And Now....Werewolves..Great.
Peter hadn’t wanted to leave New York. It had actually physically pained him to board that plane, like his heart was tearing into tiny pieces, slowly, painfully. It felt like his stomach was being eaten by acid, like his lungs had forgotten how to breathe.
Okay, maybe that wasn’t because he had left New York, but Peter refused to think of the alternative. It was too painful. The alternative being the fact that Aunt May had suffered a heart attack a few weeks ago and had died in the hospital. Nope. Not gonna think about it, no thoughts here. And no emotions, about anything, ever.
Because he had had nowhere left to go and an extreme urge to avoid foster care at all costs he had desperately reached out to his remaining Uncle, his mother’s brother, pleading for help. And because Noah Stilinski was arguably the awesomest adult ever to adult, help Peter got, in the form of twenty emails, five from the man in question, the rest from his son Stiles, and a countless number of phone calls (directed at him, his social worker, and the local Court Justice) -all demanding that he pack his bags and move to Beacon Hills.
And so here Peter was, in Beacon Hills High, staring blankly at a locker that was too small to get shoved into (odd) and trying to remember why AP chemistry was so important when Aunt May was gone (she’sgoneshe’sgonehecan’tbelieveitshe’sgone)-and generally trying to get his bearings in a new school on the opposite side of the country. It didn’t help that Stiles had begun chatting with a strange girl named Malia and had hardly noticed it when Peter’d wandered off.
Great. Everything was fantastic. Nothing could make this situation any worse. -He thought, just before he met the one person who would make his already strange and superpowered life, even stranger and more superpoweredlier (it’s a word, shush.)
