Thanks for the tags @sunmontuewrites and @halestrom! Amusingly enough, I actually wrote something this week, so you get all 500 brand new words of it.
Peter waited until most of the Pack was lounging on the couches and floor of the loft before slinking down the spiral staircase to join them, as always. Sometimes it still made Scott flinch, even after all these years, and Peter had to get his kicks where he could.
After smirking at Scott's attempt to hide his surprise at his sudden presence, Peter let his nose sort through all the scents in the room, adding it to what he'd heard as they wandered in to make a picture of how the Pack had changed since their last meeting. He could tell that Scott thought he was in love again (he stank of a new perfume and puppy love), that Malia had spent most of the week as a coyote and was grumpy about having to wear clothes again (she smelled like the Preserve and sweat and annoyance), and that Jackson was fighting with Danny again (gym sweat, frustration, and self-loathing alongside a distinct lack of Armani). Nothing of note.
He was just starting to relax when the loft door opened and the scents of Stiles and his nephew wafted in. Underneath their usual mix of domestic bliss was a warm note that he hadn't smelled in over a decade, and it froze him in his tracks. Peter's mind rushed back to a warm kitchen filled with joy and laughter and the memory of 2 year old Derek asking, in his toddler vocabulary, why his mother smelled different. But the memory of Talia's voice quickly pivoted to what he always heard when he let himself remember her: the way she'd been screaming in his final moments of consciousness as fire engulfed their family.
A loud crack knocked him out of that memory, and he looked down to see the edge of the short bookshelf he'd been leaning on splintered by his claws. Peter schooled his face as he looked up, knowing the rest of the Pack would be focused on him. Decisively, he freed his claws from the wood, nodded at Derek, and said the only thing he could think of as he walked out of the loft as fast as he could without making more of a scene, "Congratulations, mazel tov! I need to be somewhere else."
Grateful that the Pack was used to his abrupt departures, Peter made his way deep into the Preserve before letting out a mournful howl. It still bothered him that the Pack would hear him and know his pain, but he had no desire to go far enough away to not be heard. He spent the night remembering and hurting and mourning, knowing that he had to leave it all out here. His nephew needed him, now more than ever. Peter hadn't ever been the nurturing type, but he was the only one who'd been an adult last time there'd been cubs in the Hale Pack, and someone was going to have to make sure Derek and Stiles were ready for a newborn werewolf.
