulder before letting his hand fall back down at his side. "Goodbye, Peter."
"Bye, Chris." Peter says, turning away and walking to the parking lot.
Chris turns out to be right. Once Peter gets back to New York, he feels himself breathing easier. It's still a rough transition for the first few days and Peter's assistant doesn't miss the tension and unease surrounding the wolf, but Peter settles after a while. Mostly by drowning himself in his work.
He stays at the office late and gets in early, he goes to parties and schmoozes, he gets out and around and takes selfies of him in "douche-y scarves" and, when all of that's done, he goes back to his empty apartment. It's not really anything to report home about, so when he calls Chris, there isn't much to tell him. They make conversation somehow anyway. After he finds out how everyone's doing, he and Chris share idle chit chat, avoiding tricky subjects like how they feel and what's going to happen between them. It's tense, but better than not talking at all.
For a temporary routine, it works great. Peter gets by, slowly sorting through jumbled thoughts and re-awakened hurts. That burning hatred that once gripped him isn't entirely gone, but it's settled mostly, unable to find a place in his new life in New York. The hollows and scars are there, aching noticeably in the still moments, but they're manageable for the most part.
Peter lets himself get suspended for a while in the fog of New York and work and conflicting emotions. He stares out at the city, letting himself experience quiet contemplation. He grieves the little baby he lost and considers the young woman that took her place. He tries to figure out whether he'd have been a good father or not and he's never quite sure. He supposes, in the end, it doesn't really matter.
Peter buries himself in solitude and shields himself in work, drawing his emotions closer and closer to himself. He hears from Chris that Lydia's a bit of a mess. She saw more than Peter, got more of his memories than she ended up sharing, but he doesn't ask about them. He doesn't really want to know anymore.
It's a relief when Chris and Allison come up. Allison's doing better. She's still healing, but she's able to move around and she seems nearly as chipper as usual when she greets him at the airport. Chris is comforting and nerve-wracking in turns, but always gorgeous. Peter puts Allison in the spare room and lets Chris take his. Peter sleeps on the couch.
He makes breakfast in the morning, staring down at the pan and fighting against memories of the months he spent with Fake Chris. It's getting easier to ignore that year, but only marginally. It's only been about six months since the incident, and while the fresh memories of Miranda and Malia eclipsed it for a while, Peter now finds the Fake Chris pain and the Miranda pain intermingling. Peter sighs, grabbing the spatula and concentrating on the task at hand.
"Smells good." Allison says, shuffling over. Peter smiles politely at her and tries to pretend he wasn't wallowing. Allison's sharp eyes catch the frown lines. She looks away, out at the living room. "Your apartment's nice." She says, going over to the window and staring out at New York.
"I enjoy it." Peter says.
"I bet." Allison mutters, taking in the city. "Must be expensive." She says before flushing and looking back at Peter. "Sorry, that wasn't tactful."
Peter grins in amusement and shakes his head. "It's okay. It is expensive." He says, scooping some breakfast on a plate for her.
"You must be pretty good at your job." Allison says, coming over and collecting the offered dish of food.
"I do okay." Peter says quietly.
Allison chews her eggs and stares around the place.
"Did you sleep well?" He asks.
Allison nods. "The bed's really comfortable."
"Good." Peter says, watching her softly. She catches his wistful expression and shifts uncomfortably.
"What?" She asks.
Peter stiffens and looks away. "Nothing." He says quickly. He's saved from further inquiries when Chris comes out of the bedroom. Peter's gaze lingers on the sleep mussed hair and the wrinkled sweats. He catches his scent on the hunter and feels a deep rumble form in his chest. He buries it, getting a plate ready for Chris and trying not to let his emotions show.
Peter winds up taking a few days off work to show Chris and Allison around New York and look at colleges. He catches Chris' eyes on him with growing frequency and it's difficult to ignore the tension that crackles in the air between them. Peter feels raw, stripped open by it, and it's jarring after the static of the last few weeks.
Things come to a head the night before Allison and Chris are supposed to leave. Peter's in his study, looking through stocks. It's almost midnight and he's in his pajamas. He's supposed to be sleeping, but he couldn't manage it. He's having one of those nights where he can't quite settle. It happens more frequently than he'd like to admit.
There's a short knock then the door cracks open, revealing Chris' curious face. "Hey." The hunter says quietly.
"Hey." Peter says, glancing at the clock. "Did I wake you?"
"No." Chris says. "Couldn't really sleep."
Peter nods sympathetically. "Me neither." He admits.
"Work?" Chris asks, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him.
"Yeah."
Chris comes over, leaning back against the desk and studying him curiously. "How are you?" He asks.
Peter glances at him and sighs. "I'm fine." He says.
Chris narrows his eyes. "Peter." He says.
Peter leans back in his chair tiredly. "I'm managing."
Chris nods. He looks down then over at Peter. Chris' composure falters slightly and he scratches uneasily at his chin. "So, uh, are you dating?" He asks awkwardly.
Peter snorts. "If I was, I wouldn't tell you."
"You could." Chris says.
"There's nothing to tell." Peter says. "Why? Are you dating?"
"No." Chris answers. "I thought about it, but…" The hunter shrugs. "There's not a big market for forty-year-old, single dads anyway."
Peter takes in the stress lines in Chris face and the strain in his posture. He chews his cheek, debating for just a moment before getting out of his chair and grabbing Chris' wrist. "Come on." He says gently, leading the hunter away from the desk. Chris follows curiously.
"Where are we going?" He asks, when Peter turns out the study light and opens the door.
"We," He says, pulling Chris out into the hallway, "are going to bed."
Chris' breath catches. The hunter doesn't protest or falter and Peter keeps going, guiding them into the bedroom. The entrance clicks shut and Peter pulls Chris into a kiss, heart hammering at the gloriously familiar feeling of the man's lips on his. He walks Chris back towards the bed and pushes the hunter down onto it, moving to straddle him.
Peter's shirt comes off quickly and Chris presses burning touches into the wolf's skin. The hunter leaves searing kisses on his neck and slides his palms down, gripping at his ass. Peter gasps, holding back a moan as he pulls on Chris' shirt, tugging the hem up until Chris is forced to remove his arms and lean back to get the garment off. When the shirt's over his head, the hunter dives forward, sucking a mark into Peter's collarbone and slipping his hands down the back of his pants. Peter's eyes flutter shut and he slides a hand up, threading his fingers into Chris' hair and encouraging the man's questing lips. Chris grips at his ass, making him arch down against Chris' groin. The thin material of their pajama bottoms means Peter can feel him in rich detail. Desire and hunger coils around him, working against the empty sorrow and making him feel properly alive for the first time in a month.
The last time they had sex had been good. It had been great, even, but this is different. They're at Peter's apartment in Peter's bed, far away from Beacon Hills and tainted memories. There's no anguished emotion hanging over their heads, driving them into each other's arms. It's just want, fresh and new and clean.
They strip down and Peter grabs the lube from the nightstand. He pauses for just a second, studying Chris' face. He takes in the longing written there, mixed with that other, more frightening emotion that Peter's too much of a coward to name. Peter kisses him, soft and yearning as he presses the lube into Chris' palm. The hunter wraps an arm around Peter's waist and rolls them over, pressing him gently back against the pillows and comforter. He makes love to Peter's lips as he opens the lube, slicking calloused fingers. He prods at Peter's entrance and the wolf opens his legs for him, letting the rest of himself follow in the process.
Their mouths come apart and Peter looks up at Chris, dropping his façade and his composure and just letting himself be. He feels all of who he is in that moment - a raw wound, a broken predator, a man so corrupted by greed and selfishness that he's not sure he understands generosity anymore. At some point, Peter stopped living and started festering, breaking down into the rotten core that lays beneath Chris. The hunter sorts through the debris, touching every putrid part of him like it's something precious. Chris opens him, tracing against fragile nerves and finding the areas that remind Peter that he's still living.
Peter gasps quietly, staring up at the ceiling with wide eyes as Chris' mouth presses hungrily against his skin and Chris' fingers reach eagerly into him. He feels desire in each of Chris' movements. He smells want wafting off the other man like a perfume. He hears a loving embrace in the way Chris says his name, working over each letter like they're just as beautiful as the whole of it. Peter's so distracted he almost misses the question.
"You ready?"
Peter blinks and realizes his eyes are wet. He looks down, meeting Chris' gaze and arching up against the hunter. "Come on." He urges, voice choked.
Chris leans up, stroking Peter's cheek gently. "You okay?" He whispers.
"I'll be better when you're inside me." Peter says, because even if he wanted to, he couldn't articulate everything he's feeling at the moment. Chris nods, pressing a quick peck to his lips while he slicks himself up. Peter stills as Chris moves forward. The hunter pushes in, working past the tight ring of muscles to get himself inside of Peter. The wolf's eyes flutter shut and he holds back a moan. It burns, it always does after this long, but that's soothing in its own way. Peter's not sure he could handle pleasure all on its own anymore.
Chris rocks in gentle movements and Peter wraps himself around the hunter, clinging to him like a lifeline as he's taken somewhere transcendent and beautiful. He's passive in the journey, letting Chris move him and maneuver him. Chris seems to detect that he needs this, whispering words into his ear, telling him how beautiful he is and how perfect he feels. Peter would usually scoff, but he just holds tighter, pressing gasps into Chris' neck and quivering.
They're careful to be quiet the whole time, releasing strained, muffled noises into each other's skin and turning moans into gasps. Chris' hand finds Peter's, lacing their fingers together and holding it down into the sheets. Peter grips tightly, throwing his head back and letting wet drops fall at the corners of his eyelids as he's driven closer to the edge. Chris holds him tightly, surrounding himself with warmth and the hunter's heady scent. Peter comes from Chris' movements alone, releasing his pleasure between them. Chris whispers his name, talks to him gently as he follows after, filling the wolf up.
They hold each other afterwards, stroking hands softly over flushed flesh. Peter tucks his face into Chris' neck and tries not to let his vulnerability scare him. Chris is going to be leaving in the morning, Peter reminds himself. He doesn't have the time to not appreciate this, because it will be gone long before he's ready for it. It always is.
4 months go by.
Most of it is spent on contemplation and quiet phone calls and static living. Then something changes. Somewhere along the way, and Peter doesn't know when or why, he starts to feel…better. Not good, necessarily, but better. He stumbles into a friendship with one of his contacts around town and then he's doing normal, human things like meeting people at restaurants or "hanging out." It's ridiculous and he's sure everyone back in Beacon Hills would laugh and gape at the sight, but Peter's actually out there, experiencing things he never allowed himself to before. He still prefers to keep to himself.
Peter's favorite place is a bookshop down some back alley a few blocks away from his apartment complex. It's quaint and homely, with overstuffed armchairs and, for some inexplicable reason, a cat named Tuppence. Peter skirts passed the occult section for weeks before sticking his head in. He discovers a surprising number of useful books and starts a small collection back at his place. He doesn't think it will be good for practical application, but then he accidentally helps Chris solve a case and figures it's more useful than he thought.
Work becomes less of a thing to distract him and more something he enjoys. He stops ignoring his coworkers and actually attends one of his assistant's poetry nights. He meets an interesting fellow when he goes into the backyard to escape Mark's 10 minute poetry slam about Mindy from accounting. Peter goes home with the guy and doesn't even have a breakdown the next morning.
Another month passes and Peter goes on a couple dates and has a few flings. He thinks he ought to feel guilty, like he's cheating on Chris, but he doesn't. It's cathartic to just be casual for a while.
It's a total of five months before Peter sees Chris again. It's late September. Allison's off taking a gap year with Isaac. Everyone else is spread out at different colleges, except for Malia who needs another year in high school. That turns out to be for the best, since Mr. Tate's health has taken a turn. Ever the planner, Peter's been talking with a discreet lawyer about ways to get Malia's trust fund to her without inserting himself into the picture. He thinks it will involve a lot of morally ambiguous and legally punishable behavior, but he's not too terribly worried.
Chris comes up to New York. Peter's not too sure what the hunter's plans are and he doesn't ask. Chris stays in a hotel rather than Peter's apartment and the wolf's not sure why. He figures Chris is just trying to keep his distance and somewhere in Peter's mind he thinks Chris must be trying to tell him that this thing between them is done. The suspicion should be crushing him, but Peter thinks it's better than lingering and waiting. He'd rather have this be over than for him to get strung along.
Chris asks Peter to meet him one morning in the park. Peter mentally rehearses the breakup in his head. He goes through different emotions and different lines as he throws on his clothes and shoes. He lets out a steady breath as he pulls on his scarf and tucks his keys into his pocket.
"It'll be okay." He whispers as he opens the door. He realizes it's a good line and figures he'll use that. Chris will make his big speech, they'll officially close the lid on this thing between them, and Peter will tell him it's okay. It'll hurt for a little while, but then he'll fine.
Peter heads down to the park. He sees Chris in the distance, sitting on a bench and frowning. He looks nervous and Peter can see the thoughts burning behind furrowed brows and narrowed eyes. The wolf backtracks, retreating to the coffee vender and stalling by buying two lattes. He heads back, coming up behind Chris and trying to look casual.
"Morning." He says, holding out a coffee cup. Chris looks up in surprise, eyeing the drink curiously before taking it.
"Morning." Chris says, offering him a smile.
"You wanted to talk." Peter says, figuring he'll get this rolling.
"Yeah, I did." Chris says, looking down.
Peter sits down on the bench, watching the trees and letting the hunter collect his thoughts.
"I've been thinking about us." Chris starts. "I was thinking now that Allison's out of school, now that we've had some time, maybe we could start over, do this thing for real." The hunter looks over at him.
"But?" Peter prompts.
"But you keep looking at me like that." Chris says. "I'd be fine, starting from the beginning with you. But if you don't trust me, if you don't trust that this thing's going to end well, it's not gonna work."
Peter nods. He doesn't waste time lying to Chris, because the truth is he doesn't trust that this thing won't go south. "So what now?" He asks.
"So what if we didn't start from the beginning?" Chris says.
Peter looks at him in surprise. "What do you mean?" He asks.
Chris studies him and Peter hides a nervous fidget by fiddling with his coffee cup. "Let's get married." Chris says.
Peter freezes with his drink halfway to his lips. He frowns at Chris, staring uncomprehendingly. "What?" He asks after a moment.
"I mean it, Peter." Chris says seriously. "Let's get married."
"Married…" Peter echoes. He looks away from Chris and runs a hand over his forehead. He stares out at New York, at the trees, trying to wrap his head around this. He turns back to the hunter with narrowed eyes. "So what's it gonna be this time?" He asks. "I'm halfway down the aisle and you change your mind? Or maybe you're possessed? Or this is some sort of trap?"
"Peter." Chris says, protesting. "I'm serious."
"So am I." Peter says. "How many times are we gonna try this before you realize it doesn't work?" He says. Bizarrely, he's more upset now than when he thought they were breaking up. Not because he doesn't want to marry Chris, but because it feels like another moment of false hope.
"That's why we shouldn't wait." Chris says.
Peter's brows furrow. He takes a sniff, wondering if Chris is dying or something, but he smells normal. "What do you mean 'shouldn't wait'?" He asks.
"Let's get married today." Chris says. "Right now."
Peter studies the hunter, taking in the earnest, determined expression. "You're serious." He says more than asks.
"Waiting doesn't work with us, Peter." Chris says. "And I'm tired of not being with you."
Peter swipes a hand over his face. "I don't want to leave New York." He says.
"I'm not asking you to." Chris says.
"Long distance marriage? That's your solution?" Peter says incredulously.
"No, jackass." Chris snaps. "I'd move here."
Peter's heart skips. "You'd do that?"
Chris nods.
"Why?"
"Because I love you, idiot." Chris says softly.
Peter snorts. "What about Allison?" He asks.
"She's 19. She doesn't need me around all the time, and if she does, she can come here." Chris says.
Peter eyes him warily. The problem is, he just doesn't trust him, not after everything.
"God, Peter, please stop looking at me like that." Chris says, reaching forward and tracing his finger's over Peter's brow, trying to smooth out the creases. He wants to get the distrustful look off Peter's face. "I know I fucked up before, and I know the shifter…" Chris sighs, dropping his hand onto the bench. "I'm not him. This is me, Peter, and I'm not backing out and I'm not gonna regret this. I want you. I always have."
Peter watches him uncertainly. "I'm not dressed to get married." He points out quietly. He's casual today, wearing his pea coat and scarf over jeans and a t-shirt. He's got beautiful suits back at his apartment, but he has no plans of going back and changing into one. If they do this, there are going to be no pauses and no detours, because then he'll have time to talk himself out of it.
"You look perfect." Chris says, tugging on the soft blue material around Peter's neck. Chris leans in close, stroking his thumb over Peter's jaw and leaning his forehead against the wolf's. Peter's eyes slip shut and he takes a steadying breath.
"Okay." He says. He blinks, looking into blue irises and making out the flecks of gold inside. "Okay." He repeats.
"Yeah?" Chris asks.
"Yeah."
Chris grins. He grabs Peter's hand and pulls him up, tugging the wolf along. "City hall's this way."
"You're prepared." Peter mutters suspiciously.
"Not really. I don't have rings." Chris notes.
Peter shrugs. "I was never a big fan of jewelry anyway."
Chris narrows his eyes and glances at him. "I'm getting you a ring." He says. "And I expect you to wear it."
Peter smirks. "Bossy. I like it."
Chris smiles and focusses back on marching them eagerly toward City Hall.
Peter and Chris' wedding is informal, ridiculous, and absolutely perfect. Their witnesses are an elderly couple they befriend in the lobby and the only wedding photo they wind up with is the one Chris takes on his cell. Peter and Chris are facing each other, the wolf's palms resting on Chris' chest and the hunter's arm thrown around his back. Chris is smiling broadly at the phone while Peter's hiding his face in Chris' neck. The wolf's grin is still visible.
Chris posts the photo to Facebook before they head to the nearest jewelry store, buying simple gold bands that they place on each other's fingers. It's not a dream wedding, but it's the one Peter's always wanted. He just wishes he could stop wondering when it's all going to go wrong.
18 months. It's 18 months before Peter can stop worrying that everything's going to blow up in his face. Chris is patient with him. The hunter realizes there's nothing he can really do to change Peter's mind, so they just live their lives and he starts to relax and realize that things are going to be as okay as they can be. His apartment becomes their apartment and slowly fills up with Chris' things. The guestroom becomes Allison's room and the empty room in the back that Peter never had a use for becomes a weapons storage unit. At work, Peter introduces Chris as his husband and puts pictures of the guy on his desk. Their lives harmonize and it's pretty good.
It's a Tuesday when Peter wakes up and realizes everything's okay. The sun's shining through the windows and he stares at his husband, watching sun reflect off flaxen hair. He lets his fingers trail slowly over Chris' warm skin, marveling at the weight of the wedding ring moving between his finger and Chris' torso. He takes in the gentle rise and fall of Chris' chest and feels the steady beat of the hunter's heart against his palm. He's woken up to this sight hundreds of times now, but it's still not old. He's not sure it ever will be, given the long, hard road it took to get here. Usually the memory of it fills Peter with fear, making him wonder when the pattern's doomed to repeat itself, but at this moment, it doesn't. He remembers it now and all he can think is that it was worth it. He got his happy ending with Chris. It took them 25 years, but they got there.
"Hey." Chris says, blinking his eyes open and grinning at him.
"Hey." Peter whispers.
There's a wail from the next room and Peter groans.
"Miranda's crying." Chris notes unnecessarily.
"Thanks, I couldn't tell with my werewolf super-hearing." Peter grumbles. Chris laughs behind him and Peter rolls his eyes.
Oh yeah, they got a baby too.
Peter heads into the room that used to be his study, going over the small crib and looking down at the baby girl. He picks her up, rocking her slowly and thinking yeah, he's got it pretty great.
March 26th, 1988
"You think we'll be okay, you and me?" Chris asks, looking down at Peter curiously. They're supposed to be having a sleepover at Chuck's house, but they're actually in some skeevy hotel out of town, lying naked under the covers. It's not the most romantic location, but it suits their purposes.
The wolf frowns, looking up at the hunter. "I don't know." He says, nose wrinkling. "Why wouldn't we be?" He asks.
Chris shrugs. "The whole thing with your family and my family." He says. "Could get messy."
Peter lays back on the bed and stares up at the ceiling thoughtfully. "I think if you really love someone, you find a way, you know?" He says.
Chris glances at him curiously. "Do you love me?" He asks.
Peter purses his lips and looks over at the blond.
"Because I love you." Chris says, watching him closely.
"I love you too." Peter admits shyly.
Chris beams, settling in next to the wolf. "So you think we'll find a way, you and me?" He asks.
Peter thinks about it and nods. "Yeah, we will." He says. "Just watch, someday we're gonna live in some big fancy apartment far away from here."
"We gonna have pets?"
"Maybe a cat."
Chris snorts. "Thought you were a dog person." He says.
Peter sneers. "Funny."
"I know."
Peter shoves him playfully. "Shut up."
"Make me." Chris challenges, cocking his eyebrow.
Peter rolls his eyes but grins. He leans up, pressing his lips to Chris' and sighing contently. He thinks they're going to be just fine.