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Beacon County - locked to darkestsecrets
Jun. 11th, 2018 08:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sassiopathIt was the night that changed his life. All of their lives. He had felt the moment his sister died as he labored on the stairs. He had felt the others die after that, one by one. He'd even felt the distance grow as his niece and nephew disappeared, finally getting far enough he could no longer sense them. Even as their now alpha, he would no longer sense them.
That had been six years earlier.
Day by day Peter's cells had healed. He had been there, conscious and alert, unable to act or react. He had heard every word Chris whispered to him as he sat there next to Peter's bed, smelling of gunpowder, the weapon hidden behind the door while he spent time with Peter's comatose body rather than hunting as he had been told to do.
Peter remembered every visit. He was acutely aware when they stopped, when Chris was suddenly gone and distant and after that no one had come to visit. No one but nurses and doctors to notice as he changed. Which was how he had time to learn to make sure no one noticed that he had changed. No one ever seemed to notice. Not during his exams, or his sponge baths, or when they used his room to talk, not knowing that he heard them talk about their addictions and their drugs and their cheating and their lies.
He listened and he plotted. Slipping out late at night, using those times he knew they were high or with another to see how bad things were. It was worse than he thought in the end. The house was a wreck. His family was gone. Beacon Hills had forgotten about them. He couldn't even find clue of a hunter in years.
What he did find though was scent of another wolf. Perhaps more than one. Enough that he was certain that someone had taken the lack of an alpha to mean there was no alpha. Peter couldn't let that happen.
The night he first healed himself from head to toe, it had taken him nearly six hours to get everything right, everything whole. He'd done it though. Six years and he was whole and healed. Mostly.
His hearing wasn't what it should be, his sense of smell normal and not enhanced, and Peter knew it would be a while before he had his strength back to where it should be, but that night he walked out of the hospital on his own two feet and headed out into the night.
Two weeks later, he was in a better place. At least emotionally. Not that it was great though.
He'd found an old warehouse still in the Hale name that he had commandeered for his home. Around town he began to leave marks, leaving his scent, subvocalizing growls as he went to ensure that whoever those he'd scented were left, and quickly.
Unfortunately he knew the risks of the open signs of a wolf. Eventually hunters would learn that the fire had only been good to clear the place for less than a decade, and eventually someone else would come through. Until then though, Peter worked to ensure his own place, reclaiming his town, and then he'd think about rebuilding a pack.
That had been six years earlier.
Day by day Peter's cells had healed. He had been there, conscious and alert, unable to act or react. He had heard every word Chris whispered to him as he sat there next to Peter's bed, smelling of gunpowder, the weapon hidden behind the door while he spent time with Peter's comatose body rather than hunting as he had been told to do.
Peter remembered every visit. He was acutely aware when they stopped, when Chris was suddenly gone and distant and after that no one had come to visit. No one but nurses and doctors to notice as he changed. Which was how he had time to learn to make sure no one noticed that he had changed. No one ever seemed to notice. Not during his exams, or his sponge baths, or when they used his room to talk, not knowing that he heard them talk about their addictions and their drugs and their cheating and their lies.
He listened and he plotted. Slipping out late at night, using those times he knew they were high or with another to see how bad things were. It was worse than he thought in the end. The house was a wreck. His family was gone. Beacon Hills had forgotten about them. He couldn't even find clue of a hunter in years.
What he did find though was scent of another wolf. Perhaps more than one. Enough that he was certain that someone had taken the lack of an alpha to mean there was no alpha. Peter couldn't let that happen.
The night he first healed himself from head to toe, it had taken him nearly six hours to get everything right, everything whole. He'd done it though. Six years and he was whole and healed. Mostly.
His hearing wasn't what it should be, his sense of smell normal and not enhanced, and Peter knew it would be a while before he had his strength back to where it should be, but that night he walked out of the hospital on his own two feet and headed out into the night.
Two weeks later, he was in a better place. At least emotionally. Not that it was great though.
He'd found an old warehouse still in the Hale name that he had commandeered for his home. Around town he began to leave marks, leaving his scent, subvocalizing growls as he went to ensure that whoever those he'd scented were left, and quickly.
Unfortunately he knew the risks of the open signs of a wolf. Eventually hunters would learn that the fire had only been good to clear the place for less than a decade, and eventually someone else would come through. Until then though, Peter worked to ensure his own place, reclaiming his town, and then he'd think about rebuilding a pack.
