Teen Wolf Imagines\preferences

Criminal!Peter au pt. 2

5 weeks before

Y O U

Without even realizing it, you sat in the fourth train cart. Your mom and you used to take trips to the city when you were a kid, and she always said that it had the perfect view of everything the entire way. You dug your nails into the leather seat, and stared down at the blue carpet beneath your feet. You sighed to yourself. It was all the same. The trees rushing by, the sign advertising for a bakery that sold those glazed eclairs, the fields, the river. All of it. Everything was the same. That wasn't true, of course. Everything had changed. The trees had shed and regrown their leaves a dozen times since you'd last been on this train and the bakery with the glazed eclairs had closed years ago. You weren't staring out the window, wide-eyed and excited about visiting the city, but rather leaving it, and the horror you had encountered there, behind.

You weren't entirely sold on the idea of moving back home, but since the incident, you just couldn't seem to pull yourself together. You were scared. Everywhere you went you were watching over your shoulder and jumping at loud noises. You just needed to get out. So your mom suggested you come home. Begged, rather. She was lonely and you were experiencing some form of post traumatic stress and moving back into your childhood bedroom just seemed like the most plausible solution.

Temporary solution, you made sure to emphasize to your mom, who has been hassling you about coming home since you left six years ago. This was only until you could pull yourself together. Which you hoped wouldn't be too long.

The train ride seemed longer than you ever remembered, but finally, the carts slowed to a stop, and the doors were opened to the platform. Your mom was waiting, wearing a cardigan sweater and a warm smile.

"Oh, Honey!" she cries out, engulfing you in a hug. It's the first time she'd seen you since the incident and you cling tight to her. Despite your constant push for independence, you really missed your mom. "I'm so glad you're okay," she says into your hair.

You pull back and nod, giving her a reassuring smile, but also hinting that you didn't want to talk about what happened.

She helps you lug your entire life from Beacon Hills, stuffed into two suitcases, back to the car. Before you know it, you're speeding into suburban land, where all the houses are organized into these neat little cul-de-sacs with perfect lawns and sprinkler systems set to go off at exact incriminates throughout the day.

You watch as your childhood neighborhood passes by. You relish in the safety of it all.

Beacon Hills was fun and exciting, but also
unpredictable and dangerous. You needed time to recover. Time to heal. You hoped being home could give you that.

Everything's just how you left it in your bedroom. There's an eerie feel to being back, especially with the house so empty. Your bed squeaks beneath you as you lay back against your pillows. It takes you a second to close your eyes. You've been so cautious to sleep lately, because every time you closed your eyes, you saw them. This time was no different, you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to push the thoughts away. But there they were, rushing into the building, armed and wearing masks. The one with the skeleton sweatshirt, zipped all the way up the hood, was yelling instructions, telling everyone to get down. Then you hear the gunshots go off and you snap your eyes open. It's still just as vivid as the day it happened.

"Time will heal," they say. You weren't sure if you believed them.

You quickly fall into a predictable pattern once you're home. It reminds you of your life before Beacon Hills, where every day was the same. Nothing new. Nothing spontaneous. You don't mind all that much now, though.