Archive of Our Own

Edit: Now with absolutely gorgeous art by Miss Renqa herself!
-As well as a stunning edit by Molly!

-

When his mother dies, he's alone, despite the nurses and staff moving around quickly, voices loud and insistent, sounds that are overpowered by the rapid-fire beat of his heart and choked sobs. Eventually he is made to sit, head in hands, as the world begins to turn black around the edges of his vision.

His dad is late and his mother is dead and he can't breathe no matter how hard he tries.

-

“Look at this place, Jake!”

A young woman excitedly jumps out of the car, running up to the cabin. Her companion begins unloading their bags from the trunk and backseat.

“What'd I tell you, babe?” He huffs as he carries the luggage up the steps. She squeals in delight, opening the door for him and kissing him as soon as he sets the bags down.

“You are the best! A vacation is just what we needed,” she says, picking up her things and rushing off to find the master bedroom. Jake laughs and looks around, taking in the interior. Taking a deep breath, he smells the scent of newly cut wood and fresh varnish. Everything in the cabin looks brand new, and this particular one is even outfitted with wi-fi. Perfect for what the man has in mind. Sex in front of a fireplace and then Netflix curled up in quilts. He sets his tablet case on the counter separating the kitchen area from the living room.

“Hey, Nat, we should-” He's cut off by a scream. Dropping the other bags, he rushes back to the bedrooms. “Natalie?” He runs into her in the doorway and she clings to him.

“Kill it! Kill it, kill it!” she shrieks. He places his hands on her arms and pushes past her. He rounds the bed, tense, only to find the cause of her panic.

“Really? You nearly give me a heart attack over this?” he asks, pointing to the dead bird on the ground in front of the nightstand. “It's already dead, Nat,” he says, picking the bird up by one of its wings. Natalie makes a face.

“I hate birds!”

“You are so weird sometimes.”

“Yeah, well, when one swoops down and gets caught in your braids, then you can have an opinion. Just get rid of it!”

Jake looks around the room for an open window. He doesn't find one already cracked, so he unlatches the one nearest him and tosses the bird carcass outside. Natalie relaxes against the door frame, hand over her heart.

“How did it get in?” Jake wonders aloud. “I didn't see any open windows in the front of the cabin.”

“I don't care,” Natalie says, walking toward the bathroom. “I'm gonna get cleaned up.”

Jake goes about getting their stuff put away, all while searching for whatever aperture the bird might have come in through. He doesn't find one, though, and goes back to getting things set up in the living area of the cabin.

The sun has set before Natalie gets out of the shower. She joins Jake on the couch, pressing close and giving him a kiss.

“This was really sweet of you, you know that?” she says as she nuzzles closer. He smiles down at her, running her hair through his fingers.

“Movie now or...” He lets himself trail off. Natalie snorts and gives him a light punch in the chest.

“Movie, you perv. We were having a moment.” She pulls away and pouts.

“We have this place for days, babe. There will be plenty of moments,” he tells her, leaning toward the coffee table to mess with his tablet.

“How could you possibly afford this?” she asks. Jake shrugs, not looking up.

“It's this new thing Umpqua is doing to attract tourists. It's why so many of the cabins are new.”

“Are they that hard up for tourism?”

“I guess? One of the rangers told me there've been a lot of missing persons over the years. You know, like hikers and shit? Apparently amateurs don't want to follow the trails, I guess."

Natalie starts to say something when she hears a faint sound. She looks around, turning her head from the kitchen to the far wall of the living room. Looking out of the window, she can see nothing but darkness and the occasional movement of trees bracing against the mild wind. She's close to letting it go when the sound happens again.

“Do you hear that?” she asks. Jake sets his tablet down next to his laptop.

“Hear what?” he asks. She holds up her hand, ears straining. It happens again, much clearer this time.

“That!” she says. Jake stands up from the couch, head tilted at an angle to try and pin point the origin. It's indistinct, never quite the same when it happens. It does seem to be coming from the master bedroom, though, so he walks around the couch and opens the door. Something shoots past him and he yells, nearly falling back. Natalie screams and he scrambles back to the living room. She has a pillow over her head, curled tightly on the couch. A bird, panicked and injured, is flapping helplessly above her before nosediving into the coffee table. It must have broken its neck on contact because it stops moving completely. He rushes over, grabbing Natalie by the arms, trying to calm her down.

“It's dead, babe! Nat, look, okay? It's dead.” He pulls at the pillow trying to pry it out of her hands. Failing, he decides to investigate the bird. Picking it up, he can see that its neck is indeed broken, but that it also has cuts running along one side, damaging a wing. He lays it back on the coffee table and heads to the bedroom.

“No, Jake, don't leave that thing near me!”

Jake ignores that for a moment, pushing the door open. The window he expected to be open is closed. He checks the bathroom window quickly, but it too is shut.

“What the hell?” he wonders aloud. He approaches the window anyway, checking it for... anything really. He sees a little bit of blood on the glass, but it's not broken. “Hey, Nat? Did you open this window at all?” he calls back.

“No, I didn't. Now get back in here and get rid of this thing!”

“Alright, alright, don't have a cow.”

He gets some paper towels to scoop the bird up.

“Jake, I love you for this vacation, but I cannot do birds,” Natalie says, shuddering. Jake rolls his eyes, heading outside. He tosses the bird in a nearby bush, out of sight. He sighs, looking out at the expanse of forest. Fucking birds. It's odd though. It's the first live bird he's seen or heard since they drove up. In fact, he can't even hear crickets chirping in the night air. He's not really excited about going back inside and getting his ass chewed out, or even hearing Nat say she wants to leave first thing in the morning or some shit. He can hear her shuffling around inside, probably throwing all of her stuff back into her suitcase. Fantastic. He stretches and readies himself for the argument they're bound to have.

Walking back into the cabin, he can see her head over the top of the couch.

“Look, babe, I'll find where the birds are coming from and-”

Walking around, he freezes, a strangled sound escaping his mouth. Natalie's eyes stare blankly at him, blood flowing from the open wound in her neck. He lunges toward her, hand clamping down on the front of her neck, his heart pounding in his chest and panic locking up his movements. He turns, intending to find his cell and call an ambulance, but instead lays eyes on a humanoid form, blood running down its chin, merely a few feet away. Before he can decided what to do, run or attack, the creature is upon him, grabbing his head and jerking it swiftly to one side. A loud crack rings in the room before his body collapses.

-

“What did she say to him?”

The basement is dark, a lone, bare bulb above the men providing scant lighting. Several of them shift uncomfortably under the scrutiny of the elderly man in front of them. One of the younger ones hesitantly steps forward.

“We, uh. We weren't able to get close enough. Paramedics and law enforcement responded too quickly. They kept tight on crowd control around the accident,” he says.

“Accident,” Gerard Argent hisses out. “That's what we planned, gentleman. An accident. One that should have left that cur of a woman in ribbons. She should have been dead before she knew what hit her.”

The men remain fearfully silent at his reprimand.

“She could have told the Sheriff anything,” Gerard growls. “He could already be mounting an investigation into this family.”

“Then let's start an investigation of our own, Dad,” says a woman in the darkness. She steps away from the cold cement wall and into the circle of light. “Maybe put a gag order on this sheriff,” she continues, shrugging. Nervous glances are exchanged amongst the men. Gerard turns to his daughter.

“What are you suggesting, Kate?” he asks. Kate Argent tilts her head in false contemplation.

“We can't do our jobs if we're under suspicion for murder,” she says lightly. The man from before speaks up again.

“We can't just kill him; it's against the code.”

“Christ,” Kate says, rolling her eyes, “you sound like my brother. Nous chassons ceux qui nous chassent.”

Her father smiles at her proudly.

“We hunt those who hunt us,” he recites. He turns back to the group of men. “We have no choice. We can't risk exposure. Morales, Carter,” he says to two men in the back. “Take care of it as quietly as possible. Your window of opportunity is rapidly closing.”

-

The creature remains hunched over the young man's body, unmoving for sometime. It stretches out a hand, its fingers blackened and nails long and sharp. The talons graze down the man's neck lightly, not breaking skin, but dragging all the same. Instead of ripping into flesh, it catches the collar of the t-shirt, rubbing it between its fingers.

Abruptly, the creature abandons its feral crouch, straightening to almost perfect posture. Stepping over the corpse, it walks slowly toward the bedroom, leaving a trail of bloody footprints in its wake. It ignored everything in the bedroom proper and heads to the bathroom, running its talons along the pristine counters. It touches the various bottles and products before picking one up and bringing it up to its face.

It was reading the label.

It takes the bottle with it to the shower stall, and effortlessly works the knobs, even testing the water for the temperature. Once to its liking, it steps under the spray. It stands passively for a few moments, letting the water wash away the dirty and the blood and the forest debris.

Human skin begins to show through, pale and dotted with moles as strips of ashen skin are shed. A young man becomes visible from under the filth.

The water has caused his wild hair to plaster against his face and down his jaw. Once mostly free of sediment and debris, he brings his hands up, pulling his hair away. The bright ethereal glow of his eyes dims, eventually dissipating into a natural golden brown. The jet-black pigment in his fingers recedes, leaving long pale digits and lengthy nails.

He upends the bottle, pouring the contents into his hands, rubbing them vigorously through his hair. He then uses the remainder to clean and scrub his skin. Steam fills the tiled room, fogging the mirror. The water shuts off. What steps out appears completely human.

He's broad shouldered, filled out in some places, lanky in others. He seems no older than a boy of sixteen or seventeen. He opens a cabinet and pulls out a towel, wrapping it around his narrow hips, then examines his nails, frowning. He starts grooming himself, clipping his nails and carefully cutting his hair. He leans toward the mirror, pulling locks of hair taunt and using scissors to snip them off. When finished, he runs a hand over his head, shaking loose excess strands. He leisurely walks back to the bedroom, rummaging through the luggage. He picks through different articles of clothing before pulling on boxers, loose jeans, and a too-big shirt.

After dressing, he moves back into the living room, propping the body of the woman more heavily against the arm of the couch so he could sit. He runs his hand along the tablet on the table, examining it before turning it on. He spends some time acquainting himself with the functions of it before he picks it up, curls his legs up on the couch, and begins to learn.

-

The young man pulls up in the borrowed vehicle in front of the convenient store. He's very meticulous in his maneuvering, still new to the concept of driving, but he's getting the hang of it. He grips the steering wheel tightly, willing his courage not to abandon him. He sees people moving within the store and tries to quell instincts that tell him to hide out of sight. He looks into the rearview mirror to assure himself that he looks perfectly normal. Forcing his hands to let go of their iron grip on the wheel, he takes a deep breath before stepping out.

He walks inside store and no one pays him any mind; the cashier takes a customer's money, a woman tries to get her child to pick a snack for the road, all ignoring him completely... He slowly rounds the aisles, eventually finding a stand with road maps. He finds one for Oregon and the northern portion of California. Opening it up a bit, he can see that Beacon Hills is indeed listed.

“Hey, kid!”

The young man starts, nearly ripping the map. The cashier is looking at him impatiently.

“You gonna buy that?” he asks tersely. The young man glances down at the map and then smiles nervously at the cashier. He walks up to the counter and lets the man ring him up. “That'll be $4.77.” The young man digs into his pocket and pulls out a wallet that isn't his own. He makes sure the cashier can't see the ID when he pulls out a five dollar bill and pays.

“Thanks,” he says simply, taking his map and walking out.

When he gets back to the car, he rests his head against the steering wheel. Slowly, he begins to smile. Reaching for the map, he looks at the little dot depicting Beacon Hills. His hometown.

-

The Sheriff takes his eyes off the expanse of highway to look over at his son in the passenger seat. The boy is staring out of his window, quiet and sad eyed. It's a sharp contrast to the child who used to make road trips a hyperactive nightmare. There is no unrelenting chatter now and it's more than a little unsettling. But since the funeral, his son alternates between a melancholic stupor and worrying panic attacks. He hasn't been doing to so well himself, if he's honest, and he generally is. While he's never been particularly ashamed of his love of whiskey, he can't deny that he's let it become his crutch these past few days.

“We haven't been camping in a while, huh?” he asks, just to break the silence. “You excited?” The boy shrugs minutely. The Sheriff tries again. “Maybe if we're lucky, we'll see some bears.” His boy's eyes widen slightly, and he can hear the gears turning full speed.

“Did you know?” his son starts quietly. “If a grizzly comes at you, you're supposed to play dead?” The Sheriff latches on.

“Oh really?” he asks. His son nods, and the man can tell he's winding up to give his own little lecture on everything he knows about bears. He smiles to himself as his boy starts to jump topics, often not even bothering to connect one idea to another.

It's reassuring and calming, in a way, when once it was exasperating.

-

Scott McCall drums his fingers on the kitchen table, doing his best not to let his mom know how upset he is. Their brief shouting match had come to an abrupt halt, Scott reigning in and throwing himself into a chair. His mom leans against the door frame, taking calming breaths and rubbing the middle of her forehead.

“Sweetheart, I just don't want a repeat of what happened last year,” she finally says. Scott nods, staying quiet. He knows she's just worried. He knows that particular incident haunts his mother's memory enough without him trying to drag it back up. He bites his lip and looks up at her.

“I just... I really want to play, Mom,” he says. The look she gives him in nothing short of sympathetic.

“I know you do. And I would give anything to let you. But, Scott-”

“I know,” Scott intercepts. “I'm sorry I got angry.” He looks down at the table, resigned. Melissa McCall gives her son a sad smile.

“Everyone needs to be angry once in a while,” she tells him. He looks up at her in surprised. “Sometimes you gotta lash out at the world. It's fine.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Scott says, smiling a little. Melissa pushes off of the door and walks over to kiss her son on his head.

“Why don't you try out for the swim team? I hear swimming's really in right now,” she tries. Scott groans, letting his head fall to the table.

“Our swim team sucks!”

“Maybe that's just because they don't have you!"

Scott groans again and his mom laughs. He appreciates her attempts at cheering him up, he does. He knows she's just worried, and it's not like that worry is without precedent. There's really no way she'd let him on the team, even if he did make the B-string. But this was supposed to be the year everything changed. The lacrosse tryouts are something he's been excited for since the last month of summer started winding down. He had a plan; he was going make the lacrosse team, gain some social status, and maybe even finally get a girlfriend. It was going to solve so many of his problems; he would finally be somebody. He would get to go to away games and hang out with the team.

He would finally have someone to talk to.

But now all of that was bust. He's not sure who he was kidding. There's no way that Coach Finstock, even as crazy as he is, was going to put a severe asthmatic on the field. It'd be like the playground in elementary all over again, with people actively keeping him out of games and always getting picked last. People started to avoid him even more after the incident last year, and he'd found himself eating alone more often than not. Maybe he and that Boyd guy should start a club.

His disappointment must have followed him all the way to work at the clinic, because Dr. Deaton gives him a concerned look over the chihuahua he's examining.

“Something on your mind, Scott?” he asks. Scott shrugs, arranging items on the counter that Dr. Deaton will need for a German Shepherd's surgery an hour from now. He gives Deaton a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

“Oh, you know. School stuff,” he says vaguely. Luckily, Dr. Deaton doesn't press the matter, instead finishing up with the chihuahua and taking it to the front to its owner. Hearing someone else enter the clinic, Scott gives the examination table a quick wipe-down for their next appointment. However, instead of Ms. Hanson's adorable chinchilla, Dr. Deaton returns with a police officer. The man gives Scott a disparaging glance.

“This is my assistant, Scott. I'm sure he's aware of the importance of discretion,” Deaton says, giving Scott a pointed look. Scott nods, though still not quite sure what's going on. The officer stares him down for a moment longer before shrugging. He pulls a manila folder out from under his arm and hands it to the vet.

“There's been an animal attack recently within city limits,” says the officer. “Thought you might be able to help us figure out what exactly it is we might be looking for.” Deaton opens the folders, and from his position Scott can see what are most likely crime scene photos. Filled with a sudden, excitable curiosity, Scott tries to surreptitiously get a better glance. He inches nearer to the table, eyes widening at the brutal images of a man torn to ribbons. The officer watches Dr. Deaton's face closely. However, the man merely shakes his head slowly.

“I'm not exactly an expert on this sort of thing, Officer Cruz,” Deaton, tells the officer. Cruz's lips tighten impatiently.

“One of my colleagues seems to think it might be a wolf,” he says, and even Scott can make out the leading tone of the statement. Deaton shakes his head again.

“Speaking in general terms, there haven't been wolves in California for nearly sixty years. It's not impossible, mind you, but highly unlikely. I would sooner say this was the work of a mountain lion, Officer.” Deaton places the photos back into the folder and hands it to Cruz. “I'm sorry I can't be more helpful, but as I told you before, I'm no expert.” Cruz reaches out to take the folder, spending a long moment not breaking eye contact with Deaton. Scott looks between, feeling uneasy by the sudden tension.

“Right,” Cruz says. “Thanks for your time anyway.” He shakes Dr. Deaton's hand, ignores Scott completely, and walks out. There's a heavy moment of silence before Deaton's polite smile becomes a worried frown. He recovers before Scott can even think to ask what just happened.

“So, Scott. If I remember correctly, we have a fuzzy friend coming in soon.”

Right. Chinchillas. Scott can get behind chinchillas.

-

It's late by the time the young man drives into Beacon Hills city limits. The trip has taken him a few hours, and he's had time to think. He'll have to ditch this vehicle soon, mostly likely. Definitely before he goes to the police station. It's probably not a great idea; no telling who if anyone might recognize him. But it's a feeling that won't let him rest, because if anything of his dad's remains, it'll be there. And once he's done that, he'll be able to start his hunt proper. There's a warmth that spreads through him that wasn't so much anger as it was a sense of purpose renewed. The smile that thought brings him is quickly banished by the wailing of sirens. Looking into his rearview, he sees the flashing lights of a police car.

Reluctantly, he pulls over to the side of the road. He allows a moment of brief panic to paralyze him. He doesn't have a license and the car isn't his. Depending on whether or not they found the cabin in Umpqua, they'll trace the vehicle back to Oregon. He's in the middle of a fight or flight decision when he hears it.

That voice. He cuts the engine and focuses his hearing.

“-so just drop it. The family is already here and the boss expects us to do whatever the woman says.”

“It's not a pack. It's literally just the one. We don't need his son and the guy's wife breathing down our necks. How much do you wanna bet we'll be told to babysit that brat of a teenager of theirs too?”

“That brat of a teenager might be your new boss one day, so shut up. Nothing to be done about it anyway. Now can we do this damn job? The sooner we kill the thing, the sooner we can skip town and burn these uniforms.”

The young man grips the steering wheel so hard that it creaks under his hands before he opens the door and steps out, heart hammering in his chest. One officer had already started walking to the car.

“Sir, please stay inside your vehicle,” he says. When the young man does not, the second officer gets out.

“Kid, stop right there,” he instructs, more exasperated than threatened. The young man looks between the two.

“... Is there a problem, officers?” he asks.

“Taillight's out,” says the officer, Cruz, his name plate identifies. He points to the back of the car, indicating the broken plastic. The young man doesn't bother looking at it.

“Is that all? I'll be sure to get it checked out as soon as possible,” he tells them. Cruz snorts, hands on hips.

“I'm still gonna need to see your license and registra-”

A howl from deep within the woods cuts him off. It's an angry, mournful sound that tapers off into the cold night air.

“A wolf,” the young man says absently. Officer Cruz snorts again, turning to his partner.

“But there haven't been any wolves in California for sixty years,” he says in a mocking tone. His partner huffs out a laugh, but the young man ignores whatever private joke they're indulging in.

“You don't remember me, do you?” he asks suddenly. The officers give him identical looks of confusion. The young man points to Cruz. “Morales, right?”

The officers startle, giving each other worried glances.

“Uh, I think you have me confused for someone else, kid,” Cruz tries. The young man smiles, but it's twitchy and strained.

“No, I'm pretty sure that's what your buddy Carter here called you right after you shot my dad.”

Realization dawns on them both and spurs them into action.

“How the hell-”

The hunter Morales doesn't even have time to draw his weapon before blackened talons slash through his throat. The man grips the wound, blood flowing through his fingers. Carter's gun is raised before Morales even hits the ground, unloading a clip into the young man's chest. It does little to stop his advance, jumping over Morales's body and lunging at Carter. Carter's screams are accompanied by the wet, tearing sound of flesh being ripped apart. Eventually, the screams stop all together.

The young man straightens, his unnatural visage illuminated by the headlights of the police car. Blood soaks his hands and mouth as he stands to his full height. He glances at both bodies, bringing a finger to his mouth and sucking it clean. The ethereal glow of his eyes intensifies before subsiding completely.

Well, this was a mess.

-

The police station will have to wait. It's probably bad form to staring lurking around there so soon after killing two not-quite cops, leaving their bodies in the woods, and driving his borrowed car into a lake a couple of towns over. At any rate, the new information he's overheard from the hunters has his blood surging with anticipation. His prey have practically set themselves up for him.

He decides the high school is the best place to start. This “teenage brat” might be the key to getting close without detection. Well, barring the loss of two of their foot soldiers. He stands in line, waiting for the woman to finish filling out papers for the secretary. He looks down at his clipboard with the enrollment sheet; there's a place on the line for his name that has been scratched out with a pen. Embarrassingly, he had actually written his real name first. As proud as his is that he even still remembers it, it would without a doubt raise a red flag. He decides to use his mother's maiden name, but leaving out his father's name completely feels wrong. Further scratching out his last name, he pauses on the first four letters.

“Next,” the secretary says, giving him a pointed look. Quickly, he finishes filling out the name line and hands the woman the clipboard. She looks it over and glances up to him, raising an eyebrow. “Stiles Kowalski?” she asks dryly. He gives her a big smile and a small wave.

“It's a family name,” he says. The secretary gives him a sympathetic look.

“Bless your heart,” she tells him, going over the rest of the form. The young man, Stiles now, makes a face at her, mildly offended. “You're missing quite a few documents here. Have either of your parents had a chance to meet with our superintendent?” she asks. Stiles gives her his best pathetic expression.

“Uh, no. I'm an emancipated minor,” he tells her. He lets her draw her own conclusions, and she gives him another sympathetic look.

“I see. Well, we'll need court documentation of that, as well as an immunization record and a few other things.”

“Oh. I didn't know that. It'll take some time to get that together,” Stiles says. He looks down and bites his lips, deciding to lay it on thick. “Does this mean I won't be able to attend class today? I was really hoping to get back into school after...” He lets himself trail off. The secretary places a hand on her heart and pats his arm. She looks around, checking that the others in the office were busy before gesturing him closer.

“I'll put you in the system for now. But you need to get me those papers as soon as possible, alright, sweetheart?”

He doesn't push his luck. He takes the schedule and locker combination she hands him and leaves.

This is working, he thinks to himself as he leaves this office. This is actually working. He has to stop himself from letting out a victorious whoop in the middle of a busy hallway. He's better than that. What abomination against nature does something that childish, really? He finds his locker quickly enough, but he doesn't exactly have anything to stuff into yet, so he loiters around it for a moment as students move between classes.

They pass him without so much as a glance. It's surreal in a way; being this close to so many, in plain sight of them all, and not once does anyone look frightened or scared. The excitement of it is enough to quell all the instincts telling him to find a dark corner, to wait for a straggler and go in for the kill.

It's enough to make him feel human, for a brief moment if nothing else.

“-is absolutely killer. Where'd you get it?”

“My mom was a buyer for a boutique back in San Francisco.”

“And you are my new best friend.”

Two girls talk down the hall. He doesn't know what draws him to the conversation, but he does notice he's not the only one eavesdropping. Or at least attempting to. The guy isn't exactly stealthy; in fact he looks kind of nervous, an expression that intensifies as another guy stands with the girls, arm slung over the shoulder of the redhead (or would you call that strawberry blonde?).

“So this weekend there's a party.”

“A party?”

“Yeah. Friday night. You should come.”

“Uh, I can't. It's family night this Friday.”

The guy fiddles with handle of his locker and attempts to casually glance over his shoulder at the girls only to jump when the brunette approaches him. She smiles shyly, handing him a pen.

“Sorry I had to ask you for this. I can't believe I didn't check when I left home this morning,” she says. The guy smiles back and shrugs.

“It's a- it wasn't a big deal. You uh, you can keep it. I've got others,” he tells her, gesturing with the strap of his backpack. “I'm Scott, by the way.”

“Allison,” she offers in return.

“Argent, yeah, I remember.”

Stiles rolls his eyes at the display before freezing. Argent? His grip on his own borrowed book bag turns his knuckles white. He takes several deep breaths. These two are making small talk not four feet away from him and he wants nothing more than to tear into her smiling face.

“So, lacrosse, huh? Seems to be the big thing around here. Do you play?”

“Oh, uh, n-no.”

“Oh. Well, will you be at the tryouts anyway?”

“Yeah! No, yeah, I'll be there!”

Eventually she nods a farewell to the guy, Scott, and moves on to her next class. Scott leans back heavily against his locker, looking pleased, before his face falls. Stiles watches him and throws a glance to the Argent girl's retreating back. An idea is forming in his head, one that's becoming more solid with each passing second, so he doesn't think twice about stepping closer.

“Hey, man, got a second?” he asks. Scott blinks at him before turning his head to look behind him. He seems surprised to realize that Stiles is talking to him.

“Uh, sure?” he says with a degree of uncertainty. Stiles holds up his schedule and shrugs.

“I'm new. You wouldn't mind showing me around, would you?” he asks.

-

At first he takes the small ones like himself, the ones that wander away from their parents when they were told not to. He hides behind trees and sometimes sings playground songs to lure them away. Eventually, though, it's not enough. The hunger that gnaws away at his insides spreads until it feels like it might devour him whole.

The first time he tries to take a whole group, two parents and their daughter, he's nearly killed by the father. He's already snapped the necks of the man's wife and child and there's a rage strengthening the hands around his neck that blinds the man to the monstrosity he actually is. Eventually, he does manage to sink his teeth into the man's arm and rend flesh. He does eat well that night.

He doesn't try to take another group for a long time.

-

“Well, it looks like we're in most of the same classes,” Scott says. He guides Stiles into a classroom with other students. Unlike the other rooms Stiles had glanced into, this one has rows of counters with sinks. Chemistry. What the hell does he know about chemistry?

“Hey, can I see your book?” he asks as they claim a station in the back. Scott hands him his textbook.

“Sure, but you'll get one of your own in a bit,” he tells him. The bell rings as he begins looking through the text, trying to absorb as much as possible. The teacher walks in, a man who looks like he would rather be anywhere else than in a room full of teenagers. Stiles pays him little mind, however, using the highlighter from Scott's bag to mark the useful bits. Problem is, it's all useful to him. It's been so long since he's looked at a book or been in a classroom setting. It's overwhelming in the best way. Noble gases? What the hell are those? He doesn't know yet, but he's sure as hell going to find out. He's so engrossed in the text that he doesn't hear Scott saying his name insistently.

“What have we here?”

Stiles barely reigns in a startled jump that would have inevitably ended with his hands snapping the man's neck. Instead, he blinks owlishly up at the teacher, baffled by his own brief inattention to his surroundings.

“And who is this new vacuous void defacing school property?”

“He's a new student, Mr. Harris,” Scott answers quickly. Stiles notices that he is no longer practically invisible. All eyes are on him and it presses against his paranoia. That urge to make himself unseen rises acutely, but he doesn't move from his seat or attempt to cloak himself.

“Fantastic,” Harris says with false enthusiasm. “What's your name?”

“Stiles Kowalski.”

“Tell me, Mr. Kowalski, do you plan on reading that book, or getting high off of the fumes?” Harris asks. Stiles clenches his teeth, face reddening as a few students snicker amongst themselves. One of the students not giggling raises his hand without taking his eyes off of his notes. “Yes, Mr. Mahealani?”

“Highlighters don't contain the same chemicals as permanent markers. You can't get high off a highlighter,” the student says.

“Thank you, Danny. You've just given me some hope for the future of your generation. Mr. McCall, go to the backroom and get a new book. The rest of you, open up to Chapter 2.” Mr. Harris walks back to the front of the class and Stiles gives that Danny guy an appreciative smile. Danny pays him no mind, but slaps the hand of the student he's sharing a station with trying to mess with his notes. Stiles recognizes him as the one who invited the Argent girl to the party. When Scott gets back with his new book, Stiles leans forward and lowers his voice.

“Sorry about the book,” he says.

“Don't worry about it. Harris is a jerk,” Scott replies, shrugging.

“Hey, who's that? The guy right behind you?” Stiles asks. Scott shoots a glance over his shoulder and makes a face.

“Jackson? He, uh. He's captain of the of the lacrosse team,” he says, rolling his eyes. “If Harris is a jerk, Jackson is a dick. Why did you want to know?”

“I thought I heard him mention something about a party,” Stiles explains. “You going?” Scott ducks his head and opens his book.

“Uh, no. I wasn't invited. I'm not usually invited to those kinds of things.”

“That girl you were talking to was,” Stiles says. Scott's eyes widen and his face turns red.

“So?”

“So maybe you could ask her out,” Stiles pushes. Scott glances nervously around the room.

“I don't know...” he says. “I'm not exactly top dog on campus here. And she was talking to Lydia Martin. Pretty sure my chances of getting a date with her are next to none.”

This lack of self-esteem won't do. He's never going to create a link between himself and the Argent girl if this kid doesn't get his act together. Already this is turning out to be more convoluted than he had set out for it to be. He looks down at his marked textbook. But maybe taking the slower route is best. He's waited eight years – and there's so much he's missed and wants to learn – what's a few days or weeks? Or months. He does need to be careful. He needs time to adjust and reassess. Yes, he thinks. Dragging this out won't be a problem; it'll be rewarding.

“That's defeatist talk, Scotty – can I call you Scotty? No, forget it, I've changed my mind – Scott, you won't get anywhere in life thinking you aren't good enough,” Stiles tells him, trying to keep his voice down. Scott blinks and seems to contemplate his words. Stiles leans in further. “She's gonna be at those tryout things, yeah?” Scott nods. “Well, ask her then.”

“I don't want to go to the tryouts,” Scott says, a shadow passing over his face. He seems to shut himself off after that, glaring at his book.

“But you told her you-”

“This isn't Ladies' Gossip Hour, Mr. Kowalski. Detention on your first day is not recommended.”

Stiles grinds his teeth again, but sits back in his seat.

-

“Your evasion tactics suck,” Stiles says after class as he leans against the locker next to Scott's. The kid gives him an odd look.

“Why does it matter so much to you?” he asks.

“I just want to help you out.”

“Yeah, but why?”

Why.

“I don't know, I just... want us to be friends,” Stiles tries. He almost cringes at how lame it sounds. He should probably follow up with how he's new in town, not knowing anyone, or something equally pathetic. But Scott is giving him another odd look, and then the kid starts to smile.

“Yeah! Yeah, that'd be cool,” he says, holding out his hand. Stiles gives it an exaggerated shake that makes Scott laugh.

“Still, man, you told her you'd be there. Why are you backing out?” Stiles asks. Scott fiddles with the handle of his locker. He stares into it for a moment before shutting it.

“I tried out for the team last year,” he finally says.

“And you didn't make the cut,” Stiles finishes. Scott huffs out a humorless laugh.

“Obviously. Half way through I had a pretty bad asthma attack. No one knew where my emergency inhaler was and they had to call an ambulance. My mom – she's a nurse – she, uh... It really scared her. I was going to try again this year, but she wasn't too thrilled about it. Can't really play if you can't breathe right,” he explains with a small amount of bitterness. Stiles doesn't say anything. “Hey, your next class is that way, room 125. I'll meet you up for lunch?” Scott says hopefully.

“Definitely. I'll grab you after class.”

-

He doesn't go to class. He wants to. American Literature sounds interesting. Hell, his entire class list sounds interesting, but that could just be his academia starved mind. It'll have to wait until tomorrow, because now he has the issue of an asthmatic wannabe sports star. Instead of going to room 125, he heads to the now empty Chemistry room. Harris seems to take his off hour somewhere other than his desk, because the lights have been shut off as well. He doesn't bother turning them on when he enters as plenty of light streams in through the wall of windows. He closes the door and leans against the wall next to it until the late bell rings. He doesn't need anyone asking him why he's in a place he probably shouldn't be. As soon as it quiets down in the hallway, he goes about collecting the things he'll need.

While he's come to realize that there's so much he has to learn, there are other things he knows. He doesn't know how he knows them; they're innate in a way, instincts forcibly threaded into every inch of him. Instincts that tell him what meat is worth eating, what water he can drink, and what area is safest to rest. Even what he has to put together to create a panacea of sorts. Survival has been his nature for these past eight years, even though he no longer has much to survive for. He raids the cabinet filled with chemicals bearing labels he barely understands. He doesn't really need to. He simply puts a drop of each on his tongue before those instincts tell him which ones are needed. Many of them make him gag and burn his mouth, and he briefly wonders how many of them would straight up injure or kill a human being.

Once he has everything he needs, he sets about mixing it all together at one of the stations. When that's done, he lets it rest to the side as he pulls a mortar and pestle toward him. Here comes the truly unpleasant part. He lets his fingers shift, the digits turning black and talons extending straight. He does the same with his teeth, running his tongue along the ones in the very back, feeling them out. When he's decided on one, he reaches in and begins pushing his talons into his gums. The taste of blood fills his mouth along with excess saliva. He can hear the sounds of the roots tearing as he starts to pull harder, eventually ripping the tooth free.

He spits into the sink and works his jaw, tonguing the now empty spot in the back of his mouth.

He begins crushing the tooth up, grinding it into a fine powder. He mixes it in with the rest and makes a face. This is not going to taste good. He's not really sure how he's going to get Scott to drink this. He wouldn't drink this and he's put some questionable things between his teeth over the years.

Staring down at his concoction he heaves a sigh. Better check the vending machine.

-

“You got me a Mountain Dew?” Scott asks, smiling as he sets down his tray. Stiles gives him a tight smile. Scott takes the bottle and pauses. “Did you open it already?”

“Yeah, yeah. You know, uh. You were talking about your asthma and it reminded of Nana Kowalski's famous Cure All. A little bit of this, a little bit of that, mix it with a ridiculous amount of caffeine and voila. Lungs that don't try to kill you,” Stiles says, eying the bottle. Scott frowns down at it.

“Like a homeopathic treatment?”

“Yep!”

“I don't know,” Scott says, taking a bite out of his lunch. He looks to Stiles. “Did you get anything?” Stiles blinks down at his empty side of the table.

“I wasn't hungry. Drink up, friend.”

“Uh. Yeah, sure, why not. Can't be any worse than a steroid shot. Apologies to Nana Kowalski when it doesn't work,” Scott says, opening the bottle and taking a large gulp. He immediately chokes, barely managing to force it down. “That, uh-” he wheezes. “That's potent?”

“Yeah. Main ingredient is vinegar,” Stiles laughs. Scott grimaces down at the bottle before giving Stiles a look.

“Is this...”

“What?” Stiles asks nervously.

“Is this... a haze? Are you hazing me right now?” Scott's face falls. Stiles sits back sharply, not having realized he'd been leaning forward.

“What?”

“What did you make me drink? Something gross?”

“Vinegar is gross,” Stiles says defensively.

“Did Jackson put you up to this?” Scott asks, angrily, glancing over to a table with Jackson, Danny, Lydia Martin, and the Argent girl.

“No. I told you, it's a home remedy. They're not all lemons and honey, dude,” Stiles tries. Scott gives him a disbelieving look. Stiles raises his hands. “I'm just trying to help. I know how much it sucks, okay?” He pauses. “... My mom was sick a lot.” Scott's face falls.

“Was?” he asks, almost sadly. This is quickly getting outside of Stiles' already narrow comfort zone. He shakes his head.

“I'm not trying to make fun of you, Scott. I really think this might help you feel better. Better enough to... maybe... tryoutforthelacrosseteam,” he rushes out.

“Stiles, I can't-” Scott starts, but Stiles cuts him off by raising his hand. Once he has Scott's attention, he points to the other table. Scott follows it and focuses on Allison. She's laughing at whatever has been said at the table and when her eyes meet Scott's, she smiles. Scott smiles back and waves.

“You're not exactly top dog on campus, yet,” Stiles tells him. “Step 1 is getting you on the team. Step 1-A is drinking that.” He points to the soda bottle and Scott grimaces. With one last glance to Allison, Scott puts the bottle to his lips and tips his head back. He chugs it down, sputtering as he finishes and looking an unflattering shade of green.

“That is so gross,” he says, voice strained.

“Yeah it is,” Stiles agrees. He watches him closely, on guard for any sign that something has gone wrong. When the worst that happens is Scott wiping his tongue with a napkin, he relaxes a bit. “How do you feel?” he asks. Scott shrugs.

“Like I would have been better off not getting the sloppy joe,” he admits. Stiles frowns and looks at the clock. They still have twenty minutes on their lunch.

“Hey, show me the field,” he says suddenly, standing up. Scott blinks and grabs his tray.

“Uh, yeah. Okay.”

There are surprisingly more people loitering around the lacrosse field than Stiles expected. Nevermind, he thinks. Once they're on the sidelines, Stiles takes Scott's backpack from him. Scott gives him a confused look, but doesn't stop him. Stiles snoops through zipped pockets until he finds what it is he's looking for.

“Aha!” He holds up the emergency inhaler. Scott frowns and reaches out as Stiles steps away.

“Hey, careful with that. It's not cheap,” he says. Stiles tosses the inhaler in the air and catches it again.

“You don't need it anymore. No point in lugging it around everywhere.” He motions as if to throw it across the field when Scott lunges at him. He evades, dangling the inhaler between them.

“Dude! Cut it out! Give it back, I need that!” Scott shouts, lunging again. Stiles dodges to the side.

“Sure about that?”

And then he takes off.

“Hey!” he can hear Scott shout at him before giving chase. He runs up the stands first, disrupting many of the students there. He pays them no mind as he evades Scott again at the top and runs back down. He sprints toward the tables lining the school, threading in-between them. He can hear Scott behind him, changing his speed whenever he gets too far ahead and speeding up whenever he's given Scott the chance to reach out and grab him. He's liking this a little too much, honestly. It's not often he's the one running away. It all comes to end, though, when he rounds a corner and crashes into someone. He lands on the ground hard and unpleasantly, too busy making sure the inhaler isn't damaged.

“Christ! What the hell?”

Stiles looks up and sees that guy, Jackson, being helped up by Danny and brushing himself off. Scott comes rounding the corner not too shortly after, panting and taking in the scene. Jackson looks between them, scowling and looking like a bull about to charge.

“Aren't you asswipes a little old for tag?” he snipes. He shrugs his jacket harshly onto his shoulders before getting into Scott's face. “Watch yourself, McMouth-breather.” And then Danny steers him around the corner and they're gone. Stiles rolls his eyes as he picks himself up. Scott is glaring at the ground, as if going over all the things he wanted to shout back at Jackson had he not hesitated. He shakes his head and turns his glare on Stiles. He walks over and wrenches his inhaler out of Stiles' hand.

“Why did you do that?” he asks angrily.

“Better question; how's that fresh, invigorating afternoon air?” Stiles asks back, smiling. Scott's brow creases in confusion. He looks down, taking stock of his own condition. He inhales deeply, holding it for a second before letting out.

With complete ease.

-

Scott isn't freaking out.

He isn't. He may be doing those weird breathing techniques people tell pregnant women to do all the time, but he's totally not freaking out.

“I'm breathing!”

He's totally freaking out.

“Yep. You wanna relax there before you huff and puff and blow a house down?”

“Stiles, I'm still breathing!” Scott exclaims. He laughs and rubs his chest. His lungs burn with the cold of the air, but it doesn't send him into an attack, his airways still clear and fully functioning. He just ran an impromptu obstacle course around the school and he isn't dying.

“Hey, are you okay?” Stiles asks. Because apparently he crying just a bit. He looks to Stiles, astonished. He doesn't seem to get it. He's probably never been afraid of Spring, or had to choose whether or not running is really worth not being able to breathe when you reach your destination. He must not know what it's like to nervously check for where an inhaler is at an obsessive-complusive frequency.

He must not understand the rush of freedom Scott feels right now.

So Scott doesn't answer him, not sure he has the words. Instead, he wraps Stiles up in the biggest bear hug he can manage. He feels Stiles stiffen for a long moment before awkwardly patting him on the back. He pulls back just as the bell rings, signaling the end of the lunch hour. Stiles smiles but avoids eye contact.

“You've really got to show me how to make that stuff,” Scott says, wiping the moisture from his face.

“Tell you what, Scotty. You start to feel like you need more, I'll whip you up some,” Stiles says.

“Deal!” Scott is still smiling. His face is starting to hurt from it, but he doesn't care. He looks back toward the lacrosse field and pauses. Turning to Stiles, he asks quietly. “You think I have a shot?” Stiles claps a hand on his shoulder.

“Won't know until you try, buddy.”

They head back inside the school, but it's difficult for Scott to focus on his lessons. He's still wired, frequently breathing in deep, just to test. He catches glimpses of Allison in the hallways and each time it renews his determination. Maybe he can do it. It's only been one day and he feels like his world has tipped on its axis. Everything he thought went out the window along with his mother's permission to try-out is suddenly becoming a real possibility. This Stiles guy. There something really weird about him, but in the best way. And he wants to be Scott's friend. No one's really wanted to be Scott's friend since his mom chewed out a kid in second grade for shoving Scott into a flower bush and triggering an attack. What started out as avoiding the kid who couldn't play kickball stuck around well into middle school and junior high. But now he's got Stiles. And maybe, if he's very, very lucky, he can have lacrosse and Allison too. It almost makes him lightheaded just thinking about it.

“McCall! Just what the hell do you think you're doing?”

Now if only he can convince Coach Finstock to let him on the field.

Scott chances a nervous glance back to the bleachers. He sees Allison and Lydia Martin first before scanning further down to see Stiles, who gives him a thumbs up. Scott holds up his lacrosse stick.

“Trying out, Coach,” he says. Finstock approaches him, shaking his head and muttering a string of nonono.

“Absolutely not,” he tells Scott, taking the stick out of his hands. “Let me tell you a story. It happened a long, long time ago, about a year to this day, when a kid, much like yourself, tried out for his school's lacrosse team. The kind and benevolent coach decided what the hell? And he put the kid on the field. And then that kid almost died. Do you know what happened to that kind and benevolent coach, McCall?” Finstock doesn't give Scott time to answer. “That coach was ripped a new one by the kid's mother. She even still gives him dirty looks at the supermarket. Now, McCall, do you really, truly, deeply want a repeat of that? Do you hate me and yourself that much?” Finstock's eyes are wilder than usual, and Scott can feel his determination waver.

“It's okay!” he hears Stiles say behind him. His friend walks up, holding his bag. “I've got his inhaler.”

“It'd be really awesome if that kind and benevolent coach gave the kid one more chance,” Scott insists. Finstock glances between them, as if he's about to pull his hair out. He seems to stew in his own indecision for a moment before there's a bit of commotion on the field.

“Greenberg! I'm pretty sure it's against the Geneva Convention for you to even touch a lacrosse stick! Get your ass back on the bench!” He turns back to Scott, giving him a once over. He grimaces but throws up his hands. “Fine! Get in line, McCall. You-” he says, jabbing a finger in Stiles' direction. “-call 911 and have them book us an ambulance.”

“Thanks, Coach!” Scott says, smiling as he runs out to the field. Once he lines up, Jackson gets in his face.

“Looking to cause another scene?” he asks snidely. Scott does his best not to let Jackson tower over him.

“I just want to play,” he says. Jackson gives him a mocking smirk, hands tightening around his lacrosse stick.

“Listen, Rudolph, this isn't like your little game of tag. The other team isn't going to go easy on you just because you're wheezing up and down the field,” he says. Scott squares his shoulders and refuses to break Jackson's glaring contest.

“Just let him shoot, man,” Danny calls from the net. Finstock blows his whistle to signal the beginning of the tryouts. Jackson glares at Scott for a moment longer before stalking out toward the goal.

“Let me take this one,” he tells Danny. Danny levels him with a disapproving frown, but steps out of the goal nonetheless. Scott then notices that the other guys in line have stepped back, leaving him at the front. Nervously, he scoops up the ball and tries to ignore how his blood is now running cold throughout his entire body. Reassuring himself with one last deep breath, he digs his borrowed cleats into the grass and sprints forward. When he reaches the shot line, he feints high but shoots low to Jackson's left side.

Then the unbelievable happens.

Jackson falls for the feint, reaching high as the ball goes down past his leg and into the net. The field is silent save for Stiles' excited cheer. Scott doesn't breathe for a moment and it has nothing to do with his asthma. Jackson is looking more and more furious with each passing second he stares at the ball. The assistant coach blows his whistle and Scott goes to move to the back of the line when something hits him hard in the center of his back. He turns around, rolling his shoulders to alleviate the sting, and sees Jackson's white knuckle grip on his lacrosse stick, as if he was imagining wringing Scott's neck.

“Again!” Jackson barks out. Scott looks to the assistant coach, who's about to blow the whistle when Finstock stops him.

“No, no. Let's see where this goes. Hey, kid! Did you call for that ambulance?” he calls back to Stiles. Scott ignores them, looks down at the ball, and scoops it up. Okay. Okay, fine. He's here to show what he can do. He's here to prove that he belongs on this team. He digs his cleats in and sprints again. This time though, Jackson leaves the goal, charging him head on. Startled, Scott makes a dead stop and spins to evade. At first he thinks he's done it; the goal is clear and he's managed to hang on to the ball. He rears up to take the shot when he's bulldozed from the side. The next thing he knows he's staring up at the sky with a dull pain in his arm from landing on the ground.

And now he's pissed.

He glares up at the sky a little longer, teeth clenched and taking shallow, angry breaths. He hears people running over to him. A voice, most likely Finstock's, asks if he's about to die on his precious field. Instead of answering, he pushes himself up and grabs his stick. Jackson is back in the net, smirking at him.

“If you want a hobby that badly, maybe you should pick up yoga, McCall,” he says, his tone heavy with fake sincerity.

“Again,” Scott shoots back at him. This time Finstock isn't as willing to let it continue.

“You're not the only one trying out, kid. Jackson! Quit egging him on; you don't need a manslaughter conviction on your record at your age. Trust me.”

Scott doesn't listen. He charges the net, stick at the ready. Again, Jackson runs out to met him, already turning to his side to body check Scott to the ground. Instead, Scott turns his shoulder as well, only going much lower than Jackson. When they collide, Scott can feel Jackson bend slightly over his back. Taking the opportunity, Scott braces and straightens up, flipping Jackson over and onto the ground. He doesn't bother taking a moment to marvel at what he's just done this time, instead continuing his run to the goal and slinging the ball in.

There's cheering in the stands. Scott can see Stiles fist pumping the air, letting everyone around him know that that's his friend on the field. Scott can't help the large grin that splits his face. It gets bigger when he sees that Allison is cheering too. His shoulder and his arm hurt something fierce, and his legs are still shaky from adrenaline, but he's feeling like he's on top of the world right now. Nothing could make this day better.

“McCall! Get your ass over here!” Coach Finstock yells from the sidelines. Scott jogs over to him as Danny retakes his spot at the goal and tryouts continue. He actively avoids making eye contact with Jackson, not wanting a fist fight to break out.

“Yeah, Coach?” he asks.

“What in God's name was that?”

“I don't know. I was just- trying to make the shot,” Scott replies honestly.

“Yeah, well you made the shot. And guess what. You're startin', buddy. You made first line."

-

“First line! That's awesome! Right? That's good? I don't actually know a thing about sports, I'll be honest,” Stiles says afterward, meeting him in the school parking lot.

“It's very good,” Scott tells him faintly. His head is still spinning from all of this. “How am I gonna keep that up?” he asks, mostly to himself.

“What do you mean?” Stiles asks. Scott doesn't reply right away, instead stretching his sore muscles. He works out as much as he can, chin-ups in the door of his bathroom in the morning, push-ups before bed. But he's starting to wonder if he's bitten off more than he can chew. How will he be able to keep up on the field? How long will Stiles' homeopathic remedy keep his lungs clear?

“I'm maybe freaking out again,” he admits. Stiles puts a hand on his hip and runs another through his hair.

“Okay,” he says, glancing around the lot. “How 'bout this? Why don't you show me around town? Get your mind off of it for a little while?”

That sounds like an awesome idea.

They walk with Scott's bicycle between them, Stiles occasionally asking a question about people or a business. Scott promises to take him to the best burger joint when he gets his next paycheck, but Stiles says something about starting a diet pretty soon. That confuses Scott, because his new friend looks underfed if anything. They don't really have a destination, but Scott notices he's subconsciously steering them in the direction of the clinic. He's about to ask where Stiles lives when Stiles starts to slow in front of the Sheriff's Department (a place Scott personally has no love for), eventually coming to a stop, hands in his pockets and a blank expression on his face. There's a melancholic air around him all of a sudden, so much so that Scott almost feels like he's intruding on something by just being near him. He looks between Stiles and the building once, wondering if he should say something.

“Stiles?” he says, gently. At first he doesn't think his friend hears him, but Stiles speaks up.

“There a lot of crime here in Beacon Hills?” he asks. Scott blinks and looks at the building again.

“Not really? I mean, nothing ever really happens here. Well, except for the animal attack-” Scott cringes as soon as the words are out of his mouth. Stiles, however, zeros in on him, looking incredibly interested.

“Animal attack?” he presses. Scott fiddles with the breaks of his bike, sparing another nervous glance to the Sheriff's Department before motioning for Stiles to continue down the sidewalk with him.

“Yeah,” he says once his paranoia lets him feel they're out of hearing range of the police force. “A cop came in to the clinic a couple of nights ago with photos of a body. Looked like he'd been torn up pretty bad.”

“Do they know what kind of animal?” Stiles asks, no longer bothering to look where he's walking. Scott has to pull him out of the way of a parking meter before he answers.

“The cop asked if it might have been a wolf, but Dr. Deaton says he thinks it was a mountain lion,” he says as they stop to wait for the light to change.

“A wolf.”

“Yeah, but there haven't been any wolves in California-”

“-For sixty years? I've heard that,” Stiles intercepts. “So, are mountain lions, like, an issue around here?”

“Not usually,” Scott says, shrugging. They cross the street and walk in silence through a crowd of people, letting them pass before continuing. “So hey, do you live around here?” he asks. Stiles blinks, then takes in his surroundings. He looks back in the direction they'd just come from and gives a nervous laugh.

“Oh my god, actually I live... on the other side of school,” he says.

“Dude! You should have said something!”

“Hey, no big deal. I asked you to show me around. Plus, walking will help me learn what is where. Don't worry about it, you go on,” Stiles says, already walking backwards.

“Yeah, okay,” Scott says. He bites his lip, but jogs with his bike to catch up with Stiles again. “Hey,” he starts, getting Stiles to stop. “Thanks. For today. For helping me out. That was really cool of you.” He smiles at his new friend. “I'll see you at school tomorrow?” he asks. Stiles slowly smiles back to him.

“Yeah. Absolutely.”

-

“Someone is certainly in a better mood today,” Dr. Deaton comments when Scott shows up for work. Scott can't help the grin on his face, doesn't even bother to try and stifle it. He's still worried about lacrosse, but too much has happened on the side of amazing in one day. He's so far on top of the world he doesn't even mind when Dr. Deaton asks him to close that night. He happily cleans cages and feeds the cats and changes out the newspaper of the bird holdings. He's sweeping up the examination room when he hears insistent pounding on the front door. Rushing out of the back, he's surprised to see Allison standing there in the rain, very upset and very wet. He quickly unlocks the door and lets her in.

“I didn't see it!” she says insistently. Scott brings his hands up to her arms trying to steady her. “I took my eyes off the road for, like, two seconds to change the song on my iPod and then this dog- it just came out of nowhere!” she says in a rush.

“It's alright, it's alright!” he reassures her. “Do you remember where it happened so I can send Animal Control to find it?”

“No! I mean, yes, I know where I hit it, but the dog is-”

“Where is it?” he asks.

“It's in my car,” she tells him, gesturing over her shoulder. She leads him over to the back of an SUV, opening the door to reveal the dog in question. And it is not happy. It snaps at Allison with a bark that ends in a pained whimper. Scott gives Allison a sympathetic smile.

“Let me see if I have any better luck,” he says, slowly reaching for the dog.

He doesn't.

He barely pulls back in time to avoid being bitten and Allison gives him a concerned look. He laughs nervously, wiping his hands on his jeans. He holds up a finger, asking her to give him a second while he runs back into the clinic. He grabs the long, thickly padded glove that Dr. Deaton uses with the more aggressive animals and hesitates in front of the medicine cabinet.

On his first day working at the clinic, Dr. Deaton had laid down the ground rules, and Scott has kept to them pretty religiously ever since. Rule #1? He's not allowed to handle any of the drugs specifically from this cabinet. Biting his lip, takes the key from the side drawer and gets the tiny bottle that he needs. Grabbing a packaged syringe, he tears off the plastic and measures out the amount he needs. He hasn't just been cleaning and feeding while working here; he's been watching and paying attention. Given the breed and the size of the dog, he can estimate the dosage. Just to be on the safe side, he goes for a little less. Once he's prepped the syringe, he heads back outside.

Allison is still standing as close as she dares under the open door of the trunk. She looks for all the world like she wants to comfort the animal but knows any action to do so would probably result in teeth. She smiles a little at Scott when he reaches her and he can't help the flip his stomach does. Shaking his head, he pulls the glove on and reaches out. He lets his hand get bitten, and even though he's protected by the glove, the dog's got quite a mean bite. He maneuvers the glove so he can get a gentle grip on its muzzle, turning it away as he inserts the needle with as much confidence as he can muster. The dog whimpers, but after a few moments, the drug kicks in.

He very carefully lifts the dog up and carries it into the clinic. He hears Allison close the trunk and rush to hold to the door open for him. Laying the injured dog gingerly on the table, he takes stock of its condition. Well, her condition, he notices.

“I think her leg is broken,” he tells Allison as she comes to stand next to him. “I've seen the doctor do plenty of splints. I can do that myself.” She smiles at him again, nodding and trying to hide a shiver. “Here,” he says, leaning over and fetching his spare shirt from his bag.

“Oh, no. I'm fine, really,” she insists, but he pushes the shirt into her arms nonetheless.

“Don't worry about it,” he says. Allison bites her lower lip and Scott can't help but find it as distracting as her smile.

“Thanks,” she says. She excuses herself into the next room, closing the door, and Scott's about to go start setting the dog's leg when he notices the very obvious window on the door in question. Allison pulls her wet shirt over her head and Scott can't help but stare for a good few seconds before tearing his eyes away. The dog looks up at him with all the judgment in the world in her face.

“What? I didn't see anything.” He doesn't think she believes him. Allison walks back in and smiles at him, wrapping her arms around herself. They both go to say something, briefly talking over one another.

“I'm sorry, you go ahead-”

“No, no! It's fine. What were you going to say?” he asks.

“I, uh. I saw you play today. You were really good. Have you been playing long?” she asks him. Scott ducks his head, face reddening slightly.

“No, not really. That was the first time I've played in a while,” he admits. He doesn't quite want to tell her about his asthma – it's caused him so many problems already. Instead he works on the splint, and the conversation lulls as he focuses intently on the setting. Afterward, he walks Allison to her car and finds himself thinking of something Stiles said. “So... I heard there's a party Friday,” and it's the worst segue he's ever heard.

“I wasn't actually planning on going,” she admits. Scott takes a deep breath and goes for it.

“Would you reconsider going with me?” he asks. Was that smooth? It felt smooth. Allison is smiling again, so it either was smooth or he just made an idiot out of himself.

“I think I'd like that,” she tells him.

Definitely smooth.

As Allison's car rounds the corner, Scott throws his arms in the air and lets out whoop of victory. He might have even jumped a little. Whatever, he doesn't care, he's got a date! He's got a date, and a friend, and a place on the lacrosse team and absolutely nothing can top this feeling. He practically skips back into the clinic, never once noticing the displaced waver of light within the area of the lamp hanging above the door.

-

Scott might be freaking out again. But it's the good kind of anxiety, the kind that has his legs jittering and his palms sweating and a perpetual grin on his face. He hasn't told his mom about lacrosse yet. He wants to wait until she's at least had a full night's sleep to spring that up on her. It's difficult, however, to hide the sheer amount of clothes he has strewn all over his room.

“Jeez. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you have a hot date,” she teases him from his doorway. Scott doesn't know what shows on his face; delight, guilt, gastric distress. Whatever it is, his mom's eyes widen. “Oh my god, do you have a date?” she asks with an excited smile. Scott feels the grin stretch wider across his face as he looks down at the shirt in his hands.

“It's a party,” he says. His mom just leans forward, eyebrows high. “And maybe it's a date,” he admits. She makes an small, excited sound, coming into his room and picking up a few discarded shirts.

“Is she nice?” she asks, laying the clothes out on his bed.

“She's nice,” Scott says.

“What's her name?”

“Allison.”

“Allison,” his mom repeats, smiling. She lifts up a shirt and holds it to his shoulders. “And is she in some of your classes?”

“Yeah, her and Stiles both,” he answers, taking the shirt from her and pulling it over his head.

“What's a stiles?” she asks. Scott laughs, running a hand through his hair.

“He's new, too. I showed him around school and stuff,” Scott says. “He seems pretty cool.” He doesn't go into any further detail. He's not really sure what else to say that won't lead him into a discussion about his asthma or lacrosse. His mom doesn't pry, just gives him a hug.

“A date, new fiends! Scott, this is so great. I'm so proud of you. You're finally coming out of your shell,” she says. He hugs back, not telling her that most of that was under duress. She's right, though. This is great. Everything is coming together.

-

So chemistry is turning out to be a bit of a bitch. Same with algebra and economics. Staring at equations for so long has given him the mother of all migraines, and makes him want to gnaw on bone, be it human or animal, he really doesn't care. He's chewed on his own finger absentmindedly, so intent on learning eight years’ worth of material that he barely notices when he does, in fact, hit bone. It only comes to his attention when the blood slips past his tongue and lands on his compound homework, staining exercise six a dark red.

Stiles pauses and stares at it for a moment before putting his pencil down. He straightens out of the hunched over position he'd been sitting in for the past five hours, sections of his spine popping loudly as he stretches. Chemistry is a bitch, but it's also freaking amazing. All of his subjects are. He's actually been so focused on catching up in his classes that he hasn't been keeping as sharp an eye on the Argents as he should. But he's already decided he's in this for the long haul, so catching up on school work doesn't feel like such a setback. In fact, sheer determination and fascination has gotten him pretty far in understanding the current material. The thought of even attempting something like this when he was younger and so incredibly unfocused is laughable.

He wonders if his dad would be proud.

The thought stills him, ruins any possible chance of getting back into his studies. Maybe he's not as far away from his inability to concentrate as he'd first believed. Sighing, he pushes the book and notepad off of his lap and stands. His accommodations aren't exactly cozy. This rundown office building hasn't seen a living soul for at least a couple of years. The scribbling of his pencil just minutes before echoed slightly throughout abandoned hallways and empty offices. Enough natural light streams in through dusty windows during the day for him to read, and during the night he sneaks into the local library, using their computers to help supplement anything his textbooks can't quite teach him.

Would it be worth missing the party to finally investigate the police station, he wonders.

He's worked hard enough getting Allison and Scott moving in the right direction that to have it fall apart now would result in this being a huge waste of time. But Scott's a big boy, Stiles reasons. He doesn't need his friend hovering while trying to make a move. Good. Great.

That frees him up then.

-

The department looks exactly how he remembers it, at least on the outside. The worn brick, the metal lettering, everything stands the way it did eight years ago. So much has changed; new buildings, new businesses. It's odd, in a way, to see how so much has sprung up, while the old is left abandoned to wither away. But the station. The station has remained the same.

Stiles can't help but smile, even though his heart feels like it's about give out. He blinks rapidly, trying to gather himself. Looking both ways, he crosses the street, heading toward the double glass doors and walking in. It's warmer inside the building than outside, and the contrast of temperatures makes him shiver. He stands there awkwardly for a moment, watching the officers and department personnel go about their jobs. He can hear the chatter throughout the building, occasionally zeroing in on the name “Cruz” and words like “investigation” and “suspicious deaths” are tossed around. They must have found his dump site, which means-

And then he sees Miss Tara and he stops dead in his tracks.

She had only just quit her job as a school teacher to join the department when Stiles first met her, but Officer Graham had always been nice and patient with him. The familiarity of her is like a beacon, pulling his feet forward to the front desk, mindless of the other people in the room. He only stops when his shoes brush against the bottom of the desk.

“Can I help you?” Miss Tara asks without looking up from her paperwork. Stiles' opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He just stares, eyes roaming over her face, taking in and remembering every detail. When he's silent for too long, she looks up at him. “Kid, can I help you?”

Stiles takes a deep breath.

“I'm new in town,” he says, voice shaking slightly. “I was wondering if you had, uh. A pamphlet or something. With, uh, with the town emergency systems, you know, what to do in an earthquake. Where the fallout shelters are, that kind of stuff...” He trails off, suddenly feeling jittery and anxious. He nervously drums his fingers on top of the counter and tries to smile. Tara, a deputy now, he sees, gives him a concerned once-over.

“What's your name?” she asks, softly

“Stiles Kowalski.”

“Stiles,” she says, “are you in some kind of trouble? Do you need to talk to someone?” She keeps things vague. Whether or not she's asking about possible abuse or something else, he has to wonder what he must look and sound like to her. A kid randomly taking a field trip to the police station? Who does that?

He used to do that. All the time.

“No,” he says, swallowing thickly. “No, uh. I just-” And he has to stop when he chances a glance behind her and sees what used to be his father's office. There's a man he doesn't recognize walking around the room, a room that's no longer lined with photos, personal or work-related. It seems almost sterile. It's a glaring point of something that's other in an entire building that feels like home.

“-iles? Stiles.”

He forces himself to refocus on Miss Tara- Graham, he tells himself; Deputy Graham- and she looks like she's about to call Social Services at the drop of a hat. He clears his throat and drums his hands a little harder on the counter top.

“You know what? I'll google it. Thanks for your time,” he rushes out, turning on his heel and heading back out toward the door.

Stepping out of the station is like walking into a wall of ice, but the cold is something he knows how to deal with. Taking deep breaths that become visible when he exhales, he begins walking back to his shelter. His muscles are stiff, and his pace is brutal. People realize very quickly that he's not feeling polite, and they give him wide berth on the sidewalk. He doesn't care. He doesn't even register them. But he does remember the name that he saw on the sheriff's office door.

McCall.

-

Stiles stands at the bottom of the bleachers overlooking the lacrosse field on Saturday night. He's raging inside, a storm that threatens to rip his skin apart and destroy everything around him. It takes a great amount of his control not to tear into Scott's smiling face when the guy approaches him, dressed up in his uniform with a stick in hand.

“Hey, you made it! I didn't get your number, so I couldn't call you about the party,” Scott says, bouncing on his feet happily. Stiles digs his nails into his hands and forces himself to smile back.

“Don't have a phone,” he says simply. “I'm guessing things went alright?”

“It was great!” Scott says excitedly. He motions further up the stands, and Stiles turns to look. Allison smiles down at them and waves, and the man next to her gives them a polite nod. “I, uh, took her home and her dad may or may not have grilled me on their porch. I thought I was going to spontaneously combust,” he laughs nervously.

“Her father, huh?” Stiles asks, staring at the man.

“Yeah. But hey, I'm glad you made it. I need all the good luck I can get,” Scott says. Stiles looks back to him.

“... Good luck.” he repeats. Scott gives him another wide grin.

“Yeah!” he says, clapping Stiles' shoulder. “You're totally my good luck charm!”

That gives Stiles pause.

“Uh, but hey,” Scott continues. “Let's try not to tell my mom about this, yeah? I haven't exactly told her I'm on the team yet.”

“Haven't even met your mom,” Stiles says absently.

“Yeah, but you're gonna come over sometime, right?” Scott asks, almost nervously. Stiles looks at him for a moment before smiling.

“Totally.” Stiles hesitates before pressing on. “Guess I'll meet the sheriff, too, huh?” he asks. Scott's smile falters, his face torn between confusion and anxiety.

“What?” he asks.

“Your dad. He's the sheriff, right?”

“My dad-” Scott starts, before shaking his head. “Well, yeah. He ran for sheriff after the last one disappeared.”

Stiles holds his breath as he feels his talons dig further into his hand. He pushes it into his coat pocket.

“But he doesn't-” Scott starts. “He's not-”

“McCall! Get your ass on the field!”

Scott hesitates, his former excited energy significantly subdued, but he nods to Coach Finstock and runs out to group with the other players. Stiles eyes follow him out tohis position on the field. The game is about to start and he should really find a place to sit. He turns his gaze up to the Argents and forces his nails to retract.

“Allison!” he calls up. Allison blinks down at him before smiling politely.

“Hi! You're Scott's friend, right? Stiles?” she asks, holding out her hand. Stiles looks at it, but the blood coating his right palm at the moment won't exactly make the best first impression. Instead he reaches out with his left, weakly grabbing her fingers and giving them brief shake. Both she and her dad give him odd looks, but he ignores them.

“Yeah, yeah. Scott talks about you all the time. Thought I'd get to meet you at the party, but...” He shrugs in a manner asking what can you do? Allison brushes a strand hair out of her face before nodding.

“Scott figured you might have been studying,” she says.

“Yeah, I'm really behind,” Stiles replies quickly. He casts a pointed look back toward her father.

“Oh! Stiles, this is my dad. Dad, this is Stiles. He's a friend of Scott's.”

“Chris,” her father specifies. He goes for a handshake before stopping himself. Stiles and the Argents regard each other awkwardly before Stiles coughs.

“So. Think we have any chance of winning this?”

“Of course we do,” comes a voice from behind him. Allison's face lights up and she scoots over to let the strawberry blonde he's seen pal around with her slide in between her and Stiles. The girl has a sign with her that she pushes into Stiles' space, forcing him to move to the side a few feet. “Jackson's in top form this season, I can already tell.”

“Lydia, dad. Dad, Lydia,” Allison introduces. Stiles begins to tune them out as the girls start to talk amongst themselves. He looks out to the field where the game is already underway. Stiles has no idea how the game is played, but Scott definitely looks frustrated. He feels the poster board hit his arm again.

“Allison, you get that side. And you,” she says to Stiles. “Stan?”

“Stiles.”

“Whatever. Hold this end.” She jiggles the poster again, leaving no room for argument. He picks up the end with one hand, helping the girls raise the sign above their heads. He sees Scott look up to the stands, shoulders dropping. Stiles cranes his neck to read “We Love U Jackson” painted on the front of the board. He turns back to Scott and mimes gagging himself. He can see Scott give him a half smile from under his helmet. Stiles doesn't know why, but it makes him feel... good? Maybe. Doesn't matter; he obviously hit a raw nerve talking about the guy's dad, and he needs to stay on Scott's good side. Stiles chances a side glance to Allison and her father.

He's proud of himself, really. This close to them and he hasn't once been overwhelmed by the desire to rip open their chests and eat their hearts. Perhaps because they're in his periphery. They're not his primary targets, but he'll string them up all the same. In time. His mouth is starting to water and he has to force himself to look away.

Scott, he sees, is looking more and more agitated as the game progresses. A handful of plays later and, yes, Scott is definitely pissed, if the aborted move to throw his stick means anything. Stiles lets go of the sign corner he's been holding with his left hand, ignoring the girls' protests as he weaves his way between spectators down toward the field. He walks up behind the coach and leans forward.

“You should call for a timeout,” he says and he has to jerk back when Finstock flails his clipboard back toward Stiles' face. “Oh my god!”

“Jesus! You do not sneak up on people like that!” he yells. “A time out? Who is the coach here, you or me?”

“Just saying, I don't see a higher number on our side of the board...” Stiles says, gesturing to the score board.

“What's your point, kid?” Finstock asks.

“Let me talk to that guy,” Stiles says, pointing to Scott.

“What good's that gonna do? Some starter he's turning out to be,” Finstock says, tossing down his clipboard.

“Just let me talk to him,” Stiles repeats. Finstock throws his hands up in frustration.

“Fine. Time out. Sure. You better have the single most inspirational speech mankind has ever heard, because nothing less is going to save him from getting benched.” Finstock walks over to the ref. “Time out!” A whistle is blown and teams move to their side of the field. Scott drags his feet over to the sidelines.

“What's the problem, dude?” Stiles asks. Scott wrenches his helmet off and glares in Jackson's direction.

“They won't pass to me, even when I'm wide open,” Scott says through his teeth. “And I know it's because of Jackson. I just know it!” Stiles right hand has healed by now, but it's still bloody; he reaches out with his left and grabs the back of Scott's neck.

Much like his dad did with him a long time ago.

“Then make them pass to you,” Stiles says. Scott shakes his head and gives him a look.

“And how am I supposed to do that?” he asks.

“Put yourself in a position where you can't be ignored,” Stiles tells him.

“But... how?” Scott's voice is almost desperate.

“This is your game, Scotty,” Stiles says. “Show them you have every right to play it."

A whistle is blown again and players begin running back out onto the field. Scott stares at Stiles a little longer before nodding slightly and putting on his helmet. Stiles doesn't bother going back up into the bleachers, instead choosing to stand near the player benches. The game restarts and this time, instead of staying in his position, Scott begins to assert himself more and more in vital areas. His teammates still seem to be avoiding passing to him, but it's obvious that Scott is getting into the best positions for a pass. Eventually, Danny seems to have no other choice; all of his other teammates are either pinned or in poor spots.

Everyone but Scott.

Danny only scans the field once. As soon as he sees Jackson in a bind, he doesn't hesitate. He whips his stick and slings the ball to Scott. Scott, upon catching the ball and being almost alone on his part of the field, takes off like a shot toward the goal. He does a similar feint that he used at tryouts, fooling the goalie, and taking the shot. The ball flies gracefully into the net.

Cheers erupt from the stands and Finstock nearly strangles the assistant coach in his excitement. From then on, whatever pass-embargo Jackson had placed on Scott seemed to be lifted. Scott only makes one more score, but he's an amazing assist, helping his teammates who are now freely working with him get good openings for clean shots.

The night ends 5-4 in Beacon Hills' favor.

Fans begin to file away from the field in good spirits. Stiles waves to Lydia and the Argents absently as they go to wait in the parking lot for Jackson and Scott. Stiles decides to take the shorter route, instead leaning back outside against the wall of the locker room. He still has to talk to Scott about the guy's father. He doesn't know why he's so hung up on it; of course someone would have taken the position. Certainly after a few months of searching and definitely after eight years. But something about the entire situation grates at him, leaves him feeling raw and exposed.

He's brought out of his own, turbulent thoughts when he hears a commotion coming from inside the locker room. He pushes off of the wall and walks in, following the sounds of raised voices through the gear racks and lockers.

“It's a freaking team sport, Jackson!” Stiles hears Scott yell. “I get that you don't like me, but that's no reason to actively try to lose us the game!”

“You don't belong on the team, McCall! The minute you start wheezing like a bitch on the field, everyone else is going to realize it too!” There's a sound like a body being slammed up against a wall and Stiles steps fully into the tiled area.

“Jackson Whittemore!” he says, loudly and with a false friendliness. Jackson turns his head to look at him from where he has Scott pinned up against the wall and fists tight in Scott's jersey. Stiles notices a row of sinks and walks casually over to them. “Stiles Kowalski, with the school paper,” he lies. He turns on the tap and washes off the blood on his palm. At this angle, neither Jackson nor Scott can see his hands. “Would you like to comment on this season's first big win?” He turns off the tap and shakes out his hands, turning back to the them, a wide smile on his face. Jackson glares at him, nostrils flaring and he shoves Scott back into the wall once more before backing off.

“Comment? Sure,” Jackson says through his teeth. “Go fuck yourselves.” And with that, he turns on his heel and heads back toward the lockers.

“A dick, you said,” Stiles says, once he's sure Jackson has left. “Sorry, pal, but that right there is a Class A Douchenozzle.” Scott rubs his chest and chuckles lightly before his face falls. “You alright? Are you breathing okay?”

“My breathing's fine,” Scott says with a small smile to Stiles. “It's just...” he trails off. Shaking his head. “One of these days I'm gonna break his nose.”

“Why didn't you?”

“Wouldn't help in the long run,” Scott says, pulling his jersey over his head and walking over to the lockers.

“It would help make you feel better,” Stiles tells him. “Nothing quite like breaking a face...” Scott raises an eyebrow.

“Get into a lot of fights?” he asks.

“Fights? No, not really. Just saying, it seems like he due for a good punch to the schnoz.” Stiles leans against one of the lockers and waits for Scott to change. “Allison was waiting for you in the parking lot,” he says as an afterthought. That seems to speed up Scott's efforts, stuffing his gear bag hard as he could into his locker.

“Why didn't you say?!”

The parking lot is almost empty when they leave the locker room. Allison and her dad are nowhere to be seen. Scott's shoulders slump a bit, but then he shrugs and turns to Stiles with a smile.

“That was some turnaround, huh?” he asks, grin stretching wide. Stiles claps him on the back.

“You were awesome,” Stiles says. “I told you you could do it.” Scott gives him that look again. The one that makes Stiles feel like done something really right.

“Yeah, you did,” Scott says. “You should totally come over! We can celebrate! My mom's working a double. She won't be home for a few hours, so I can sneak in a shower before she sees the mess I am.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Great!”

-

Heather was afraid of the dark. When their mothers would let them have extended play dates, they frequently fell asleep in pillow forts. But always with the door to the hall cracked or his nightlight on. He doesn't much care for the nightlight anymore, but his friend needed it, and he was willing to turn his face into the blanket to avoid its distracting light.

They don't have sleepovers like that after his mother dies. But even amidst the silence of the house and the sadness in his heart, he worries about her, especially after learning she would be moving soon. Bringing the nightlight down to his dad, he asks if he could give it to her, so she wouldn't have to be scared of the dark in her new home. Because he isn't scared of the dark.

He never has been.

-

The McCall house is nice. There's quite a bit of it that reminds Stiles of the home he once had. It's still standing, he's seen, but a new family has taken up residence. Any belongings of his and his father's would have either been given to some distant relative, auctioned off, or repossessed. But Scott's house is warm and inviting, well lived in and loved. Stiles can even see scratches marked into the door frame leading to the kitchen, indicating Scott's growth over the years. Something about it makes him smile. Scott hangs up his coat and Stiles does the same before they head upstairs.

“Uh, ignore the mess?” Scott laughs as he picks up a shirt off of the floor.

“No worries,” Stiles says, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. Scott wheels over his deck chair closer to his television.

“I'll order pizza and we can play a little Call of Duty?”

“What's that?” Stiles asks as he sits down. Scott pauses as he hands Stiles a controller.

“Are you kidding?” he asks. Stiles shrugs.

“No? Last game I played was Jak II.” And he never finished, now that he remembers.

“Jak II? Dude, that was, like, a decade ago almost. Where've you been?” Scott asks jokingly. Stiles stares down at an unfamiliar controller and says nothing. Scott shifts, face falling. “Uh, nevermind. I'll, uh, call the pizza place really fast.” Stiles takes the time to try to familiarize himself with the controls in the game's menu. Scott pokes his head back out of the bathroom. “Would you mind if I called Allison and thank her for coming to the game?”

“Go for it. See if you can get that second date,” Stiles says. Scott gives him a thumbs up and ducks back into the bathroom. It gives Stiles some time to start the tutorial. He's determined not to suck at this and he's not quite sure why. Quickly, though, he begins to get the hang of it, fingers no longer hesitating on triggers or buttons. By the time Scott comes back, he's not entirely clueless.

“Second date is a green light!” Scott says, bouncing into a seating position on his bed with his controller in hand.

“Congratulations. Where is your next romantic rendezvous?”

“Well,” Scott says, his face falling again. “More like a double date. She and Lydia want to take me and Jackson bowling.” Stiles grimaces.

“Oh my god. You gonna be alright?” he asks.

“Sure,” Scott says, navigating the game menu. “I'm not the best bowler, but I've been putting up with Jackson for years.”

But you shouldn't have to put up with him, comes the unbidden thought. Stiles shakes his head and focuses back on the television. Whatever. It's not his business. As long as things go well between Scott and Allison, Stiles still has his connection to the Argents, thin though it may be. He chooses, instead, to change the subject.

“So, your dad's the sheriff.”

Scott stiffens beside him and sighs.

“Yeah, so?” he says shortly.

“So is he working late too?” Stiles asks.

“No. I mean, I don't know. He won't be coming home here,” Scott says almost bitterly. “Especially if he knows what's good for him.” Scott's headshots an enemy with extreme prejudice.

“Oh. Divorce?” Stiles asks tentatively.

“Yeah.”

“Was that before or after he became sheriff-”

“Who cares?!” Scott suddenly yells. The room falls silent save for the mayhem on the screen. After a minute or two, Scott sighs. “Sorry. Before. He won election for sheriff after the last one went missing, and even went for re-election a couple of years ago. He always talked about joining the FBI, I have no idea why being a small town sheriff suddenly jumped to the top of his list of life goals.”

“... Went missing, huh?” Stiles asks distantly. Scott seems grateful for the slight diversion.

“Yeah, it was weird. The sheriff – Stilinski, I think? – and his son. They left town one day and never came back. My dad was in charge of the investigation, but they never found anything. One of the ladies down at the station said they only went camping, but some people around town think he snapped after his wife died.”

Stiles feels his grip on the controller almost crack the plastic. Thank god the doorbell rings, signaling the arrival of the pizza. Otherwise, Scott probably would have been out a television set. And a controller. And a chair. Stiles tries to regain composure while Scott runs downstairs.

McCall was in charge of the investigation.

Stiles wonders if he should make room in his plans for one more.

-

He wasn't born with this hunger. It came not long after all he had left was taken from him. It came when he was close to death himself, scared, cold, and alone. When every breath hurt and no one could hear his pained sobbing. It clawed its way into him when he no longer had the strength to call for a father he knew couldn't save him.

And as much as it frightened him, he didn't fight it.

-

Scott's practically vibrating out of his skin on Monday. People are patting him on the arm, offering high-fives. A couple of pretty girls even wink as he walks by. He can't help the spring in his step and the grin on his face. Stiles gives him a look when he makes it to his locker.

“Jeez. Who put sunshine in your cereal?” he asks.

“What does that even mean?” Scott laughs and he gets his books.

“It's something my mom-” Stiles cuts himself off. “Nevermind. You just look like the world is made of rainbows and kittens.”

“Chinchillas,” Scott says.

“Chinchillas?"

“Yep! Rainbows and chinchillas.” Scott closes his locker and leans against it. “And lacrosse. And Allison.” He must still have that dopey grin on his face because Stiles rolls his eyes.

“Still feel like your arms and legs are about to fall off?” Stiles asks.

“They're a little sore, yeah. But the more I practice with the team and work out, the less I'll feel it, yeah?” Scott flexes an arm to be funny and nearly jumps when Allison comes up from behind his and gives his bicep a squeeze.

“Impressive!” she says teasingly with a beautiful smile on her face. Stiles snorts and ducks his head. Scott pouts at both of them and lowers him arm. “Are we still on for tonight?”

“Yeah! It'll be fun!” he says, if a bit strained. Allison gives him a small smile and leans in.

“Just between us, I would have preferred something a little more private,” she says in a stage whisper. Scott knows his eyes are the size of dinner plates when she laughs and Stiles gives a low whistle. Allison waves them goodbye, walking toward class, leaving Scott to collapse against his locker.

“Private,” he breathes out.

“Yep,” Stiles says as he shuts his locker.

“She would have preferred it.”

“That's what she said. Scott, buddy? You still with me? Take a breath and start walking. We're gonna be late for class!”

Scott stays in a state of jittery anticipation for the rest of the morning. Yeah, their date won't be in private, but it could have been, and something about that puts the spring back in his step up to lunch. He makes a face at his eggplant parmesan, but he knows better than to knock something until he's tried it. He frowns when he walks up to his and Stiles' table to see his friend again doesn't have anything in front of him.

“You're not eating?” he asks.

“It's Veggie Day in the cafeteria. That's just something I can't get behind, you know, spiritually,” Stiles says. Scott chuckles.

“Then go get something from the vending machines,” he says, taking a bite of the eggplant. It's... not the worst thing he's ever tried, but he can't stop the grimace on his face. Stiles hasn't said anything or moved to go get a bag of chips or whatever. Scott looks up from his tray to see Stiles fixated on something a table over. Turning his head, his just sees a group a group of guys from the lacrosse team. He's about to ask Stiles what the problem is when he notices one of them has a fresh cut on his leg. “Wow, he should go see the school nurse.”

“What?” Stiles asks absently, turning back to Scott. His Adam's apple bobs and Scott swears he looks even hungrier.

“Dude, seriously. Go get some Reese's or something,” Scott presses. Stiles shakes his head, scrubbing a hand across his face.

“I'm fine,” he says.

“Do you not have a dollar or something?” And as Scott says it, he realizes that very well may be the case. Stiles hasn't talked much about his home life, and the rumor going around that he lives alone is gaining more and more ground with him. Without hesitation, Scott reaches into his bag for his wallet. He was going to pick up some Chinese for his mom tonight in a ploy for the car, but this seems more important. He mom gets a discount at the hospital cafeteria.

What does Stiles get on a daily basis?

“Here,” Scott says as he hands Stiles some money. Part of him expects Stiles to lash out, to turn down the money out of some sense of pride or embarrassment. Instead, Stiles looks at the money and gives Scott a small smile.

“Don't worry about it, Scotty. I'll eat something later,” he says. He glances briefly back at the player before looking back at the table. Scott slowly pulls his hand back. He knows he probably shouldn't push the situation, but it's hard not to offer again. But he doesn't.

Instead, in their next class, he slips the money in Stiles bag when his friend is up answering a question on the board. It doesn't make him feel better, per se. He'd feel better if Stiles had helped him eat that pizza last night or at least tried the eggplant. He'd feel better if Stiles didn't look half-starved all the time. He doesn't like the idea of not knowing what to do about it, so he tries to focus on other things throughout the day. In their last class of the day, however, an announcement makes refocusing easier.

“Due to the recent investigation into the deaths of two of our own police department, a curfew is being instated for all persons under eighteen in Beacon Hills,” their teacher says, resulting in a class wide groan.

“A curfew?” Scott stands outside of the school with Stiles, upset over this new development.

“Curfews aren't exactly conductive to date nights, man,” Stiles points out needlessly. Allison weaves through the crowd of home-bound students toward them.

“Looks like we'll have to take a raincheck,” she says sadly.

“No, no!” Scott rushes out. “We can... It's totally doable. If you still want to do it.” Scott blushes. “Bowling! If you still want to do bowling!” he clarifies. He knows Stiles is rolling his eyes, but Allison is smiling at him again.

“Yeah, sure! We'll show Lydia and Jackson how it's done,” she says. Scott tries not to wince.

“Totally,” he says. “I'm a great bowler...?” Stiles gives him a look, and Scott knows his lie is obvious, but Allison's not interested in talking about bowling anymore, if the gasp that slips past her lips is any indication. She rushes over to a tree, bending down by its roots. Scott and Stiles walk over to her, and Scott can see her trying to cradle a bird in her scarf. At first he thinks it's dead, but it suddenly jerks in her hands, a sign that it was just stunned. It begins to struggle a bit, making distresses chirping noises. Allison holds it firmly but gently.

“Poor thing,” she says.

“I think its wing might be broken,” Scott says, after having gotten a better look.

“Here,” Stiles says, standing above them where they are crouched. He has a hand out for the bird. “It can't survive like that. I'll take care of it.” The sudden coldness in his voice sends a shiver down Scott's spine. Allison looks confused, but hands him the bird nonetheless. Scott knows what he intends to do when Stiles brings his hand up to the bird's neck.

“Wait!” Allison shouts, reaching to take the bird back. Stiles doesn't fight her, looking almost confused by her intervention. She turns to Scott. “Can't we take it to the clinic?” she asks. He hesitates for a moment; it's a wild bird, common for the area. Certainly not a pet to be cared for. But something in himself and the look on Allison's face eventually makes him agree. Stiles seems baffled the whole way to the clinic.

Scott doesn't work today, but he's never felt the need to avoid the place on his days off. The bell chimes as the three of them walk in. He smiles at the sounds of Mr. Cornwall's litter of puppies barking happily in the kennels as he leads the other two toward the counter. Dr. Deaton appears out of the back and smiles at them.

“Hello, Scott,” he greets.

“Hey, boss. This is Allison and Stiles,” Scott introduces.

“Hello. What do we have here?” Dr. Deaton asks, gesturing it the bundle in Allison's arms. Allison unwraps the top to reveal the bird's head. Instead of popping its head up, it seems to try to burrow back into the scarf. Deaton walks over and takes the bird from her, giving a quick once-over of what he can see.

“Looks like it might be a broken wing,” he concludes. Scott smiles, mostly to himself, but Stiles throws him a thumbs up anyway.

“Can it be fixed?” Allison asks. “I'll pay.”

“Absolutely it can,” Deaton says. Allison gives a look toward Stiles that Stiles appears to choose to ignore. “We'll keep it here until the wing has mended and-” Deaton stops abruptly, turning his head toward the back room. Scott's about to ask him what's wrong when he notices it too.

The animals have all quieted. Probably have been for a minute or two without him noticing. Deaton looks down at the bird before sparing a glance between Allison and Stiles. It's a similar look that he had given to Officer Cruz that one night. However, Deaton smiles politely and ensures Allison that the bird will be well taken care of. Scott wants to go back with Deaton and check on the animals, and is just about to ask if he can when his cellphone goes off and he answers it.

“Scott McCall!” a voice yells.

Scott has only faced his mother's full wrath a handful of times. The time he accidentally broke his grandmother's vase, for example. He has a feeling this is worse than the vase.

“Mom? What's wrong?” he asks.

“What's wrong?” she repeats, incredulous. “How about finding out your son is playing a full contact, field sport behind your back!”

Scott feels all of the blood drain from his face.

“W-what-?”

“What the hell are you thinking? What the hell is that coach thinking? No. No, he's not going to even be a coach when I'm done with him-”

“Mom! Calm down!” Scott tries.

“Do not tell me to calm down. You are going to get your ass home right this instant and you are going to stay there until I get off work. Count on the longest grounding of your life, mister, I am not even joking,” she says.

“B-but!”

“Home. Now.”

And then she hangs up.

Scott stares at his phone, aware of the awkward tension that's now developed in the lobby of the clinic. He looks helplessly up at Allison.

“I think we might have to take a raincheck after all,” she says with a sad smile.

-

The forest didn't fall silent around him immediately. It happened over time as he grew and perfected his hunt. First the bigger game fled, the bears and the deer. The rabbits and foxes soon followed. Eventually, not even birds or insects felt safe enough to make too much sound. A dome of unsettling quiet falls over the area he wanders and stalks. No one seems to notice until it's too late, until they're bleeding out between his teeth.

-

Stiles stands under Scott's bedroom window and hears the arguing inside. Scott is on the defensive, trying to convince his mother that by some miracle he woke up one morning without asthma. Needless to say, it's doing nothing to aid to the credibility of his assertion. But there's not a lot Stiles can do to help him, as he doubts his home remedy lie with stand up to a trained medical professional. Still, this is a wrench thrown into things that he wasn't quite prepared to deal with yet.

“-and I had to find out from one of your friends? Really, Scott?”

“Friend? What friend?” Scott asks.

“The Whittemore kid. Came to tell me how excited he was to have you on the team this year,” his mom says, frustrated.

Whittemore. Jackson Whittemore. Stiles is almost impressed by the subterfuge displayed, would be if it hadn't have just screwed over Scott. Stiles thinks it might be best that Scott's not going bowling tonight, if for the sake of Jackson's health alone. Scott is quiet now, but Stiles knows he's probably seething. The arguing dies down from there. Scott's mom is tired and upset, and they agree to talk about it more tomorrow and yes, Scott is still grounded for life until she says otherwise. When Scott stomps his way to his room, Stiles throws a rock up to his window. After a couple of seconds, Scott pokes his head out.

“Are conjugal visits allowed?” Stiles quips. “You'd have to buy me flowers, but I think we can make an arrangement.” Scott throws an empty can out in the general direction of Stiles' head.

“Shut up,” Scott says halfheartedly. He looks down at the awning before glancing over his shoulder. “Wait just a second,” he says, ducking back into his room. He reappears wearing a hoodie, going head first out of the window and pulling his legs through. Very carefully he makes his way to the edge and then goes to jump off. The landing is less than graceful, but Stiles doesn't hear him break anything, so there's that.

“Oh my god, what are you doing?” he asks. Scott grabs him by the arm, guiding him away from the house.

“Come on. I don't want to be here right now.”

They wind up in a wooded area, a preserve if the sign half a mile back was to be believed. It's an area that Stiles feels a sense of familiarity with, especially after being immersed a town for as long as he has. He finds himself immediately taking stock of the landscape, casing the area as his instincts tell him to. This seems to be a place Scott comes to every now and then when he needs some time to himself, but Stiles has to wonder if he's ever been out here in the dark, because he doesn't seem to know where he's going. They're just sort of aimlessly wondering. In the cold. At night. It's perfect for something like Stiles. Not so much for someone like Scott. They don't say much; Scott seems content with just his company, and Stiles is fine with that for now. Eventually, the trees give way to an open field.

An open field with the burnt out shell of a house.

Stiles stops dead in his tracks. He knows whose house this is. He knows the family that lived here. The Hales.

“What happened here?” he hears himself asking.

“A fire,” Scott says. “This is the old Hale house. They were one of the big family names in Beacon Hills. A lot of them died in the fire, though.”

“How did it start?” Stiles asks. Scott shrugs.

“My dad told everyone it had something to do with faulty wiring.”

“Your dad was on this case, too?”

“Yeah, he was sheriff by this point,” Scott says, but it's obvious he doesn't want to talk about it anymore. He shivers and sticks his hands into the pocket of his hoodie.

“Come on, Scotty,” Stiles says, finally taking his eyes off of the shell of the house. “Let's head back.” Scott shuffles his feet, obviously still not ready to do that just yet. “Hey, I'll come over and talk to your mom tomorrow, okay?”

“What good will that do?” Scott asks.

“I'll just... tell her about Nana Kowalski's remedy. It'll be fine,” Stiles says with a sigh.

“Are you ever going to tell me what was in that?” Scot asks as he turns from the house.

“My tooth,” Stiles says, giving Scott wide grin. Scott huffs out a laugh and pushes him with his shoulder.

“Fine, keep your secrets,” he says. They start walking again for a while before Scott stops and tips his head to the side. “Huh, that's weird.”

“What is?” Stiles asks.

“The animals are quiet here, too. Must be the weather.”

-

Breaking into places around this town isn't hard, and Stiles can't help but worry about the state of Beacon Hills. Abandoned buildings left undemolished, businesses without security measures beyond a locked door. It's a bit unsettling, but he supposes this town hasn't seen any major delinquencies in a while. The deaths of two cops does seem to have the population talking, but beyond the curfew instated to protect the children, he hasn't noticed any other security measures taken. “Animal attack” is the phrase being thrown around, and it gives Stiles a bit of wiggle room. Plus, it seems a mauling unrelated to him has already happened anyway. It's the perfect cover.

But Scott showing him the Hale house has sparked his curiosity, hence his business in using the Beacon Hills public library after hours yet again. He vaguely remembers their faces, a troop of dark haired and quiet people. He thinks he might have been in kindergarten with their youngest, but that was too long ago. The one he can remember the clearest is the son. The name escapes him at the moment, but he does recall having to crane his head back just to look up at him, so he had to be a few years older.

He finds the microfiche room easily enough in the basement. He's picked up the date of the fire online already, and scans the archives until he finds the newspapers. Follow up papers of the investigation take a little longer to find, but eventually he's looking at them all projected on the screen. Scott was right; the fire was deemed electrical only after a couple of days of investigation. There were only three survivors named by the newspaper; Peter, Laura, and Derek Hale. There's a quick line that says Peter Hale was in the ICU for quite some time, and that Laura and Derek couldn't be reached for comment before they left town. Stiles doesn't blame them, really.

He contemplates, briefly, looking for the papers concerning the disappearance of Sheriff Stilinski and his son, but knows that doing so would just break his already waning concentration and self-restraint.

Well, he thinks as he begins to put everything away, he's given into his curiosity. He's gotten his answers and now he can go back to more important matters. Like convincing Scott's mom that he absolutely needs to play. It's not like Scott can't date Allison even if he wasn't on the team, but the look on Scott's face was nothing short of distraught and that bothers Stiles for whatever reason.

He sees Scott at school the next day, forehead pressed against his locker. He's glaring something fierce, and Stiles decides to tread lightly.

“I'm guessing the world's no longer rainbows and chinchillas.” Right. Lightly. He almost punches himself in his big mouth.

“It's definitely not lacrosse anymore,” Scott mutters, hitting his head against the locker once.

“Hey, I told you I'd talk to your mom. You know she's just worried about you,” Stiles says. That seems to ease some of Scott's frustration, but he's still far from reassured.

And the Jackson comes sauntering down the halls and Stiles knows the morning is about to take a turn for the painful.

As if to confirm this, Scott's fist ball at his side as Jackson gets closer.

“Hey, McCall,” Jackson says, a smirk on his face. “Sorry to hear about you quitting the team. But I guess some people just can't cut it.” He goes to mockingly pat Scott on the shoulder and end up with a row of knuckles to his nose.

For Scott's sake, Stiles should probably step in and put a stop to this, but blood is gushing from Jackson's nose and the smell of it is making him dizzy. The hollow in his stomach churns sharply, making his limbs feel like rubber and his head feel clouded. He's rooted in his spot, unwilling to let himself move lest he start ripping into Jackson's face right here in a hall full of students gathering around to watch the fight. That wouldn't exactly help his efforts to blend in.

“That's enough!” Mr. Harris shouts as he pushes his way through the circle of students. By now, Stiles has gathered himself enough to help pull Scott off of Jackson. Harris helps Jackson up and leans him against the row of lockers. “What the hell is going on?”

“He totally just jumped me!” Jackson says, his voice muffled as he holds his bleeding nose.

“Like you didn't have it coming,” Stiles hears himself say. He almost flinches when Harris zeroes in on him and Scott.

“I will not tolerate bullying amongst students in this school,” Harris says. Scott's jaw drops.

“Bullying? But he-”

“Detention, for you and Mr. Kowalski here,” Harris says, taking Jackson by the arm and leading him toward the school nurse. Stiles throws his hands up, and even flips Harris the bird. “Get to class, all of you,” Harris tells the lingering students. Stiles turns to bitch about the fairness of the world to see Scott staring into the crowd. Allison is standing there with Lydia, who looks furious. Allison just looks at Scott sadly, almost disappointed. She and Lydia follow the crowd as they turn away to head to homeroom. All the fight has drained out of Scott.

“No lacrosse and no Allison,” he says quietly.

“Hey, come on. You don't know that,” Stiles tries. Scott ignores him, picking up his bag and walking away. This is more drama than Stiles expecting to have to deal with. And now he has detention, damnit. Does that shit show up on his permanent record? Is the permanent record even a real thing? He shakes his head. What does he care? As soon as his business is done here, he's out of Beacon Hills and...

And he stops thinking about it as the late bell rings.

-

“This blows,” Stiles can't help but complain as he and Scott sit in Harris' classroom. Harris shushes him and returns to grading papers. Scott doesn't say anything, just stares at his notes in an attempt to feign studying. Stiles frowns and pulls out a piece of paper. Sparing a glance toward Harris, he scratches out a note and passes it to Scott.

Relax. We'll fix this.

Scott stares at the note for a moment before writing down a response.

You can't solve all of my problems.

To Stiles, this sounds like a challenge.

Doesn't mean I can't try.

Scott reads the note and looks him in the eye for a moment before reaching down for Stiles' bag. Confused, Stiles watches him open a pocket and pull out some money he hadn't realized was there. Scott practically slams it down on Stiles notebook and writes a response.

Why won't you let me help you ?

Stiles doesn't reply, just stares at the bills on his notebook. His vision blurs and he has to blink several times disperse the moisture. Scott has the wrong idea about his situation, but the offer is almost overwhelming in a way. His breath catches in his throat and he has to force it down. They don't pass notes for the rest of detention, instead sitting in such a strong silence that it seems to make Harris uncomfortable, because he lets them out ten minutes early. Stiles takes a deep breath as they exit the school, trying to gather himself.

“Look, Scott, I don't know what you think is going on, but-” he starts.

“I don't know what to think, Stiles,” Scott says sadly. “You won't talk to me about anything.”

“I talk to you all the time.”

“Yeah, about everything but yourself,” Scott counters. “Look, you're a really cool guy and an awesome friend. But sometimes this feels really one sided, you know? You're always helping me out, but you won't let me do that same. Why?” Stiles opens his mouth to say something, anything, but then Allison comes up the sidewalk to them. She must have been waiting for them to get out of detention.

“Hi,” she says as she reaches them. Stiles clenches his mouth shut and says nothing, merely offering her a small wave. And while Scott seems upset that Stiles has closed off again, he's happy to see her.

“Allison, about what happened in the hall-”

“Lydia told me what Jackson did,” she says, cutting him off. “That was pretty low of him.”

“Low isn't really the word I would use,” Stiles mutters. Scott gives him an appreciative smile.

“I might have over reacted,” Scott says, but Stiles knows he doesn't really mean it. Allison smiles at him nonetheless.

“Well, my aunt's in town so my parents are making this really nice dinner-”

“Your aunt?” Stiles can't help but interrupt. No. So soon? Could he really be that lucky? Allison nods.

“Yeah, my Aunt Kate. She and my dad were friends with the policemen that were killed. She's in town for the funerals,” she says. “Anyway, Scott, I was wondering if you'd like to come over for dinner.”

“Really?” Scott says. He looks a cross between hopeful and nauseated. “You want me to meet your family?”

“Only if you want to!” Allison rushes.

“Yeah, sure!” Scott says. Stiles elbows him. “Oh- but. I have to talk to my mom when I get home...”

“Call me when you know if you can?” she asks.

“Definitely!” Scott says. When Allison waves at them and walks to the now almost empty parking lot, Stiles turns to Scott.

“I might be able to talk your mom into letting you play, but I'm pretty sure she'll still want you under house arrest,” he says. Scott's face turns white.

“Dude, Allison just gave me a second chance without me begging. I've got to try,” he says. Stiles nods. Scott's mind is off of their earlier conversation and he'd like to keep it that way.

“Alright then. Let's go convince your mom to stop being legitimately pissed with you.”

Scott groans.

When they arrive at the house, Stiles has to drag Scott through the guy's own front door, which is kind of understandable, but mostly annoying. Finally, he just uses a spurt of strength to toss him into the entryway of the kitchen. Scott gives him a surprised look, but his mother is already walking out of the kitchen.

“You're late,” she says.

“I... had to stay after class,” Scott admits. His mother sighs loudly, but Stiles has stopped listening.

Because he remembers this woman.

-

He's crying so hard it hurts and makes it difficult to breathe. His dad told him to look after his mom and now she's dead and his dad is going to be so angry. He feels like his head is going to explode as the room spins. Suddenly, he feels hands push themselves under his arms and he's lifted up. A kind voice is telling him to take deep breaths and he tries, he tries so hard. Eventually, she sets him down in a chair and instructs him to put his head between his knees and try again. A warm hand rubs gentle circles on his back and soon he's able to take in a deep gulp of air. He's still crying, but at least now he can breathe a little.

Sniffing, he looks up to see dark curly hair and loving brown eyes. They're not the same brown as his mother's, because those are eyes he's never going to see again, but he stretches out his arms anyway and the nurse draws him in, speaking calmly to him until his hiccupping sobs subside.

-

Scott is trying not to let this turn into another argument, so he turns to Stiles for help, but Stiles is looking at his mom in surprise and no small amount of sadness.

“Stiles?” he asks. His friend jumps a little. “A little help?” he asks. Stiles blinks a few times before nodding.

“Uh, Mrs. McCall, hi. I'm Stiles,” he says, holding out his hand. Scott's mom is still exasperated, but shakes Stiles' hand anyway.

“Hello, Stiles,” she says. Stiles doesn't let her hand go right away, but when he does he rubs the back of his neck.

“I know you're really upset about Scott joining the lacrosse team-” he starts.

“That would be an understatement,” she says. Stiles nods, conceding her point.

“Fair enough,” he says. “But Scott has a crazy amount of natural talent. He played an amazing game last week.”

“And when he has an attack in the middle of one?” she challenges. Stiles immediately digs into Scott's bag, going directly to his emergency inhaler. He holds it up to her.

“Then I know exactly where this is,” he tells her. She stares at the inhaler sadly.

“Look, I appreciate what you're doing, and Scott, honey, I know you want to play-”

“I have played!” Scott bursts out insistently. “I played and not once did I have trouble breathing. I even scored twice! Mom,” he says, walking up to her and putting his hands on her arms. “Mom, I'm gonna have to take chances sometimes. I can't just sit on the sidelines my whole life. And this time I've got people watching my back,” Scott says, looking to Stiles. “Things are different this time, I swear. Please, just let me show you that can do this,” he urges. He can see his mom start to buckle, so he grabs her hand and puts it on his chest. He takes a deep, clear breath and holds it before letting it out slowly. She bites her lip and brings her hand up to his face.

“You're going to make me regret this, aren't you?” she asks. He gives her a small smile. She looks over to Stiles. “You'll keep an eye on him.” And it's more a statement than a question. Stiles nods without hesitation.

“Absolutely,” he says. Scott's mom sighs again and rubs a hand over her face.

“... Alright,” she says. Scott laughs brightly and hugs her, lifting her up and spinning her. “Okay, okay! Put me down!” He does, but he still kisses her cheek. She puts a hand in the middle of his face and pushes him away, but there's a smile on her face. “I have to get to work. You,” she says, jamming a finger in Scott's chest, “need to get upstairs and do your homework. Stiles, it was nice meeting you.”

As soon as his mom closes the door, Scott lets out a victorious laugh and pulls Stiles into a hug.

“You forgot to ask her about dinner with Allison,” Stiles mentions. Scott pulls back and shrugs.

“One major thing at a time,” he says. “She'll be gone until early in the morning. I should only be gone for a couple of hours.” He turns to head upstairs. “Gotta give Allison a call and then change clothes!”

-

His excitement is tampered considerably when he reaches the Argents' front door. He goes to knock several times, hesitating and wiping his sweaty palms on his nicer pair of jeans. He decides to make one last effort, hand up to knock on the door when it swings open. A beautiful blonde woman smiles at him, leaning against the door frame.

“You must be Scott, am I right?” she asks. Scott drops the hand he's had hanging in midair and nods. “Well, get in here, kid. Dinner's being put on the table,” she says sweetly. She steps aside to let him in and he meets Allison in the parlor.

“You're just in time,” she says, leaning forward to give him a quick peck. He knows he's blushing to his hairline because the woman chuckles at him. “Scott, this is my Aunt Kate,” Allison says.

“Allison, honey, you told me he was cute, but you said nothing about these adorable brown eyes,” Kate says. If anything, Scott's face gets even redder. That condition clears up quickly when Allison's father steps into the room. He's smiling politely, but Scott can help but feel like he's being put under a microscope again. This dinner suddenly doesn't feel like something so innocuous anymore. This is what it's like to meet your girlfriend's parents proper.

He kind of wants to head for the hills.

It's worse when Allison's mother joins them. She, too, is smiling politely, but her eyes are nothing less than laser beams cutting into his very soul. Jesus. He's sweating now, he knows it.

They all sit down for dinner, and it seems to be going well. The food is delicious and he says as much, and Mrs. Argent thanks him.

“Would you like something to drink besides water, Scott?” she asks.

“Oh, no, I'm good. Thanks,” he says, twirling his fork a bit.

“We can't get you some beer?” Mr. Argent suddenly asks. Scott almost chokes on his water.

“N-no, thanks.” Shit. What's happening, he thinks in a panic.

“Shot of Tequila?” Mr. Argent tries again.

“Dad, really?” Allison asks, unamused.

“You don't drink, Scott?” her dad presses.

“I'm not old enough to,” Scott says as he shifts in his seat.

“That doesn't seem to stop most teenagers,” Mrs. Argent says, eyes pinning him.

“No, but it should,” he replies. Kate smiles at him.

“Good answer. Total lie,” she says pointing her fork at him, “but well played, Scott. You might yet survive the night.”

Dinner continues much the same. Mr. or Mrs. Argent would try to corner him with questions and Kate would come to the rescue. It's obvious that Allison isn't happy with what her parents are doing, but she smiles between Kate and Scott. By the timethey're done with dinner, Scott feels like he's been grilled to death, more so than when he brought Allison home the night after the party.

“You'll be staying for dessert, won't you, Scott?” Mrs. Argent asks. Scott gulps but nods.

“Yes, please,” he says. Mr. Argent pushes back from the table as he and Kate gather up the dinner plates. Together they head into the kitchen. Suddenly feeling like he needs a breather, he turns to Allison.

“Would it be alright if I used the bathroom?” he asks. Allison gives him an apologetic smile, like she knows what he really asking and she gives him directions for the nearest bathroom. He leaves the room in a hurry, relieved once he's no longer being watched so closely. He's heading toward the bathroom when he hears muttering in the kitchen.

“-really go easy on him, Chris. He's a high schooler, not a drug dealer.”

“You don't know that.”

“Oh my god, really?”

Drug dealer? Scott looks down at his jeans and polo shirt. What about him screamed drug dealer?

“What are you even doing here, Kate?” Mr. Argent asks.

“Two of our own bite the dust and you don't even have a suspect yet,” she says. Scott finds himself leaning closer to the door frame.

“It's more complicated than that,” Mr. Argent says, and Scott can hear the sound of him cutting something with more force than absolutely necessary.

“How? Animal attack? Really? We know what this is, Chris.”

“I don't think we do.”

“It's just one Omega. And you can't even-”

“The attack on that man near the preserve was different than the ones on Morales and Carter. I don't think we're looking at just one. I'm not even sure the second is a-”

Scott nearly jumps out of his skin when a hand touches his shoulder. Allison jumps too, his shock startling her in return.

“Trying to find out where you stand with him?” she whispers, eyes darting to the kitchen. Scott swallows, not entirely sure what he just overheard. Instead of saying as much, he just gives her a tight smile.

“Need to know if I should be keeping an eye out for any shotguns,” he jokes.

“He prefers a .45,” she says, in complete seriousness. Scott looks at her with wide eyes. “He sells police departments guns and ammunition.”

“... Your dad's an arms dealer?”

He sweating so much more now.

-

Stiles hangs around the McCall house for a couple of hours, just sitting in the kitchen or loitering in Scott's room. He's reluctant to leave, but he knows he shouldn't be here, as much as he wants to stay. Instead of returning to his shelter, he decides to trek back out to the Hale house. The fact that Sheriff McCall was in charge of both his case and the Hales' makes him itch. He can't help but feel there's a connection. He's not sure what he expects to find when he walks up to it.

A man in a hospital gown was not on the list.

The man's back is to Stiles as he stands in front of the house. Very slowly, Stiles circles around the edge of the trees, careful not to make any noise. When he's finally able to see that man's profile, he can tell that it's covered in scar tissue. The man's eyes are unfocused, as if he's not entirely at home in his head. There's something else about him. Something that slams Stiles' instincts to full alert. It's so sudden that he can't help the shift of his talons. With a great amount of caution, he approaches the man, more details becoming evident under the light of the moon.

The man's teeth are elongated, claws curving from his fingers. At Stiles' closer proximity, his eyes glow an icy blue as he tosses his head back and howls, a sound that's as mournful now as the day when Stiles first entered Beacon Hills. Stiles takes a couple of steps back, eyes wide.

No way. No fucking way.

Werewolves?

His life wasn't a bad enough Sci-Fi channel creature feature, the universe had to thrown in werewolves? The man doesn't move after that, merely stands as if waiting. He tilts his head, ear to the trees, but nothing answers his call. This fact seems to agitate him, as he bares his teeth in a snarl. He makes no move to attack Stiles though, hasn't even really acknowledged he was there.

Suddenly, there's a commotion in the woods. The man as well as Stiles hears it. There's a group of people suddenly heading this way. This seems to spur the man into action as he takes off for the trees, away from the house. On all fours.

There are lights now, beams broken occasionally by the trees and Stiles decides the man... wolf...thing probably has the right idea. He books it out of the clearing. He's just at the tree line when he sees something stark white cling to a fairly low branch. Skidding to a halt, he grabs at it. It's a hospital ID band. He turns it over in his hand and reads the name printed on it.

Hale, Peter.

Sounds around the house draw his attention away from the band. A small group of people clad in black and armed with guns are shining their lights up into the windows and the holes of the walls.

“Doesn't look like anyone's here,” says one man. A blonde haired woman turns to him and pins him with a glare.

“Because we've looked so hard in the ten seconds we've been here,” she mocks.

This has to be her, Stiles thinks, suddenly dizzy. This has to be Gerard's daughter. His hands tightens around the band. How many of them are there? Five? He could kill them all, couldn't he? Right here, right now? Just blend with the shadows and pick them off one by one. One by one until he has her alone and cornered. He's practically vibrating out of his skin, the need to tear every single one of them apart so overwhelming that he actually taking a steps forward toward the clearing-

-snapping a twig in the process.

A shot rings out and Stiles realizes he's just been shot in the chest. Looking down, he can just make out the blood soaking his shirt in the darkness. He stumbles back as the pain flairs and his eyes flash.

He turns to run when the next bullet pierces his temple.

Things get fuzzy after that. He's knows he's running, catapulting himself through the trees before they give way to open space. Eventually it gets hard to see, the world turning into a blur as the bullet rests in his brain. All he knows is that he has to get somewhere safe.

-

There's an odd scratching at his window. Scott blearily looks up, seeing what looks like long creepy fingers of the tree limb that hangs over the house. He's close to falling back asleep – the dinner from tonight was draining, and he didn't really have a chance to thank Kate for running interference between him and Mr. Argent before she headed out for an errand. But when the sound becomes more insistent, he can't ignore it because immediately after, he hears the window being pushed up.

“Scott,” comes a rough voice above him. Scott blinks away the sleep from his eyes and looks back up to see the outline of Stiles perched on his window sill. “Is it okay if I stay the night?” It's dark. Scott can't really see Stiles, but he sounds upset and his words are slightly slurred. Though he's still in a lethargic daze, a number of things run through Scott's head. They finally settle and he focuses. He doesn't know why Stiles is an emancipated minor; any time he's worked up to asking, Stiles' closes off or change the subject. It's times like these that Scott wonders if Stiles is taking care of himself.

“Yeah,” he tells his friend. “That's fine.” He lays his head back down on his pillow, still feeling half asleep as Stiles slowly pulls himself into the room. His movements are so uncoordinated as to appear almost drunk.

“Crap,” Stiles mutters as he stumbles.

“You okay?” Scott asks, trying to stay awake.

“Yeah. Can I use your bathroom?” Maybe he is drunk, Scott thinks.

“Go for it,” he says, pushing himself up again. He feels Stiles hand on his back, pushing him back down onto the bed. It feels tacky and wet. Sweat? Beer?

“I got it. Go back to sleep,” Stiles tell him. That sounds like an awesome idea, but concern still keeps Scott awake and he wonders briefly why Stiles is going out to use the hall bathroom rather than the one in his room. He keeps an ear out for sounds all the same as he gets up again, this time gathering up a pillow and some blankets. He'd be fine sharing the bed, but he doesn't know how Stiles would feel about it, so he makes a pallet on the floor. Water is running in the bathroom when he lays back down and falls asleep.

-

He can't see. Not well at any rate. Nothing is solid and colors merge and bleed together. It's not easy to get his limbs to follow commands; move forward, not to the side. Grip the window, don't paw at it. He's not sure how he made it all the way to Scott's house. He's glad it was so dark when he pulled himself into the house. He can't put away his talons or fix the camouflage of his face. He switches on the light for all the good it does him and turns on the tap.

Blood is drying on his temple all the way down to his collarbone. Slowly, he raises his blackened fingers to the hole in his head. He can hear the squelching sound as he pushes a finger into it even over the water. It's an unpleasant sensation, and his hearing fades in and out as he digs around for the bullet. His talon finally catches onto it, dragging it out. It clatters on the floor and he pitches forward coughing violently. Soon, he feels something traveling up his throat and into his mouth. He spits the bullet from his lungs into the sink.

He feels himself healing, slowly. His vision begins to swim back into focus and he looks into the mirror. He looks like a corpse, but at least it's a human one now, with dark rings around his sunken eyes, his face drawn and white as a sheet. Blood is spattered and streaked here and there, a stark contrast to the paleness of his skin. Looking down at his hands clutching the sink, he realizes he's still holding the hospital name band. An idea is forming in his healing brain even as he passes out backwards onto the tiled floor.

-

Umpqua is like something out of an oil painting, made of big green trees and winding dirt paths. Mieczysław follows his dad to a stream so clear he can see the fish swimming in it. He makes an excited sound and climbs a rock to get a closer look. He dad chuckles as he sets down the fishing gear.

“How many you gonna catch, kiddo?” he asks. Mieczysław thinks about it.

“All of them!” he exclaims. His dad laughs again.

“Oh yeah? We'll start with two or three and see where that gets us, okay?”

It's not hard to try and be happy for his dad this time. He's never been fishing before and the excitement of a new experience outweighs the sadness he's been feeling for the past few days. He's so busy watching the fish swim that he doesn't notice the vehicle pulling up near the stream at first. Two men climb out, dressed as rangers of the park. His dad pauses in the middle of baiting his fishing pole.

“Gentlemen, can I help you?” he asks, brushing off his knees as he stands. The men step walk closer.

“You Sheriff Stilinski?” one asks casually. His dad looks between them.

“Yeah, that's me. Is something wrong?” he asks. The men don't answer right away as one of them looks around the area.

“Do you remember a wreck that happened a few days ago? Involving a young woman?” the first man asks. Mieczysław is still standing on the rock, trying to look over his dad's shoulder at them.

“Yeah,” he dad answers. “But what does an Umpqua ranger need to ask me about an accident in California? For that matter,” he says, gesturing to their belts, “what are Umpqua rangers doing with side arms in the first place?”

The first shot rings loudly and Mieczysław falls off the rock.

“No!”

It hurts it hurts it hurts, even as his dad pulls him into his lap and against his chest it hurts so badly. He cries out and clutches his stomach and he can't stop breathing so fast even though it feels like none of it is reaching his lungs. He can't even call out to his dad and he's choking on tears.

“Son! Son, look at me!” But he can't. He feels like moving will cause him to fall apart and it hurt so much. “What do you want?!” he hears his dad yell, hands tightening around him. Another shot echos through the trees and his dad's grip on him loosens. He tumbles to the ground as his dad falls back.

Lifeless.

“Jesus, Morales, you shot the kid,” one of them says.

“What did you think we were gonna do with him?” Morales asks. “Suck it up, Carter.”

“I think you just missed and don't want to admit it,” Carter says, approaching Mieczysław. Mieczysław pushes back as much as he can but renewed pain shoots through him and he sobs harder.

“Daddy!” he calls out. But his dad doesn't answer.

“Gerard didn't say anything about a kid. I don't know about this,” Carter says, looking down at him.

“Show some backbone, man. I get that you want to kiss Argent's ass, but come on.”

“You're starting to sound as bad as his daughter. I'm beginning to think the son has more sense; he'd never send me to shoot a toddler,” Carter says, backing away from Mieczysław. “If you're so gun-ho about it, put him out of his misery. The crying and screaming is getting to me.”

“Nah, he'll die over the falls. Grab the Sheriff. Let's not make it easy for local law enforcement.”

“You're sick, man.”

They drag his dad away, even as Mieczysław stretches out an arm to grab at his shirt. He can't grip very well, everything is starting to go numb and cold.

“Daddy!”

Again his dad doesn't answer and soon the men come for him as well, tossing his still bleeding body over the waterfall nearby. They expected him to die.

Instead he is devoured, from the inside out.

-

He wakes up to a knock at the bathroom door.

“Scott, you alright?” It's Mrs. McCall. She must be back from work, which means it must be very early in the morning. His body feels stiff and cold, and the blood caked on his face itches. The water is still running in the sink and the light is blinding above him. He slowly picks himself up, leaning heavily against the counter. “Scott?” Stiles clears his throat, spitting leftover blood into the sink. He swallows and forces his vocal cords to change.

“I'm alright,” he says, but it's Scott's voice that comes out of his mouth, rough though it may be.

“You don't sound alright,” she says through the door.

“I just left my window open,” he says. “The cold air got to my throat.”

“Do you need me to look at it?” Mrs. McCall asks, handle of the door already turning. Stiles hand shoots out, slamming the door back closed.

“No, M-mom,” he stutters, the word catching on his tongue. “I'm fine. You must be tired. Go to bed.” She's quiet outside of the door for a moment.

“Alright. Just let me know if you need anything,” she says. She stands there for a bit longer before walking down the hall to her room. Stiles sighs and looks in the mirror. He looks gross, beyond gross. And he's made a mess on the bathroom floor. He rolls his shoulders and looks under the sink, and he's in luck when he sees the bottle of cleaning bleach. The blood takes him a while to clean up; his limbs are stiff and his stomach is insistent. He has to keep himself from licking it up right off of the tile. But soon the bleach cuts through the scent of blood and healing flesh and he's able to concentrate better. After that is done, he cleans himself. His shirt is ruined, but his pants can be saved.

A glance at the clock tells him it's about 2:15 in the morning. He leaves the bathroom and treks quietly back to Scott's room. There's a pillow and blankets piled next to the bed and Stiles gives Scott an appreciative glance, though his friend is still asleep, one hand hanging over the side. Stiles shoves the ruined shirt under the pillow and lies down. The bedroom is much warmer than the bathroom and his joints and muscles begin to relax. Sleep comes far easier than it should in a place he hasn't claimed and secured, but it's warm and inviting and smells like home. Before he drifts off, he gives Scott's dangling hand a squeeze and only once does his think about eating it.

He doesn't dream this time. Not about his father or the Argents. Not about school or the Umpqua forest. His mind is blissfully blank for almost four hours before he startles awake. He strains his ears but hears nothing but the sound of early morning traffic and Scott snoring lightly above him. Still, it's late enough in the morning for Stiles to need to get out of here before Scott starts asking questions he can't form lies for just yet. Quietly as he can, he borrows a shirt from Scott's dresser, retrieves his tattered one, and slides open the window. It takes a bit of maneuvering, but he manages not to step on Scott's face on his way out.

He can't go to school like this. His hunger is almost unbearable, especially after his little incident last night. Every fiber of his being is telling him to hunt. He's lucky his brain is back in working order or else he probably would have given in immediately. He touches the side of his head and rubs it. This is bad. He can't lose the element of surprise, not now. The Argents were at the Hale house for a reason, he concludes. Were they looking for Peter Hale? Did they know about him? About what he was? Was it just him, or was his whole family like him?

The thought gives him pause and, very slowly, things begin to line up. He's had years to replay Morales and Carter's conversation over and over in his head. He knows the Argents had to be responsible for the car wreck all those years ago and his father's murder. And now he's almost positive that the Hale fire was their handiwork as well. What never truly made sense was why. What if the Hales were a bunch of werewolves, he thinks. What if the Argents killed the Hales because of it? And if they had be responsible for the wreck all those years ago, something had to be strange about the woman who had been in it. And since his dad was investigating....

What if what if what if. He's dizzy by the time he reaches his hideout, his head swimming with possibilities and half-formed hypotheses. He has to pull up his sleeve and bite into his arm just to keep himself upright. The blood doesn't help as much as he had hoped. Instead of tapering his hunger, it's made worse. Blood can only do so much, what he craves is flesh. It's only through sheer will power that he removes his teeth rather than pulls a chunk off of himself. There's a key point that's sticking out in his mind. If these instances are related through the Argents then they're related another way as well.

Sheriff McCall.

-

Stiles wasn't there when Scott woke up, and even more worrying, he's not at school. At least not that he can see right away. Stiles usually meets him by their lockers, but even though Scott waits until the late bell rings, his friend never shows. The dinner last night was a success, but his enthusiasm wanes steadily throughout the morning as he keeps glancing at Stiles' empty desk. His friend wasn't well when he came in through the window last night and Scott is kicking himself for not getting Stiles' address out of him. He was hoping to get his mom to take a look at Stiles in the morning, or at least talk Stiles into seeing the school nurse. But with no address and no phone number, there's little Scott can do if Stiles isn't in the same room with him.

“Are you okay?” Allison asks him between classes. Scott shrugs and tries to smile.

“Stiles isn't here today. I was hoping to talk to him about something,” Scott says.

“Is he doing alright? He seemed a little tired these past couple of days,” Allison comments.

“I honestly don't know,” Scott says, frustrated. Allison places her hand on his arm and he appreciates the contact.

“Go see him after school,” she suggests. He doesn't want to explain that he doesn't even know where his best friend lives so he just nods.

“Sorry, I know you wanted to study this afternoon.”

“It's fine. Aunt Kate wanted to take me shooting anyway,” she says. Scott blinks.

“What, like... guns?” Like the guns her father owns and sells. Allison laughs and shakes her head.

“I prefer the bow,” she says confidently and damn if it isn't hot to think about; Allison pulling a bow taunt with the wind in her hair and beautiful eyes focused on her target. Allison laughs as she reaches out and uses a finger on Scott's chin to close his open mouth. “Careful, you'll catch flies that,” she teases him. “Hey, before you go to Stiles', will you go to the clinic with me after school? I'd like to check on the bird really fast.”

“Sure! Absolutely,” Scott says. The bell rings and they part ways. Out of habit, Scott turns to smile at Stiles, only to be greeted by an empty space. Sighing, Scott shifts his backpack and heads to class.

-

He doesn't feel comfortable doing this in broad daylight, but he doesn't want to waste time waiting for dark. He's also not exactly inconspicuous; his clothes are being to hang off of him even more so than usual, and his face is drawn and pale. He's liable to be detained under suspicion of drug abuse if anything. The hunger is good for one thing, though. Even if it's distracting and demands he give into his baser instincts, it also makes him stronger. A side effect of his... condition, he's been led to believe all these years. He was always at his strongest after a bad winter, but he was also closer to being mindless.

It falls in his favor now, however, as he concentrates on bending the light around him, forcing himself to be unseen. He'll still need to be careful; he's not entirely invisible, merely camouflaged. A sharp enough eye could see the waver of light where he stands, so he'll have to move quickly. He waits until two people walk out of the front door, slipping in before it closes. The station is no more active than usual, so he sticks to the walls and moves silently. His dad's old office is open and empty when he walks in and situates himself in a corner. He doesn't know where McCall is, but he's used to staying in one place for hours and does his best to blend into the shadow cast by a file cabinet. He doesn't know what he's expecting find or to see, but he needs to get a feel for this guy nonetheless.

Luckily, he doesn't have to wait for hours because five minutes later, McCall comes in, his pace hurried as he holds the door open wider for a red headed woman as she leisurely strolls in. Stiles holds himself very still. McCall closes the door, almost close to slamming it, and walks to stand behind his desk.

“What the hell is going on, Victoria? I let your men on the force and not two weeks later they get butchered. People are asking questions and “mountain lion” is only going to go so far,” the man says in frustration. The woman, Victoria, doesn't answer him right away, merely makes herself comfortable in the chair in front of the desk.

“Calm down. We're looking into it,” she tells him, her voice stern and sharp.

“Looking into it,” McCall repeats, clearly unconvinced. Victoria clicks her tongue impatiently.

“You should think about watching your tone. You only have this comfortable position because we allow it. And because we allow it, you agreed to look the other way when we ask it. When I say we're looking into it, it is your job to keep your officers busy with other things while we handle the matter.”

“I didn't think it would be like this,” McCall says, throwing himself into his chair. “I thought it would end with Stilinski. But then the Hales? And now your own men? How much more am I going to have to pretend I don't see?” Victoria is quiet for a moment before answering.

“How are things with your son, Sheriff McCall?” she asks suddenly. This gives both McCall and Stiles pause. “I had the pleasure of meeting him last night. He and my daughter have become quite close,” she says and Stiles realizes. This is Allison's mother.

“What are you implying?” McCall asks, voice shaking.

“You might not be in his life much anymore, but I imagine you still care a great deal about him and he seems like a decent young man,” Victoria says, standing up again. “Be very careful, Sheriff. And keep prying eyes away from us until the job is done.”

As she leaves, McCall stares at his desk forlornly, and Stiles nearly ends up revealing himself he's so wired. Most of his suspicions have confirmed in one fucking swoop, which makes him the best damn detective in all of California, possibly the whole West Coast; he's at least the one with the best timing in recorded history. But Scott's life has also been threatened in one fucking swoop, and that shit just doesn't fly with him. With the exception of Allison – maybe – the entire Argent clan is made up of murdering psychopaths and it just makes Stiles feel that much more justified.

And now he's alone with the man who let all of those horrible things go and the urge to kill him is hindered only by the look of helplessness on the man's face. Suddenly McCall looks in Stiles' direction, pushing the chair back so hard it hits the wall. Stiles prepares himself for an attack when McCall reaches him, but instead of focusing on the corner, the man glares at the file cabinet. He messes with his key ring, flipping keys until he finds the one he's looking for and unlocks the top drawer.

He pulls out a set of files that had been pushed to the very back before returning to his desk. He stares down at the folders for going on ten minutes, occasionally reaching for the phone before he changes his mind and clenches his fists. There's a knock on his door and McCall quickly shoves the folders into his desk. Instead of asking whoever it was to come in, McCall walks out of his office.

Sensing a chance, Stiles moves from his spot, sneaking his way to the desk and pulling out the files. And could this day be any more successful? He seriously doubts it, as he looks down at all the evidence of the Argents' guilt over the years staring back at him. He's holding the fucking Holy Grail in his hands, the unedited case files of the Hales, of his father, of a handful of other cases. Not only can he kill them all, he holds the very manner in which he can ruin their name forever. Hearing voices outside, he panics a little. He refuses to let go of all of this information, but it's not like McCall isn't going to miss it. But the computer is on and the man has a scanner.

It only takes five minutes and Scott's email address (his username is Allison, his password is also Allison) to make digital copies of everything and stuff the folders back into the desk. When the door opens again, he slips by McCall and almost runs into Miss Tara before propelling himself out of the way. Miss Tara blinks at the space he used to be standing before rubbing her eyes and muttering to herself.

Stiles doesn't wait around. He sprints out of the building as fast as he's able, and he's down the street, heading toward the library to retrieve copies of those documents. It takes no time to print it all out and cover his tracks in Scott's email history. He holds the information close to his chest as he begins the long walk back to his hideout of empty offices.

Once he's there, he lays everything out on his makeshift bed pallet on the ground, all the documentation and Peter Hale's hospital ID band. He needs more time. There more players in this game than he anticipated, and the inclusion of fucking werewolves and gangster-esque families and corrupt cops was definitely not on his list of shit to deal with when he started.

Glancing at the hospital band, Stiles knows he already has a solution to the problem of his visibility under the Argents' radar and Mr. Wild-Card-Werewolf. It'll be like killing two birds with one stone, a once favorite pastime of his.

-

Before they, too, flee from him his domain, the birds would attempt attacks, sometimes coming from the sky in a suicidal dive, sometimes flapping above his head, trying to tear out his eyes out with their talons and beaks. He's never liked the taste of them, but he finds their bodies make good for frightening people here and there, when he's having one of his more playful days. Sometimes just hunting wasn't enough. Sometimes the terror and the reactions make for better eating.

Sometimes it's nice to be the one causing the fear.

-

Allison keeps promising to make her visit quick so that Scott can go see Stiles, but Scott tries to reassure her he's got time. Dr. Deaton greets them in the front and welcomes them to the back where the bird is being caged and cared for. It does seem to be in brighter spirits, hoping around in its cage and eating seed.

“Look at this little survivor,” Allison coos as she bends down to get a better look at the bird. Dr Deaton smiles at her.

“He's been doing really well. A couple more weeks of recuperation and it'll be ready to fly again. It was very lucky you were there,” he says. Allison smiles and straightens up. Scott looks at the bird fondly, as he's been helping take care of it on the days he works. “Where is your other friend, Scott?” Dr. Deaton suddenly asks him. Scott looks up at him, and the man has an odd expression on his face.

“Stiles? I haven't seen him today. I think he might be sick,” Scott says, and the vet seems worried again. “But I'm sure I'll see him soon,” Scott insists. Dr. Deaton merely nods, as if that wasn't necessarily his concern. Allison goes to the front to call her mom to see if she can pick her up from the clinic, and Scott instinctively starts straightening up the examination area, despite not being on the clock. Dr. Deaton gives him an amused smile before his expression turns serious again.

“Where is Stiles from, Scott?” he asks. Scott shrugs, not sure why Deaton is suddenly so interested in his friend.

“Don't know. He moved here recently, I think.” Scott tosses a rag onto the counter in mild frustration. “I honestly don't know a lot about him. But he's been really cool with me, so I feel bad for prying when he doesn't want to talk about it...” He lets his voice trail off. Dr. Deaton nods sympathetically.

“Just,” the vet starts. “... Just be careful, Scott. You're a very trusting young man.”

“What's wrong with Stiles?” Scott asks, almost defensively.

“I'm sure it's nothing,” Dr. Deaton says, backtracking. “I'm glad that you've found a good friend. But perhaps it would be prudent of you to get to know him a little better.”

Scott leaves the clinic confused and mildly offended on his friend's behalf. Deaton has been always been really good to Scott, taking on an assistant/apprentice who knew nothing about animals at first, and freely offering Scott advice when he really needed it. He's generally been the closest thing to a father figure Scott has had in a long time and he appreciates the man for it. But Stiles has done so much for him too, and Scott's been so worried about him, that the implication that Stiles is less than the awesome friend he has been since day one grates at Scott's nerves. He's not sure what Stiles has done to make Deaton think he's some kind of bad influence or whatever. As far as he knows, they've only met one time, and said next to nothing to one another.

But Deaton's not entirely wrong. He does need to get to know Stiles better, if only so he can understand what might be happening to him to cause him to crawl into someone else's window in the middle in the night. But to do that, he has to get Stiles to talk to him.

That's probably why he finds himself at the hospital, walking up to the counter where his mom is sorting out some paperwork.

“Hold it right there, pal. I see that you don't come bearing food. Whatever you've come to ask for, you're one bribe too short,” he mom says before he can say anything. He places his hand over his heart as if she's wounded him.

“Ouch!” he says dramatically. His mom laughs and he bites his lip before speaking again. “Do you, uh. Do you guys still have those pamphlet thingies about stuff?” he asks.

“You mean the ones about menstruation, diabetes, heart attack prevention-”

“Yeah, those,” he says, cutting her off. “But um. One for, like, eating disorders.” His mom gives him a concerned frowned.

“Is this about Allison?” she asks. Scott shakes his head quickly.

“No, no! Allison's fine! It's... it's about another friend,” he says.

“Stiles,” his mom says definitively.

“I didn't say Stiles. Who said anything about Stiles?” His mom doesn't looked convinced. “Yeah, it might be Stiles,” he admits. His mom crosses her arms and leans against the counter, her face sad and serious.

“Talk to me,” she says. Scott looks around quickly to see that no one's pay attention before he turns back to his mother.

“He never eats anything. Not even when we aren't at school. He keeps saying he's on some kind of diet, but he's been looking worse and worse since the semester started. At first I thought it was because he couldn't afford anything, but I'm not so sure. And today he wasn't at school,” he finishes.

“Have you tried calling him?” his mom asks.

“He doesn't have a phone and I don't know where he lives,” Scott says. His mom sighs and nods.

“How about this? When you see him next, invite him to spend the night, okay? If he says yes, we'll sit him down and talk about it.”

“Like an intervention?” Scott asks.

“A little less severe. We don't know what the problem is, so let's tread lightly, okay?” she says, brushing the bangs out of Scott's face. He can't help but smile at her when she sends him out with instructions to hit up the restaurant a couple of blocks away and bring her back dinner. He feels a bit better now, knowing that his mom has his back. He no longer feels alone in this.

He hopes he can help Stiles feel the same way.

-

Stiles dozes a bit after going over the files and deciding what should happen next. His thoughts are too fast and his desire to do something is too strong. The last time he gave into that impulse, he got a bullet in his brain. So no, he needs time to calm down and wait for nightfall. He's not quite asleep; he can hear the traffic several streets over and he can smell the healing flesh of his arm. If he gets any hungrier, he'll end up eating his own foot before hobbling out to munch on a hobo, and that's just tacky.

He's examined the crime scene photos of the so-called animal attack that took place before his arrival. He's almost 100% certain that was the werewolf's doing. Not that it matters, particularly, because Hale is still an unexpected addition to this mess and potentially dangerous to everything Stiles has been working toward. It doesn't mean, however, that the poor man can't serve a purpose.

When light fades through dusty windows, the excitement is back but under control. He has a lot to do tonight and he needs to get started. He chooses to hit up the areas closest to the preserve, where the first mauling to place. If all else fails, he'll just drag someone there, but Scott tells him it's a preferred spot for people looking to party without worrying about the cops being called. He imagines people like that are probably less than reputable. Unnecessary, but it would make him feel better about what he was going to do.

Sure enough, the glow of a fire can be seen between the trees not too far into the woods. There are loud voices, too; five, maybe six people. They're all gathered around a barrel, passing bottles and blunts between them. One woman screeches out, a sound tapering off into laughter as one of the guys picks her up from behind. Stiles keeps himself beyond the light of the fire, sits between two trees, and waits.

“David, put me down!” the girl shouts, still giggling. The group laughs louder, some slurring out suggestions of what David should do to her. One guy is too drunk to even keep himself standing and falls back onto the rocks. His friends point and guffaw and call him names and Stiles sighs deeply. So much to do and he has to wait for these idiots to wind down. He could easily kill them all, what with how intoxicated they all are, but he only needs one. He recognizes none of them from the high school. They all seem to be in their twenties, and he wonders if that will be a problem. The first and only victim so far was a man in his mid-thirties. One victim does not a pattern make, but he's not sure what made Hale attack that man. He's been working on the theory it was just random; Peter Hale did not appear fully cognizant. Stiles is hoping this being the same area will suffice.

Eventually, one guy decides to head home, apparently having to work in the morning. Stiles almost snorts; there's no way that guy is getting up before noon without a bat to the face. Three others leave with him, complaining about the lack of booze. David and his girlfriend stay behind and Stiles has to wander off for a bit when they start trying to have drunk sex out in the middle of the goddamn woods. It's a little sad when the guy can't stand up, let alone get it up and the girlfriend eventually pulls her pants back on, irritated with the lack of action. Stiles does laugh quietly when she throws a half empty can of beer at the guy's head.

He waits for the sounds of the girl's angry stomping to fade before he stands. The guy is still laying out on his back, jeans still unbuttoned and still muttering insults to all of woman kind. The guy seems like a dick, but it does nothing to quell the unease in his stomach. He's almost angry with himself, because he never wasted an opportunity in Umpqua. Killing was something he never gave a second thought to. But something about this feels different, even as he tries to tell himself it isn't. He killed to eat in Umpqua, to survive. Technically, he reasons, he's doing the same here.

By the time he's finished wrestling with himself, the guy is pushing himself up and zipping up his pants. He almost stumbles into the barrel, but catches himself, swaying in place for a moment. Stiles sinks back into the trees a bit further and forces his vocal cords to change.

“David!” he screams in the woman's voice. The guy's head jerks in his direction, blinking owlishly with an alarmed expression.

“Lisa?” he yells into the trees. Stiles screams once more and David nearly trips over himself running into the trees. “Lisa, where are you?” David is whipping his head in every direction trying to find his girlfriend. He startles when he turns back toward the open area and sees someone decidedly not Lisa. It's the last thing he sees before Stiles swipes his claws across the man's throat. David gurgles out in shock before falling back into the foliage, dead.

Stiles loses himself for a moment there. When he comes back, he's leaned over the guy, his open maw only centimeters away from the wound. He wants to sink his teeth in, he wants to devour until nothing is left but bone. He drags his talons through the dirt next to his victim's head and tries to reign himself in, even as his saliva falls to mix with the blood and torn muscle.

Instead of giving in, he begins tearing into the man's torso, doing his best to mimic the crime scene photos. That's what he has to focus on – the job at hand. He even moves down to swipe at the ankles and legs. Once he's finished, he stands and looks at his work. Yep, he thinks. That's a mauling. This man has been thoroughly mauled. Excellent. Wonderful. He digs out the ID band from his jacket pocket and wanders a little bit away from the body. He makes sure it's not covered in too much blood and dirt as he drops it onto a pile of leaves, the white standing out against the dead brown. Now to move on to the next step. Yep. Time to go. Time to be productive. Time to...

The liver would be okay to take, right? Plenty of animals eat livers. The liver is, in his honest opinion, the best part. Stiles turns back to look at the man hesitantly. Yeah. Yeah, that should be okay. A werewolf has to eat too, doesn't it? Why wouldn't the liver be missing? Totally. Sound logic. Awesome.

Of course, he thinks as he stumbles out of the preserve minutes later, maybe the liver of a man close to alcohol poisoning wasn't such a good idea.

-

He's sobered up by the time he reaches the hospital, but goddamn; if he hadn't have kill the guy, his drinking habits probably would have. There's little immediate activity around the building. It's about one in the morning, and it's not like he could walk in without being noticed. He really has no way of telling which of the back doors are fire exits and he doesn't want to cause an alarm to go off. He's saved from the indecision when he notices an open window on the second floor.

He's careful when he crawls through, making sure the occupant, a poor elderly woman that smells close to death, is well and truly asleep before he hops in. He uses the sleeve of his jacket to wipe away the dirt and blood from the window sill and makes his way to the door that's partially open. Melissa, he knows, works mostly on the first floor. He has a view of this floor's nurses' station and sees a tired woman he doesn't recognize. He doubts walking out covered in blood will make a very good first impression, so he concentrates and makes his skin to bend the light around him. There's very little traffic in the halls as he looks for the room number that was listed on the ID band.

He hears footsteps just as he finds the room, and he makes a mad dash to get himself inside and close the door as quickly and as quietly and as cleanly as possible. He pauses and waits, but the sound of the steps never falter and whoever it is passes by. Silence falls outside as well as in the room as Stiles levels his breathing.

Turning, he see Peter Hale.

The man is facing away from him, situated in a wheelchair which seems odd for this time of night. The man once again doesn't acknowledge him, doesn't even move in the slightest. Stiles waits a heartbeat before slowly walking around to face him.

“Mr. Hale?” he asks quietly. Peter doesn't so much as blink. The side of his face is scarred something terrible, and he has a vacant sort of look in his eyes. Nothing is left of the creature Stiles saw last night, nothing to indicate the true nature of this man. Stiles goes down on one knee as he watches closely for any reaction. “You don't know me,” he starts, “but I have a feeling you and I have common enemies.” Stiles reaches for Peter's hands, covering them with his own. He makes sure to get as much blood on them as possible. “This might seem... unfair, but I need you to help me. Two of their men are dead and they're looking for someone to put down for it.” He pushes as much blood and dirt under Peter's nails as he can. “And let's be honest, of the two of us, it looks like I might have the better luck of putting them down. They've been patrolling the preserve almost constantly. They're going to find a body very soon. They're going to think you did it. And I need you to let them think that.”

Peter does nothing. Peter says nothing.

Stiles is counting on that.

-

Stiles isn't at school again and Scott doesn't know what to do. Not even a kiss from Allison this morning could shake the dread that's found its way into the pit of his stomach. He knows people skip school all the time, or at least, he guess they do. He's never had an affinity for truancy, but he's seen movies. But Stiles has always been weirdly excited about school and not being able to check up on him is making Scott stress.

“Why don't you ask the front desk if they have his address?” Allison asks at lunch. Scott stops staring sadly at his mac and cheese to look at Allison with wide eyes. He drops his fork and pulls her into a kiss.

“You're a genius!” he says, jumping up and abandoning his tray. He leaves Allison blinking dazedly as he runs for the office. It's so simple! Why hadn't he thought of that before? It's the perfect solution!

Until it isn't.

“I'm sorry, but I can't give you that information,” says the secretary.

“But-” Scott rushes. “But this is really important.”

“I'm sorry,” she repeats. “But it's against not only school policy, but the law, for me to give you that information.” The phone rings then and he's lost her attention entirely. He stares at her angrily for a moment before pushing himself away from the counter.

Screw policy, he thinks. Policy is keeping him from knowing if his friend is alright or not. And you know what? Screw the law, too! The law can-

… The law can stay out of his and his mother's life and he'd be perfectly fine with that. Usually. But he's not in a usual situation right now. Scott grips the straps of his backpack and tries not to punch the nearest person, because he knows what he's about to do.

He's about to go ask his father for help.

-

He sits in the chair waiting for Sheriff McCall to finish with whatever meeting he's having. Deputy Graham was surprised to see him walk in, almost nervous even. He just smiled at her and said he needed to see his dad. And now here he is, glaring holes into the man's desk, willing it to burst into flames. Scott does his best to reign in his stubborn anger, the juvenile voice inside his head that tell him to put a tack on the chair or search for and save incriminating porn on the computer. He's close to giving in right when his father walks into the room, almost hesitantly. The man's face is guarded even as he smiles and closes the door.

“Scott, how are you?” he asks, walking around to sit at his desk. Scott's jaw tightens, but he shrugs.

“Fine, I guess,” he says.

“I hear you made the lacrosse team. First line, even! That's fantastic, Scott. I'm really proud-”

“It's alright,” Scott interrupts. Lacrosse is amazing, but there are some things he just doesn't want to hear from this man. An awkward silence falls on them for a few moments. Scott sighs and knows he's going to have to throw the guy a bone. “We have another game Saturday,” he says. He doesn't invite his dad, per se, but Sheriff McCall nods all the same.

“I'll try to make it,” he says, and it's a half-promise that Scott's all too familiar with. “So,” his dad starts, “this is a rare visit. Still in the same town and it's like I never see you.”

“That isn't just my fault,” Scott says through his teeth.

“Scott, I've tried to be there for you-”

“Yeah, a card and $50 every year on my birthday, how could I forget?” Scott snipes back.

“It's all you would take from me!” his dad protests.

“I don't want anything from you!” Scott finds himself shouting. He flinches almost as much as his father. Silence falls again, broken when his dad sighs and rubs a hand over his face.

“Then why are you here, Scott?” he asks. Scott bites his lip and forces himself to calm down, because some things are more important than his pride.

“I think something might be wrong with a friend of mine,” he finally says. His dad forwards his brow and he makes a show of pulling out a pen and paper.

“Who's your friend?” he asks.

“Stiles Kowalski,” Scott says. At the man's confused face, he spells Stiles' first and last name, assuring him that yes, that is his real name.

“What's his address?”

“I don't know.”

“Okay... How about his phone number. Land-line or cell.”

“I don't know.”

His dad sighs deeply again, staring at Scott's face as if to decide whether or not this is a joke.

“Look, I wouldn't be here if I knew how to contact him myself,” Scott tells him. “He's an emancipated minor. Brown hair, brown eyes.”

“Any defining features?” Sheriff McCall asks, almost as if to humor him. Scott bites his tongue rather than yell at him.

“Yeah, he's got a few moles here and there.” The man doesn't even bother to write it down. “Look, he wasn't at school yesterday or today.”

“Just because your friend doesn't want to go to school doesn't mean something's wrong,” his dad says. Scott grips the arms of his chair.

“You don't know Stiles! He loves class, okay? I'm pretty sure he studies for fun! He wouldn't miss class just to miss class,” he tries. Sheriff McCall still looks unconvinced. “And night before last, he wasn't doing okay... He climbed into my window in the middle of the night.”

“He broke into your mother's house?” Sheriff McCall asks, startled. Scott jumps out of his chair.

“You're not listening to me!” Scott shouts. “You never listen!” His dad rises from his seat as well, hand held out as if to calm Scott down.

“Scott, please-”

“There was something really wrong with him!” And now that the dam has burst, Scott can't stop himself. “And-and he hasn't been eating, and I don't know where he lives so I can't make sure he hasn't collapsed or something and he's missing assignments and he's gonna fall behind and-”

And suddenly he can't breathe.

It's shockingly familiar and terrifying. In the days since the school started, he hasn't had to think twice about his breathing or to feel his lungs close up on him. He tries desperately to take in mouthfuls of air, but his head is hurting and the room is spinning and his heart won't stop pounding.

After a couple of moments, he realizes his dad has positioned him back into the chair, head between his knees. He can hear the man call for someone to bring him a cold washcloth or some ice. Eventually, the room settles and his breathing slows. He coughs a bit, but is thankful for the cool press of wet paper towels on the back of his neck.

“My inhaler,” he croaks out, gesturing vaguely in the direction of his backpack. His dad shakes his head.

“You weren't having an asthma attack, Scott. That was a panic attack,” he says, gently in a way Scott hasn't heard in a very long time. He's rubbing Scott's back in slow circles and Scott doesn't have the energy to make him stop. Deputy Graham is on his other side, holding the paper towels on his neck and taking over when his dad stands up to answer his ringing phone. Scott focuses on the deputy rather than him, not catching what was being said.

“You alright there, sweetheart?” Deputy Graham asks him. No. His head hurts and so do his muscles, which are still ridiculously tight. He nods anyway, not wanting to worry her. Looking up, he sees his dad making a file.

“Scott, I really can't do anything until he's been missing for forty-eight hours. But if you don't see your friend tomorrow, you come and see me, and we'll get a missing person's form filled out and move from there, okay?”

No. No, it's not okay. Everything is so far from okay.

Scott says nothing to him as he jumps out of his chair and grabs his bag. His dad and Deputy Graham call out to him, but he's running outside to his bike without looking back. He doesn't stop until he make it home and up the stairs. He flops face down onto his bed and tries not to scream.

-

He decides to wait it out, see how long it takes the Argents to follow his bread crumbs. It only takes a handful of hours. In that time, Stiles manages to find himself a set of scrubs and wanders the hospital a bit, careful to avoid anyone authoritative looking or Melissa McCall shaped. At one point, he set himself in the break area and started working on a half-solved crossword puzzle. A lot of it is pop-culture references that he's not yet up on, but he gets a couple of the mythology and diction related ones. In fact, he's blending in so well that he's started organizing patient charts. One of the nurses was even kind enough to bring him coffee. He's sniffing at it questionably when he sees her.

Kate Argent seems to have had much the same idea he did, only she's even sporting a doctor's lab coat. Show-off. He watches her make her way down to Peter Hale's room. And then he waits. There's too much immediate noise happening now that it's sometime in the afternoon. Hospitals are busy-busy places, it seems, so he's unable to listen in. Instead he sits there, eyes focused on the door. He thinks he stares at it unblinkingly for about five minutes before it opens again and Kate steps out, looking around as she places something back into the pocket of her lab coat. He pretends to be engrossed in the charts when she steps into a corner of the nurse's station, answering her phone that must have been on vibrate.

“What now, Chris?” she asks into the phone impatiently.

“Are you already there?” Stiles hears Mr. Argent ask.

“I'd be out by now if you'd stop nagging,” she tells him.

“Kate, don't tell me you already-”

“Yep. Job done. Do you see how easy this is when you take a little initiative-”

“It was too easy,” Mr. Argent says sternly, and Stiles breaks out into a cold sweat.

“Not this again,” Kate groans, rubbing the middle of her forehead.

“The body was too cleanly posed, Kate, and his liver was missing.” Stiles glares at his stomach and curses his poor impulse control. “Don't get me started on how convenient finding that hospital band was.”

“One of the nurses found blood on him, Chris. Even called the police about it. McCall gave me twenty minutes to get things done before-”

The elevator dings and a group, a detective and two cops, walk onto the second floor.

“Aaaand the police are here,” Kate says, turning her back on the as they walk past.

She waits a couple of seconds before going to the elevator herself. Stiles holds himself until the doors close before he shoots out of his seat and makes a dash for the stairs, practically flying down them. He's just outside the stairwell door when Kate's elevator opens and she begins to walk out of the hospital.

“I'm sorry,” she says into her phone as she takes off her coat. “You want to run that by me again?”

“I don't think a werewolf killed our men or the man in the woods,” Stiles hears Mr. Argent say. He's careful to stay out of Kate's line of sight as she walks to her vehicle.

“Well, it's a little late for that. This one's already dead,” Kate says nonchalantly.

“Kate-”

“There was blood everywhere, Chris. He might have been catatonic just now, but who knows what he could have been capable of on the full moon.”

“This wasn't a werewolf!” Mr. Argent insists.

“Then enlighten me! Tell me what you think we're dealing with?” Kate asks him. Stiles holds his breath as he hides behind another car.

“... I don't know yet.”

Stiles lets out slow sigh of relief.

“Great! You can tell that to dad when he gets here next week.”

“What? Why is Gerard coming?” Mr. Argent asks.

“He'd like to know why it only took me a day what you couldn't do in a month.” Kate gets into her vehicle then, turning the motor and driving off. Stiles sits there for a moment, back against the tire of someone's car, willing his heart to slow down. He sees one of the cops rush out to the car, leaning through the window of a cruiser to grab his radio, reporting to dispatch about the death of a possible suspect.

Well, at least that's the end of his wild card problem. Time to figure out what he's going to do about the possibility of yet another Argent coming to town. Best to start thinning the ranks, he thinks, while all but one where unaware of his existence.

-

Had he been gifted with better foresight, he would have called in and told the school he was sick, because now he's looking at two days worth of material from all of his classes that he's going to have to catch up on, pronto. Stiles stares at the stack of homework and exaggerates a frown. The secretary chuckles at him as she waves him off, and he makes his way to his locker. He goes about stuffing everything in its appropriate folder and is surprised when he's practically barreled into from the side and even drops his Chemistry textbook as Scott drags him into a bone crushing hug.

“Scott, buddy, I kind of need to breathe,” he chokes out. Scott doesn't let him go right away, and Stiles just smiles awkwardly when a couple of girls walk past them giving them odd looks. Stiles brings his hands up to pat Scott on the beck when his friend pushes him back into the lockers

“What the hell, Stiles?!” Scott shouts at him. Stiles freezes, wide eyed. People are slowing in the halls and paying attention to them and that's a level of visibility that still makes Stiles itch.

“What? What's wrong?” he asks. Scott's jaw drop before he clenches his teeth.

“What's wrong? You've been gone for two days and no one knew why! I thought something happened to you!” he says angrily, pushing Stiles by his chest. Stiles is still unsure of what to do, even as his back hits the lockers again. Scott kind of looks like he wants to punch him.

“Like what?” he asks, baffled. He doesn't know why Scott is so pissed. He doesn't know what he did to make the guy this angry with him.

“Like... I don't know! I didn't know, Stiles! You never once called me or left a note or anything! You've looked so sick these past few days, I thought maybe you had...” Scott trails off, frustrated. He clenches his fists, looking at a loss for what to say until his shoulders finally drop and the anger leaks out of his posture. “I was worried about you,” he finally says.

There it is again, Stiles thinks. That odd realization he first felt in detention a few days ago. That he's not wholly alone anymore. There's someone who knows his face and thinks and worries about him, there's someone who cares about him.

And the last person to care about him like that was shot between the eyes.

Stiles' vision blurs and he looks down, something akin to shame seizing his chest. Someone cares about what happens to him and he's done his best to ignore it, to avoid it. No one else is looking out for his well-being and Scott knows and is upset by it.

“I'm sorry,” Stiles says, voice catching in his throat. He feels lower than dirt right now, interesting given how unaffected he was after yesterday's deeds. But something in Scott's face makes him feel like he's committed a betrayal of some sort and it bothers him when he knows it shouldn't. Scott's eyes search his face for a moment.

“You look a little better today,” he says, though obviously still upset with him. Stiles nods.

“Yeah. I just... I just needed some rest. I think it might have been virus or something,” he tries. Scott doesn't seem completely convinced, but he nods anyway, allowing Stiles his way out. Scott readjusts the strap of his backpack on his shoulder, opening his mouth to say something and then deciding against it. Instead he walks toward homeroom without another word. Stiles leans heavily against his locker, ignoring the other students in the hall trading whispers.

Man, he's fucked up.

-

There was one family that he stalked for days. There was nothing special about them in particular, but it had been a year, and he'd regained some of his senses from that dark pull of innate feral need. The mother and father played with their children, on the trails, in the streams. The mother took time to point things out, to teach her children about the different kinds of plants and trees, sometimes an animal here and there. The father taught them who to fish and set up a tent. Watching it pulled at the hungry void in his chest.

Then one night he couldn't bear it anymore. He waited for them to fall asleep, waited for them all to get snug together in their tent. Slowly, so slowly as to not wake any of them, he slid himself next to the father, curled up and tried to bask in the warmth. The man mistook him for his son at first, his hand coming up to pat his head. But it didn't take him long to realize that the hair he feels there is matted and the skin of his face is a different texture.

The screaming only died down when he'd killed each of them.

-

Scott doesn't ignore him, per se. He still responds when Stiles tries to talk to him, about anything – the weather, Jackson's douchebaggery, whether or not Finstock is on crack – but it's stilted and generally non-committal. Eventually, he stops trying to kindle small talk. He's happy enough when Scott doesn't force him to sit somewhere else at lunch. Allison is with them, but she seems to understand the tension and makes the choice not to break it herself, looking between them occasionally with concern. His friend does stare at the empty side of his table with a passive, yet irate expression.

“I'm fine,” Stiles tells him, and immediately he knows it was the wrong thing to say. Scott throws down his fork and pushes his tray away from him, sitting back in his chair and crossing his arms.

“You know what? I don't think I'm hungry, either,” he says. Stiles shares a look with Allison.

“Scott, I could hear your stomach growling in Lit,” she says tentatively. Scott is still glaring holes into Stiles' face.

“And now I'm not hungry,” he says stubbornly. Stiles holds his stare for a good minute before Allison sighs in frustration. She reaches into her bag and pulls out a granola bar, shoving it into Stiles face, her expression almost pleading. Stiles hesitates but realizes Scott isn't going to let this go.

“Oh my god, fine.” With no small amount of displeasure, he grabs the granola bar from her, tears off the wrapper and takes a bite. He tries not to grimace as he chews, but the taste is like ash in his mouth. His throat almost even closes up on him, refusing to let him swallow. He does manage to choke it down, and he can feel his stomach rebelling against it, but he forces a smile on his face. Allison looks to Scott, to see if it was enough to appease him. He looks like he wants to force Stiles to eat everything on his own tray, but he unfolds his arms and pulls the tray back to himself, slowly eating his lunch.

There's only a few minutes left until next period, but Stiles can feel his stomach revolt against what decidedly not flesh. As soon as the bell rings, Stiles claims a need to use the restroom and sprints off. He locks himself in a stall and waits for people to clear out and go to class. As soon as he's alone, he's over the toilet and emptying the contest of his stomach. He doesn't waste time after that, flushing the evidence away and going to the sink to wash his mouth out.

Oats and nuts. Gross.

Drying his face, he looks at himself in the mirror. He does look a little better, thanks to his impromptu organ donor last night, drunk or not. Now he's just got to make sure he doesn't freak Scott out like that again. He's just going to have to be extra careful from now on. The hunger gives him strength, but it's also blowing his cover. He's going to have to get better about finding a middle ground. The late bell is about to ring as he leaves the bathroom.

And almost walks into Lydia as she walks past the door.

“Whoa, hey, hi,” he says, flailing a little. At first she pins him with a mildly irritated expression before freezing in place.

And this is something he is very familiar with. This look of absolute horror.

She stumbles back from him, eyes wide. As far as he knows, he face is as it should be and it's not like he smells... bad. He refuses to sniff himself to find out, but Lydia is already turning her back on him and speed-walking away. In heels. It's impressive, actually.

Whatever. He's got to get to class.

-

“You should come over tonight,” Scott tells him after the last bell of the day. Stiles blinks at him.

“... I thought you were mad at me,” he finds himself saying.

“A little bit, yeah,” Scott says with a shrug of his shoulders. “But you also missed two days of classes and I figured you might want to go over some stuff.”

“Oh, that's...” Really kind of awesome, actually. Stiles nods. “Yeah, that'd be cool,” he says.

“I won't be able to help you much in biology. I've sort of been zoning out in that class,” Scott tells him.

“Don't we have a test coming up in that?” Stiles asks. Scott groans and Stiles hopes he can keep this going. They're falling back into their more companionable routine. “Hey, no worries. Remember the Rule of Three. Three minutes without air, three days without water.” He pauses. “And uh, three weeks without food.”

“That's great, but I don't think that's going to help me out with the circulatory system.”

“Ah! Veins and arteries. Capillaries and the like. Oxygenated blood. Did you know the average adult male can survive losing two-fifths of his blood before his organs shut down and he dies?”

“Uh, no, I didn't,” Scott says. “Well, between you, my mom, and Dr. Deaton, I'm not that worried about it.”

“Good! Just let me go over the notes, dude, I'll make you a study guide,” Stiles says. And for the first time that day, Scott smiles at him.

“Hey, I have to go grab something from the locker room. Meet you by my bike?” Scott asks. Stiles salutes him and they separate. He's checking that he has all of his study material when he hears Allison's voice from around the corner of the building.

“Look, I know he's a little odd-”

“You need to stay away from him!”

Lydia. Stiles peers around the corner. She has Allison's arm in a tight grip.

“Okay? Can you just trust me on this? There's something... not right about him. I don't know how I know, but I just do,” she says in earnest.

“Lydia, I'm not going to be one of those girls that won't let a guy hang out with his friends,” Allison says. “Besides, Stiles isn't that bad! And Scott and I think he might be... ill,” she says vaguely. “It's not fair just to avoid him because of it.”

“I'm not talking about ill,” Lydia insists.

“Lydia! Hurry up! I don't want to get caught in the traffic out of here,” Jackson calls from his Porsche. Lydia throws him a glare, but lets go of Allison's arm.

“Please, just... Just be careful,” she says, turning toward the parking lot. Allison stands there perplexed as she watches the Porsche pull out of the lot.

“Waiting for Scott?” Stiles asks as he approaches her. She jumps and turns to him.

“Oh, uh. Yeah. Yeah, I just wanted to see him before I went home,” she says nervously. She might not know what to do with Lydia's vague warning, but it's obviously jarred her. Her smile is strained and she looks uncomfortable. He smiles back at her anyway, enjoying the satisfaction he gets when it seems to increase her discomfort. He takes no action to break the awkward tension, and instead chooses to make it worse by whistling a listless tune. She seems infinitely grateful when Scott comes jogging out of the school doors.

“Hey, headed home?” he asks Allison when he reaches the bike rack.

Stiles tunes out as they say their goodbyes for the day and try to eat each other's face – if only, he thinks wistfully – and then Scott and Stiles are making the trek away from school.

-

“Hey,” Scott says. “Let's swing by your place so you can pick up some clothes. You could stay the night.” He hopes it doesn't come across as forced as he think it does. He's been planning this since homeroom, trying to find a way to finally see where Stiles lives. He knows outright asking Stiles isn't going to work; it hasn't worked in the weeks they've known each other. He's going for subtle now. But then Stiles stiffens and his paces slows.

“Uh, I'm not sure if-”

“You kind of left pretty early last time,” Scott interrupts. He sees Stiles wince, but isn't letting up this time. He hasn't asked about that night, but he'd hoping a certain amount of guilt on Stiles' part will work in his favor. “My mom makes killer waffles.” Stiles does stop then.

“Look, Scott, I appreciate the offer, but...” He trails off.

“Why don't you want me to know where you live?” Scott finds himself asking.

“It's not-” Stiles starts. “It's not really the nicest place,” he admits, avoiding eye contact. Oh, Scott thinks. Right. Stiles lives on his own, by whatever means. He doesn't think Stiles is working, so it probably isn't the nicest place. In fact, he probably should have realized when Stiles said he lived on the other side of school. About a mile past it is the lower income housing neighborhoods.

Scott suddenly feels like a bit of a jerk. And as much as he still wants to know, as much as he still wants to understand his friend better, he's suddenly lost the will to press the matter.

“Then,” he says, “how about you go get some stuff and meet me at my house?” he tries. Stiles looks at him with surprise, as if he wasn't expecting Scott to let it go.

“Y-yeah. Sure,” Stiles says. “That would be alright.”

-

Scott's surprised how quickly Stiles manages to run home, grab his stuff, and make it back to his house. He wonders if Stiles took a taxi. At any rate, he shows up just as his mom is leaving for work. They're not going to get to have their little intervention, but his mom says it might help to have him get comfortable being there first. Makes sense, he thinks.

They don't quite get to studying first. Stiles demands a rematch from their last round of gaming. Scott makes a show out of allowing it, being the benevolent reigning champion that he is. Stiles does do his best to distract him, asking him study questions when he's trying to set up a headshot. They eventually degrade into tossing cheap insults at each other harmlessly.

Then Scott's stomach growls over the sound of a grenade.

“Wow, kicking your ass is hungry work,” Scott says. Stiles makes a face at him and Scott can't help but laugh. “Hey, we have some leftover roast in the fridge. What do you say?” He expects Stiles to turn him down, to say he isn't hungry or that he's fine.

“... Sure. Sounds great.”

Scott blinks owlishly at him.

“Really?” he can't help but ask. Stiles is still looking at the screen, taking advantage of Scott's inattention in order to sneak up behind him.

“Yeah. Pork or beef?” he asks.

“Beef.”

“Awesome. Let me at it.”

Scott doesn't waste time asking what's different this time. Instead, he runs downstairs in order to heat up some of last night's dinner. Stiles makes his way into the kitchen just as Scott is pulling the plate out of the microwave. When they're seated at the table, he can't help but watch as Stiles eats the roast, slowly but surely. He has yet to make a face the way he did eating Allison's granola bar, so there's that.

“This is pretty good,” Stiles says. Scott smiles and takes a large bite.

“Awesome! My mom and I are going to try to make another when Allison comes over for dinner,” Scott says. Stiles looks up.

“Oh yeah? When's that?” he asks.

“This weekend after the game. Mom wants to meet her. Plus, her parents are having a date night and her aunt will be working on something at home,” Scott says, taking a drink of water. Stiles has stopped eating, he notices, but at least most of his portion is gone. It makes Scott feel a little better.

-

Stiles is on his pallet beside the bed again. He prefers it, honestly, to the too soft mattress of Scott's bed. Years sleeping on hard ground and up trees will do that to you, he guesses. Dinner is sitting like a stone in his stomach; it's not the flesh his body truly needs, but it's flesh nonetheless, so his stomach isn't outright rejecting it. Plus, this isn't the first time he's resorted to eating something other than what's human. He can survive on animals for a limited amount of time, if he has to. And if it will ease Scott's concerns, it might be worth it once in a while.

He's falling asleep all too quickly again. The safety of the McCall house is something he's not going to think about too much. He chooses, instead, to just appreciate it for what it is. The warmth of the room is a welcome respite from the chill of the offices.

Beyond that, he wonders how upset Scott would be if he skipped the game this weekend, because an opening on Kate Argent like this is too good to pass up. Especially if Gerard is not too far away. He'll kill the old man, next. And then Mr. and Mrs. Argent. And then...

“Hey, Scott?” Stiles asks into the darkness.

“Yeah?” Scott replies sleepily.

“You really like Allison, don't you?”

It's quiet in the room before Scott answers him.

“I think I'm in love with her,” Scott admits. And then Stiles hears him turn his head into his pillow and fall asleep.

Well, Stiles thinks, maybe the girl isn't so bad. Maybe, for Scott, he can let one Argent slide.

-

Saturday comes quickly and the game is underway when Stiles spots Sheriff McCall loitering around the lower right side of the bleachers. He glances to Melissa, but she and Allison have their eyes on the field, cheering when Scott makes a killer pass. McCall turns away from the game to look up at them, and Stiles really hopes he's not planning on heading up here, because he knows it's going to result in a scene being made. But McCall keeps his distance, and Melissa never looks over in that direction.

With McCall's presence and Lydia constantly sending him suspicious, dirty looks, it's honestly turning out to be the most awkward game he's sat through. He's not sure what Lydia's problem is, but he knows it started after he killed that man in the preserve and, by proxy, Peter Hale. He's not sure that he feels anything particularly other about her, but her sudden and severe dislike of him doesn't feel like a coincidence. He wonders, though, if things like him exist, if werewolves exist, what else could be out there?

A time-out is called and Stiles excuses himself from the group and makes his way down to the player benches. Scott takes off his helmet and smiles at him.

“I think we've got this one in the bag,” he says.

“Totally. You have Danny to thank for that,” he teases. Scott pushes him on his shoulder but laughs. “Hey, don't mean to rain on your parade, but your dad's here,” he says. Scott's eyes widen and scan the bleachers, finally settling on the man over Stiles shoulder. Scott's lips form a thin line, but he doesn't wave or say anything about it. “More bad news,” Stiles says. “I gotta go. I need to get studying if I want to make up for the days I missed. I probably won't see you Sunday either.” Scott frowns, but nods anyway.

“Yeah, I getcha. Thanks for telling me,” he says. Stiles knows he's still a little sore about the beginning of this week, but he's been doing his best to make up for it.

“Go kick some ass, bro. And be sure to woo your lady fair with your culinary skills.” He claps Scott on the shoulder as the whistle blows.

“I cut the potatoes,” Scott says proudly, putting his helmet back on.

“Truly you're a shoo-in for America's next top chef,” Stiles quips. Scott's mood seems a little better when he heads back out onto the field and Stiles takes his leave.

He knows where the Argents' live, he's tailed Allison once or twice after she's gone home from school. The garage is closed, so he can't tell if date night was a thing that happened, but Kate's vehicle is parked outside. He takes a deep breath and checks himself. Intellectually, he knows he looks perfectly human, but these are trained hunters and he's been waiting for this moment for so long, he doesn't quite trust himself not to drop his facade in his excitement.

Now if he could just knock on the door. That door right there. The door right in front of his face. With one last, lost exhale, he raises his fist to knock when the door swings open.

“What is it with boys in the town and their fear of doors?” Kate Argent asks, clearly amused. Stiles glances at his hand and drops it.

“Hi,” he says. “I'm a friend of Scott and Allison's.” Kate raises an eyebrow.

“Scott and Allison are at the game,” she says. Stiles nods.

“Yeah, I just came from there. Allison is going over to Scott's after the game for dinner. She and Scott were going to study after that, but she forgot her notes. Asked me to come by and pick them up for her,” he lies. Kate gives him a once over, eyes vaguely suspicious. “I'm Stiles, by the way,” he tries. He doubts Allison has talked about him much but-

“Right!” Kate says. “The odd one.” Stiles blinks and can't help but be mildly offended. “My brother's words, not Allison's, I promise. Between you and me, he just doesn't know fun when it's right in front of his face,” she says, winking at him and Stiles has honestly never been as uncomfortable as he feels right now, standing in the Argents' front door, being hit on by woman many years his senior. He laughs nervously and coughs to clear his throat.

“Yeah, so... notes?” he tries. Kate steps out of the doorway and ushers him in. He can't help but take stock of the entry way that's overlooked by a banister of stairs. The dining room and kitchen are to his right and a study of some sort is to his left. The doors to it are ajar, and he can see what looks to be a tape recorder sitting on top of a stack of books on the desk.

“Allison's room is right upstairs,” Kate says.

“Would you mind showing me?” Stiles asks, eying the small decorative statue near the stairs.

“Sure thing, cutie,” she says, leading the way. Stiles gags a bit behind her back and follows her. He quietly grabs the statue as they pass it, raising it above his head once they hit the landing of the stairs.

He's not expecting her to turn on him, grabbing his arm and forcing him back. The statue falls over the banister, crashing onto the floor below and shattering. Her other hand reaches up to his throat, squeezing around it and using the leverage to force him even farther over. He sees his mistake over her shoulder, a mirror on the wall that she must have seen him in.

“You're a very rude date,” she mocks, tightening her hold on his throat, her thumb pressing down and closing off his airway. It'd be a problem if his other hand wasn't free. As it is, he grabs her hand and begins pulling it off of him. She's strong.

But he's stronger.

With a sharp twist, he breaks her wrist, the sound as loud as a gunshot so close to his face. She cries out, but grits her teeth and throws her head forward, cracking it against his nose. It stuns him long enough for her other hand to grab the back of his neck, pulling him forward to knee him hard in the gut. Repeatedly. The fourth time she does it, he catches her and uses his upper body to topple her over backwards. When she falls, he doesn't give her time to get back up on her own. He grabs her by her blouse and uses the momentum to ram her head into the solid wood of the banister. There's a loud crack, and Kate falls to the floor, unconscious. Glaring down at her, he licks at the blood flowing out of his nose.

He's too busy calming himself down to notice the sound of the front door opening.

“Kate, the car broke down on Main. Chris is taking it to the-”

Victoria Argent comes to an immediate stop when she looks up and sees Stiles standing over Kate's body, eyes glowing and face inhuman.

Things happen quickly after that.

She reaches into her purse, pulling out a gun, but he's already jumped over the banister, landing just as she aims it right at his chest. He flings his arm out, knocking the gun out of her hand, and grabs her head, turning it sharply. She crumbles to the ground, dead eyes wide open.

Shit, he thinks. That could have gone better.

It takes him a while to stage the house. He goes so far as to kick the back door open and grab whatever looks valuable, tossing it into Kate's vehicle along with her body. He debates moving Victoria, not sure what would look more like she had accidentally walked in on a burglary. He ransacks the study and positions her a few feet inside of it, to look as if someone was hiding just beside the doorway when they attacked her.

While tearing open the desk, the tape recorder once again catches his eye. He sets it aside for a second before flipping open the first book to where it was marked. What he sees makes the bottom on his stomach drop.

The illustration looks nothing like him, a skeletal figure standing at least seven feet tall, with a snout, hooves, and frightful antlers protruding from its skull. But the intricate calligraphy on the page next to it is what makes his blood run cold.

W E N D I G O

-

He takes the books with him. He knows it's stupid, after all the time he took to make it look like a robbery gone south, and he knows Chris Argent will draw a conclusion as to why his research was stolen. He's hoping, however, that the loss of his wife and the disappearance of his sister will throw the man off long enough. At any rate, he has reading material as he waits for Kate to wake up.

It's taking longer than usual, what with the morphine he's got her on. Stealing from a hospital is harder than breaking into the library, but not undoable. This warehouse is yet another of Beacon Hills' abandoned properties. He's considering starting a petition to city hall about it, but for now they're working in his favor.

Finally, the curiosity is too much and he rewinds the cassette in the recorder. When it clicks, he presses play.

“... Kate is convinced that the thing that committed the first mauling is responsible for the deaths that followed. I don't deny that an omega, possibly Peter Hale, was responsible for the first victim.” Chris Argent's voice echoes a bit against the walls. “However, there are inconsistencies all over the place. The first victim was merely torn apart, slashes covering the body, as well as bite marks. Despite these marks, no organs were removed from the body, nor was there any instance of flesh being torn completely away in sections.”

There's a shuffling of paper in the background, and Stiles guesses he's looking through the crime scene photos that he, too, has copies of.

“Morales and Carter, on the other hand, were missing several organs each, and there are multiple instances where... chunks have been ripped out. On their throats, arms, and torsos. The bite marks go straight to the bone.”

Stiles takes a moment to relive that night. He hasn't eaten that well since he came to Beacon Hills.

“And then just last night was a young man in the preserve, a David Torres. This is where things really start to stand out. The wounds on his body match the first victim's almost exactly, as if copied, with one exception; his liver was missing.” Mr. Argent sighs in frustration. “Kate doesn't see these instances as separate, especially after finding Peter Hale's ID band near Torres' body, but I have a theory.”

Stiles holds his breath as he hears Argent flip through the book Stiles now believes to be a bestiary. Argent begins to read a passage.

“The origins of the wendigo are debated; there are certain tribes native to the land that warn of harsh winters in which traveling groups find themselves lost. In the face of limited access to sustenance, a member of one of these groups may resort to consuming the flesh of their kindred in order to survive. This corrupts his soul, turning him into a monster never satisfied.”

There's the sound of a page turning.

“Other stories begin in a similar fashion, with a man lost in harsh conditions. However, these stories speak of some malevolent force, or demon, falling upon the man and possessing him, causing him to crave human flesh.”

Stiles grips the tape recorder hard enough that the plastic creaks. Argent is quiet for a moment.

“Kate would laugh at me and it wouldn't be without good reason. One would expect a much higher body count; wendigos are ravenous, not known for their control. They are, however, highly intelligent creatures. It's a stretch, but what if... What if we're being lead around by our noses? What if this wendigo, if it is a wendigo, does have control? What if it's trying to cover its tracks?”

Stiles' grip does cause the case to crack this time, though the recording continues.

“I'll have to look further into this tomorrow. Right now, I need to go pick Allison up from school.”

The recording stops there. The timing is perfect, because Kate begins to stir where he has her tied up against a support beam.

“Chris?” she asks in a slur, confused. Stiles keeps one eye on her as he sets the recorder down and turns the kabobs he has cooking over an open barrel fire. She eventually comes to her senses enough to notice her brother is nowhere to be seen, that she and Stiles are alone. She smirks and shakes her head. “This isn't exactly how you show a girl a good time, you know,” she says, words still slow due to the morphine.

Stiles raises an eyebrow, but doesn't say anything.

“What's this for?” she asks, nodding toward the IV in her arm.

“I didn't want the pain to distract you from the conversation we're about to have,” he says as he takes one of the kabobs off of the fire, tearing his teeth into one of the cooked pieces of meat. He waits for her to realize, for her to struggle against her bindings and feel the open wounds where her fingers used to be.

Her enraged, hysteric screams are music to his ears as he pulls another finger off of the kabob and begins to eat, tossing the bone away when he finishes it.

“You were a bit trigger happy the last time we met,” he says. “Thought I'd go ahead and deal with that before we talked.”

“I'll fucking kill you!” she screams at him, baring her teeth.

“Well, you're not gonna be shooting me again any time soon,” he tells her, standing up with the kabob in hand. He walks toward her as he eats another finger. “Does the name Stilinski ring a bell?” he asks. Kate spits in his face in response, but there is no recognition in her eyes. He wipes his cheek and tries again. “How about Hale?”

“What about that pack of curs?” she hisses.

“You seem to have made a profession out of killing them. The fire wasn't enough, you had to go and kill one while he was catatonic?” He looks down at his meal and digresses for a moment. “There's a finger-licking good joke here, I just can't quite find it.”

Kate roars out again, straining against her binds as she lurches out, trying to bite him. He leans back just in time, but doesn't retaliate. She's drugged and her movements are sluggish, not to mention his rope work is pretty impressive.

“Feel free to wear yourself out,” he tells her, walking back to the crate he was previously sitting on. “And when you're done with that,” he says, “you can tell me all about Gerard before I cut off your hands and eat those, too.”

-

When Scott drives Allison home after dinner that night, he's not expecting the lights of police cruisers and an ambulance in front of her house, or to see his dad talking to a distraught Chris Argent.

“Oh my god,” Allison says, quickly unbuckling her seatbelt and jumping out of the car. Scott puts the car in park and follows her, running up the driveway. Allison runs to her father.

“Dad! What happened?” she asks. Mr. Argent turns to her, eye red rimmed. “Dad?” The man pulls his daughter toward him, wrapping his arms around her tightly. “Dad, tell me what happened. Where's Mom?” Mr. Argent only holds her closer and bottom of Scott's stomach drops out. “Dad, please!” Allison says, her voice wavering as she tries to pull back to look into her father's face. “Where is she? Where's Mom?”

“Allison,” Mr. Argent chokes out. “I'm so sorry-”

Allison breaks away, running for the front door. Deputy Graham tries to stop her, wrapping an arm around Allison's waist as she tries to get past the door. Scott doesn't see what Allison sees, but he can imagine from the way she drops to her knees, an anguished scream tearing from her mouth.

Scott stands frozen, wanting to go to her but knowing it's not his place right now. Mr. Argent goes to his daughter, bending down and bringing her to him, letting her cry into his shoulder. Scott turns to his dad, at a loss for what else to do. His dad merely averts his eyes, placing a hand on Scott's shoulder. Scott doesn't brush him off.

“What happened?” he hears himself asking. His dad mouth forms a tight line before he uses his hand on Scott's shoulder to steer him down the driveway. Once at a distance from the front door, he stops.

“Looks like there was a break-in. The place has been trashed, some things are missing...”

“And Mrs. Argent?” Scott asks, though he already knows. His dad winces and doesn't answer his question.

“Scott, Allison can't stay here while we investigate. Mr. Argent is going to be at the hospital for a time and then he's getting a temporary place to stay until we finish. I need you to call your mother and See if she wouldn't mind letting Allison stay with you guys for a few days. Mr. Argent wants her to be somewhere safe.”

Even before his dad finishes, Scott is already pulling out his cell, calling his mom. While telling her about the situation, Scott makes an effort not to look at the body bag being wheeled to the ambulance. His mom wants them back immediately, already preparing a space for Allison before they even hang up. When he pushes his phone back into his pocket, he walks back up the driveway. Allison reaches out for him and he pulls her into an embrace, stroking her hair as she cries.

“Kate should have been here tonight as well,” he hears Mr. Argent tell his dad. “But she and her SUV are missing.”

“We'll put out a description of her and her vehicle. Have you attempted to contact her?”

“Her phone is going straight to voice mail.”

“Do you think it's possible,” Sheriff McCall starts, “that maybe she-”

“You know that isn't what this was,” Mr. Argent growls out angrily.

Scott tunes out after that, bringing his hands up to Allison's face, brushing her hair back. He smiles sadly at her.

“Do you think you'd be okay going up to pack a bag? The Sheriff wants you to stay at my place for a while,” he tells her softly. Allison bites her lip but nods, trying to wipe the tears away from her face.

When they make it back to his house, his mom meets them in the driveway, wrapping her arms around Allison.

None of them get much sleep that night.

Allison spends Sunday with her dad. Scott wishes Stiles had a phone, because he could really use someone to talk to, someone who can help him figure out what he can do to help the Argents after this tragedy, because there's still no word on Allison's aunt and there's no new news on the investigation just yet. But then again, he thinks, Stiles has his own set of problems. Scott hasn't been very good at helping with those – what makes him think he can do anything to help Allison?

When Allison returns that afternoon, it's obvious that she's been crying. She tries to smile at Scott, but he knows smiling is that last thing she wants to do right now. And then it comes to him.

“Would you like to go to the clinic with me tonight?” he asks. “I have to work until closing, but I bet Mr. Bird misses you.”

“Are you sure Dr. Deaton wouldn't mind?” she asks.

“It'll be fine! You can help me feed the puppies,” he says. Allison does give him a real smile then, albeit a small one.

Dr. Deaton is more than willing to let Allison stay, offering her condolences on her loss. She's in the backroom with the animals while Scott and Deaton examine Mrs. Bradley's tabby.

“Such a shame, to lose a parent so young,” Deaton comments quietly. Scott bites his lip and nods. He opens his mouth to say something, but decides against it, instead going about readjusting his hold on the irritable cat. “You know you're free to speak your mind, Scott,” Dr. Deaton tells him.

“I just-” Scott says. “Two people I care about are hurting, I know it. But nothing I do feels like it's enough.”

“Allison doesn't need you to do anything but be there for her, Scott,” Deaton says. “What you and your mother are doing right now is admirable.”

“It's still doesn't feel like much,” Scott admits. Deaton nods in understanding.

“And what of Stiles?” he asks. Scott sighs and shrugs.

“I think he's doing better. It's hard to tell with him sometimes,” he says. For some reason, this seems to worry Dr. Deaton. Scott is still in the dark on what his boss's issue is with his friend, but he respects the man too much to call him out on it, especially when he hasn't said anything particularly disparaging lately.

He's putting the tabby into its carrier for Mrs. Bradley when Allison comes out from the back. There's still a sadness about her, something that he knows will be there for some time, but she looks a little happier.

“Mr. Bird is feeling energetic today,” she says. “He kept hopping around his cage and singing.”

“Told you he missed you,” Scott tells her. She smiles and looks to Dr. Deaton.

“Do you think it'd be okay if I took him home when his wing heals?” she asks.

“Well, this particular breed isn't really meant for house life,” Dr. Deaton tells her. “However, I'm sure that if you have a bird house set up in your backyard, perhaps a feeder, he'd be more than happy to visit you at home during the day.”

“I'll talk to my dad about it,” she says.

For the rest of business hours, Scott and Allison maintained the animals and talked about little things here and there. Scott is beginning to think Dr. Deaton was right. Maybe all he needs to do right now is be there for her.

-

Allison doesn't go to school Monday. Instead, Lydia Martin knocks on Scott's door at seven in the morning. He's still half asleep when he opens the door, in nothing but his sleep pants and his hair sticking up in every direction. His bleary eyes widen when he realizes it's her, and brings his hands up to cover his chest. Her eyes still give him an appraising once over.

“Calm down,” she says. “It's nothing I haven't seen before.” And then she's pushing her way past him, her heels clicking confidently on entry way. “Where's Allison?” she asks, straight to the point. Scott blinks away the sleep still in his eyes.

“Uh, upstairs. Guest room to the left.” He points needlessly to the stairs, and Lydia tosses her hair and she makes her way to the second floor. Scott closes the door and rubs his face before following. When he makes it to the guest room, Lydia is raiding the closet while Allison sits on the bed, still in her pajamas.

“I can't not go to school,” Allison says as Lydia pulls out a blouse.

“Of course you can,” Lydia says. “Just call your dad and tell him you need a day to yourself. You and I are going to my house for a Girls' Day.”

“I need to get dressed to hang out at your house?” Allison asks, looking down at her PJs.

“You can't lounge around all day in the things you slept in,” Lydia says, as if it's some sort of commandment. She pulls out another blouse and then a comfortable looking sweater. Sighing, she hands the sweater to Allison. “This will do, I guess.” She lays the clothes out on the bed and walks out, pushing Scott back into the hall. “Try not to take too long. There's hot chocolate and muffins waiting in my kitchen.”

“Muffins?” Scott asks as Lydia closes the door.

“Not for you. I'm stealing her away for a day retreat,” Lydia says. “Be sure to get her homework together and then bring it by my house in the afternoon. I'll do it for her.”

“You'll do her homework?” Scott asks, unsure. Lydia levels him with a look of pity.

“Don't forget. And don't bring your little friend with you,” she says sternly. She turns to walk back down the stairs and Scott frowns at her. Wow. Rude.

He's happy though, knowing that Lydia can and is willing to help Allison in a way he can't. “Girl time” is probably a really good idea. He's not entirely sure what that'll entail, but he's defenseless against the sudden image of Allison and Lydia, snug in a bed together and feeding each other muffins.

He really needs to wake up.

Allison does a pretty good job of it when she walk out, not in her comfortable sweater, but her travel jacket, gloves, and carrying her bow. Oh yeah. He's awake now. She leans in and kisses him.

“Looks like I'm being kidnapped,” she says.

“No worries. I'll pay the ransom,” he tells her, kissing her again. She smiles at him, and this time it's wide and bright.

“Thank you so much,” she says softly, going in to give him one last kiss.

“Allison! Hot chocolate!” Lydia calls from downstairs.

“Can we get it to go? I feel like getting some shooting practice in,” Allison says, going down to join her.

“You can't be serious,” Lydia says, frowning.

“I'm serious. Come on, you could learn a thing or two.”

The girls leave then and Scott goes about getting ready for school.

-

For some reason, he's surprised when he sees Stiles by their lockers. Something in him half expected his friend to pull another disappearing act, and now he feels bad for thinking it. Even weirder, Stiles looks good. Healthy good. His skin is no longer a sickly pale and his posture isn't tired. He's even smiling at nothing in particular, seemingly content to just watching their classmates wander around before class.

“Scotty!” he exclaims when he sees him. Scott can't help but smile when he opens his locker.

“Who put sunshine in your cereal?” Scott asks, turning Stiles' phrase back on him. Stiles claps his shoulder, laughing.

“It's a good day, buddy!” he says, flipping a bottle of water in the air and catching it.

“At least it is for someone,” Scott chuckles.

“How is this not an awesome day?” Stiles asks. Scott shuts his locker and raises an eyebrow.

“You didn't hear the news?”

“I don't own a television.”

Oh. Right.

“Uh, well. Allison's mom was killed Saturday. Someone broke into their house,” Scott says in a hushed voice. “That and her aunt is missing.”

“That's... terrible,” Stiles says. But his voice is oddly stilted and Scott looks over at him. Stiles' face is blank, which is odd. It might be difficult to read Stiles sometimes, but he's never not expressive in some way.

“Yeah,” Scott says slowly. “She and Lydia are skipping school today to so Allison can have some time before coming back.”

“Time to yourself is important after something like that,” Stiles says, and Scott can't help but hear the experience behind it.

-

It's hard. It's so very, unfairly hard to keep a straight face. It takes everything he has to make himself seem sympathetic when he's celebrating on the inside. It's difficult not to leak satisfaction from every pore but he has a charade to maintain. The school is abuzz with rumors and wild speculation as to what happened to Victoria Argent on Saturday night. And while he's greatly entertained by it all, the talk puts Scott on edge. Stiles does his best to keep Scott's mind off of it, even spending their lunch period out on the lacrosse field so Scott can practice his shot.

“You should really try for the team,” Scott tells him once again. Stiles sighs as he keeps his shot from entering the net.

“Told you, dude. I'm too busy catching up in class.” He hurls the ball back toward Scott.

“Yeah, but you're really smart. I bet you could do both with no problem,” Scott tells him. “Plus, you and I could hang out during practice and games.”

And that... is actually pretty appealing. Stiles has been thinking more and more about what he'll do when he kills the others; he only has Gerard and Chris left. Kate wasn't forthcoming with information; he was more than happy to pick her bones clean, if only to get her back to screaming in mindless pain rather than shouting insults and threats at him. But he's not worried, even without an extensive background on Gerard. The man is, what? Eighty years old? Stiles can take him. Probably.

But what happens after that? He's avoided thinking about it for a long time. Part of him is saying he should just go back to Umpqua, return to his hunting grounds. But in his time back in Beacon Hills, he's remembered what it's like – living in a town, going to school, having friends. He's remembering what it's like to be human and the thought of returning to the forest is becoming unappealing as the days pass. A new option has been growing into a reality, though.

What if he stays?

What if he continues to live in Beacon Hills? He's enjoying it here. He's likes learning, he likes watching people run up and down a field swinging sticks. He likes playing video games and having sleepovers.

He likes being Scott's friend. Because Scott and his mom feel like family and their house feels like home.

It's something he thinks about even as they return to class. There will always be the problem of his... condition. He will always have this hunger. It would just be a matter of regulating it, maybe preying on a drifter here and there. Towns this close to the border of another state always have them. It does make him wonder about the other like him out there, other wendigos. Everything he's read so far says he shouldn't be capable of what he's doing right now, blending into a human settlement and not feasting on every person he's left alone with. He remembers when he decided to return to this town, only a few weeks ago even though it feels like a lifetime.

He had lived his life in fear for so long in Umpqua. When he was smaller, he would flee from the rangers whenever they got too close, afraid that they might be same men from before, coming to finish the job. The thought of leaving, of exposing himself outside of the forest, was the stuff of nightmares, where a non-distinct man comes out of nowhere and shoots him between the eyes. For eight years, he was a slave to his instincts, hiding, stalking, eating, hiding yet again.

Until one day he woke up and he wasn't afraid anymore.

It was like a fog dissolving inside his head; he looked down at himself and realized he had become different somehow. He looked into a stream and realized he wasn't his father's son anymore when a blood soaked monster looked back at him. He remembers clinging to that thought – he wasn't a frightened boy any longer. He was something other, something strong. Something capable of claiming revenge.

It was a lovely thought then and it's a lovely thought now.

-

It's an interesting feeling, planning your future when you didn't think you had one. But he's already picking out what colleges he and Scott should look at when they're seniors and wondering how hard it would be to get a job somewhere in town, because if he's going to stay, he needs a place to live. And a cell phone. And a television. He's riding so high on a cloud of optimism that he has an incredibly long way to fall when Scott turns down hanging out after school.

“Sorry. I've got to go pick up Allison from Lydia's. Allison is staying with me and my mom while the investigation is going on. We'll have to hold off on that for a while,” Scott tells him. Stiles digs a talon into his backpack strap.

“... I don't mind hanging out with her too,” he tries. Scott shakes his head.

“I'm not sure how she's feeling about being around other people yet. I'll talk to her tonight and let you know tomorrow.”

And this? This is not how it's supposed to be.

“Yeah, sure,” Stiles says anyway, forcing himself to smile. “Tell Allison I'm sorry about what happened,” he tacks on. He doesn't wait for a reply as he turns to leave school. This wasn't something he accounted for when killing Allison's mother and aunt. Goddamnit.

Goddamnit!

He hadn't exactly factored Allison in his and Scott's adventures into higher education. He hadn't factored Allison in at all, in anything. But of course she would be there – Scott's convinced he's in love with her, he said so himself. There's a part of him that says he's overreacting, that it's just some stupid infatuation and Scott will get over it.

But there's an angrier part of him that says an Argent is taking away his family. Again.

He doesn't feel in control at that moment. His mind tells him to go to his hide-out but his feet are taking him to the clinic. There's a small truck near the back with a man unloading bag of dog food and bird seed. Dr. Deaton is with him, chatting about something or other. They’re occupied. For now. Stiles goes in through the front, careful to not let the bell ring too loudly. The animals in the back sense him and fall silent. Stalking toward the back with one ear focused on Deaton outside, Stiles finds what he's looking for.

The bird is backed up as far as it can go in the cage. Its broken wing is still bandaged, but it looks much better than when they had first found it. Just the sight of it pisses him off. He opens the door to the cage, reaching his hand in. The bird immediately panics, lashing out with its talons and beak, letting out horribly piercing cries. Stiles shakes the cage sharply, stunning the bird when it hits the side. He grabs it by the neck, incrementally tightening his grip even as the bird struggles. Its neck breaks with a sharp crack, just as Stiles hears the back door open.

He leaves before he's spotted.

-

Scott feels bad about turning Stiles down, especially when his friend was looking so well. He might have even been able to get Stiles to eat something else. But he doesn't want Allison to feel as if she's being crowded. She seems fine around him, his mom, and Lydia, but he doesn't want to push her. When he goes to pick her up from Lydia's, she looks like she's been crying again. Despite that, she still seems a little better, as if crying was something she needed to do and get out of her system. Scott stealthily hands off Allison's homework for the day off to Lydia, who rolls her eyes at his 007 impression.

“So... did you guys have fun?” he asks Allison on their way back to his house. She nods, brushing her hair out of her face.

“Yeah. Hot chocolate, muffins. Turner Classic Movies and target practice,” she says, gesturing with her bow.

“You any good with that thing?” he teases, and he ducks his head when she levels him with a harmless glare.

“You should come with me some time. You can see for yourself how good I am,” she says. Scott does his best not to blush.

“Are you more of a Katniss or a Kate Bishop?” he asks.

“Don't know,” she says lightly. “Depends on how good I would look with a bare midriff.”

Scott does blush then and Allison laughs.

“What do you think?” she asks. “Can I pull off the purple skintight suit?”

“Do you really want me to answer that?” he says, refusing to look up from the ground. He unlocks the front door and they walk inside. He's slightly taken aback when Allison crowds him into the door after he's closed it, pulling him into a kiss.

“What if I do?” she asks, leaning her bow against the wall by the door. Scott stares at her with wide eyes. Slowly, she reaches down to grab his hand, pulling him toward the stairs. Scott almost feels dizzy as he follows her to the second floor and to the guest room. They're kissing again as soon as the door opens, and he walks her backwards to the bed. When the back of Allison's legs hit the edge, they tumble over onto the mattress.

Scott has a brief moment to contemplate how good she feels underneath him when he feels her startle. Pushing up, he looks into her eyes.

“What's wrong?” he asks. She looks up to where her hand landed above her head and his eyes follow.

Until he's staring into the dead eyes of a bird. He jumps off of Allison as she screams, pulling away from the bed as quickly as she can.

It's her bird. It's Allison's bird, there with its neck twisted around, in the middle of her bed.

-

Allison is shaken after that. So much so that she has to call her father in order to calm down. She only meant to speak with him for a few minutes, but he insisted on coming over to see the bird for himself. He stares at if for a moment before going to check the only window in the room. It's shut tight, something Scott noticed when Allison refused to come back into the room. He hadn't noticed any other windows open either, though he doesn't know if it matters. The bird's wing is still broken. He'd called Dr. Deaton, who confirmed that Allison's bird was indeed missing from its cage at the clinic.

Scott has no idea what's going on, but Mr. Argent seems to be as upset by the incident as they are.

“Allison, I think it would be best if you stayed at the hotel with me from now on,” he says.

“What, why?” Scott can't stop himself from asking. Mr. Argent pins him with a glare, but Allison speaks up.

“You don't think I'm safe here, do you?” she asks. Mr. Argent doesn't respond right away. “Do you-” Allison starts. “Do you think who broke into our house did this?”

“I would just feel better if you were nearer to me. Also, your grandfather is coming to town tonight and we should be there to greet him when he arrives,” Mr. Argent says. Scott doesn't want Allison to leave, but he understands that she might not be comfortable staying here anymore. Allison looks like she wants to protest, but can't find the words. Finally she looks to Scott sadly before going up to pack her things.

“I'm sorry,” Scott tells Mr. Argent, not knowing what to say. “You trusted me to...” Mr. Argent looks at him for a moment before nodding his understanding and placing his hand on Scott's shoulder.

“Tell your mother I appreciate what the two of you have done for us.”

-

When Scott sees Stiles in class the next day, his friend seems perfectly fine. There's no hard feelings, it seems, from yesterday afternoon. In fact, Stiles once again seems oddly pleased about something, and as much as Scott wants to ask, something tells him he doesn't want to know.

“What's wrong?” Stiles asks him between classes. Scott shakes his head.

“Something happened yesterday. Allison's going to be staying with her dad now until the police are done with their house. Should be soon,” he says.

“Maybe that's for the best,” Stiles says. “At any rate, you should definitely think about bird proofing your house, dude.”

Scott stops in the middle of the hall.

“How did you know about the bird?” he asks, confused. Stiles looks back to him. He shrugs and looks around before he answers.

“Uh, Allison told Lydia and Lydia told me,” he says.

“Really? I got the feeling Lydia didn't like you very much,” Scott says. Stiles places his hand over his heart with an offended expression.

“For your information, I am a delight,” he asserts, and Scott can't help but laugh. “Besides, I think Lydia is warming up to me.”

“Got your eyes on Lydia Martin?” Scotts asks with a smirk. Stiles exaggerates a look of consideration.

“Why not? She seems healthy,” he comments. Scott can't help but find it an odd thing to say.

“Okay, whatever. Good luck getting around Jackson.”

They decide to head out to the field again during lunch when Scott spots Allison walking toward them from the school.

“Hey! I didn't think you'd be in class today,” he says.

“My grandfather wanted to see the school,” she tells him.

“Your grandfather is here?” Stiles asks. Allison blinks at him but nods.

“Yeah, he came in last night. He's... Well, he was just coming for a visit, but now he'll be here for my mom's funeral,” she says, looking toward the ground. Scott turns to pin Stiles with a look to which his friend responds by mouthing “what?”

“Have the police found anything?” Scott asks. Allison shakes her head.

“No. At least not that my dad's told me,” she says, and Scott can detect a bit of frustration in her voice.

“Allison!”

Mr. Argent and an elderly man walk toward them on the field.

“Guys, you know my dad. Scott, Stiles,” she says, gesturing to them respectively, “this is my grandfather Gerard.”

“Scott,” Gerard says, stepping forward and holding out. “I've heard all about you.” The man's stare is intense, making Scott feel uneasy, even as he shakes the man's hand.

“Nice to meet you,” he says politely. Stiles shifts next to him and Scott realizes that Gerard has even bothered to look at him. He imagines Stiles is probably mildly offended. He wants to reassure him that he doesn't want to be on the tail end of this man's attention.

“I actually know your father,” Gerard says. “I helped him campaign for sheriff back when I lived here myself.” Scott's eyebrows jump up and he can see Mr. Argent shift uncomfortably.

“Did you know the sheriff before him?” Stiles suddenly asks. Gerard looks over to him in surprise, as if he's only now realizing that he's there, but Scott is surprised for another reason entirely. That was the same voice he used when they'd found the bird, something cold and distant.

“I'm afraid I didn't have the pleasure,” Gerard says after a time. “Quite tragic, what happened.” With that, he goes back to ignoring Stiles completely. “It was nice meeting you, young man. You'll have to have dinner with us while I'm in town. Allison tells me you play lacrosse; perhaps I'll get to see a game as well.”

There's a couple more minutes of strained, awkward small talk before Allison, Mr. Argent, and Gerard take their leave as the bell to signal the end of lunch rings. Scott shakes his head and turns to Stiles... who is watching them go, looking utterly pissed.

“Dude, you okay?” Scott asks. Stiles tears his glare away from them to look at Scott.

“... I'm fine,” he says tersely. He starts an angry pace back to the building and Scott has to jog to keep up.

Scott knows from experience that it sucks being ignored, but Stiles really seemed to take it personally.

-

Stiles is so happy Gerard is in town. So very, indescribably happy. He's about to break into song and dance to tell the world just how fucking happy he is.

He's going rip the man's lungs out through his back.

The fact that all the players are finally present does little to quell his rage. Didn't have the pleasure, he said. Quite tragic, he said. What a goddamn asshole. What a fucking-

Breathe, he tells himself. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Remain calm. He hates how easily his control is slipping these days. It's enough to make him want to punch Jackson in the back of his stupid head in Economics. Though, wanting to punch Jackson is a sort of a perpetual state of being. He has an unreal amount of misplaced aggression built up, and forcing Jackson into a fight is sounding like an awesome idea the more he thinks about it. He wonders how he could pull that off. Kissing Lydia in front of him is out; Lydia's still keeping wide berth of him. Maybe if he kissed Danny? Does Danny even find him attractive? He should ask.

Which is primarily why he finds himself in the locker room after school as everyone comes in from practice. Luckily, he sees Danny's talking to Scott.

“It's tonight?” Scott asks.

“Yeah, a lot of people from school are going, plus most of the team,” Danny says.

“I've never been to a warehouse party,” Scott says.

“First time for everything. But hey, you don't have to go if you don't want to.”

“No! Uh. Sounds like fun. Can Stiles come?” Scott asks. Danny shrugs.

“Sure, why not?"

“Okay, great. See you guys there.”

Stiles walks up to Scott as Danny goes to his locker where Jackson his glaring at his friend intensely.

“Scotty, how was practice?” Stiles asks, straddling the bench.

“Dude, we just got invited to a party. Are you free?” Scott asks.

“Are you?” And maybe that was a low blow. It must have been because Scott winces.

“Uh, yeah. Allison's spending time with her family... What's left of it,” he says sadly under his breath. “And I kind of feel like I need to do something fun, you know?”

“Sure. Sounds like a plan,” Stiles says. Actually, this might be perfect. Taking his aggression out on Jackson probably isn't the best idea. But some nameless person in a dark warehouse?

That sounds like a plan.

-

This party warehouse is several blocks from his warehouse, where he has Kate’s vehicle and bones stored. He meets Scott at the back of the line, but it moves quickly. The inside is loud. Loud, loud. There are spots of neon light dancing everywhere across his vision and bodies are gyrating to and fro. He honestly has no idea what to do when no less than four people try to rub up against him. There's a stink about them, something chemical that's messing with the scent of their sweat.

“Uh, Scott? Buddy, I'm pretty sure no less than half of these people are high. Probably on any number of things,” he says. He sniffs the stifling air. “And drunk. How could I forget drunk.”

“What'd you expect?” Scott asks him over the music. If Scott expected this, he's definitely not showing it. His arms are locked tightly to his side as a girl practically drapes herself over him, and he's doing his best to side step away from her.

They push their way to a corner, which has less people, but those people are currently in the process of getting it on. In synch with one another, Stiles and Scott turn away from the writhing bodies along the wall, eyes wide. They stand there, two frozen points in a room full of movement, decidedly uncomfortable and definitely not having fun.

“Is, uh-” Stiles starts. “Is this how most parties are?” he asks. He sees Scott shakes his head slowly out of the corner of his eye.

“No. I've only been to five parties. Four of them were birthday parties before I hit third grade.”

“And the fifth?”

“The party I went to with Allison,” Scott says.

“And what was that one like?” Stiles asks.

“I don't know. I spent all of it dancing and making out with Allison.”

Well there's a thought-

“No, Stiles, I'm not going to make out with you.”

Wow. Rude.

“... Want to go back to your house and play Halo?”

“Absolutely,” Scott immediately agrees.

They start making their way back toward the front of the warehouse, but the flow of the music shifts and suddenly cutting through the center becomes impossible. Stiles tries to look for Scott through the sea of people, but he can't find him.

Suddenly, he feels a hand on his lower back. Turning, he doesn't see Scott, but a man. He's young yet, but easily the oldest person in a warehouse full of teenagers and college students. He bends his head down to Stiles' ear.

“Need some help?” he asks over the music, his hand going a little lower.

“Oh my god,” Stiles says. He's about to elbow his way through the wall of bodies but then he remembers. This is why he came here. He's still wound too tightly, and there's really nothing quite like losing yourself in someone. Specifically their internal organs.

Alright. Okay. He can do this.

“It's a little loud for me,” he says, turning more fully into the man. “Wanna find a quiet place?”

And then the man is leading him toward the exit, and he's practically salivating already.

“Stiles!” Scott voice calls out to him as he and the man exit the warehouse. It's started raining and as Scott runs up to him, his sneakers splash a number of puddles. He slows when he sees Stiles' wrist in the man's hand. “Stiles, you okay?” he asks, uneasy. Stiles takes a deep breath and turns to the man.

“I'll meet you back there?” He points to the alley behind the warehouse. The man raises an eyebrow, but smiles dangerously nonetheless.

“Don't keep me waiting,” he says, letting go of Stiles wrist and walking off. Scott's face is a mess of concern.

“Stiles, what are you doing?” he asks.

“Change of plans, buddy. I'm going to spend a little time with...” he trails off, pointing in the man's direction.

“You don't even know his name?” Scott asks, scandalized.

“Sure I do! It's... Ricardo. Probably.” Stiles thinks it's a lovely name. Scott, apparently, does not.

“Dude, what the hell? You're about to... whatever with a guy you've never met?”

“I'm a virgin, Scott, did I ever tell you that? I just witnessed no less than a third of our class getting some in there,” Stiles argues. His stomach turns sharply, not appreciating the delay of his dinner.

“Then, talk to Danny or something! He knows guys our age, at least!”

“Scott, stop!” Stiles all but shouts. “Will you just... Dude, I really appreciate that you worry about me. No one has in a really long time. But I need you to let this happen, okay? You're going to have to let me make my own decisions.”

“Even when they're huge mistakes?” Scott asks, fists at his side. Stiles bites the inside of his cheek and tries not to chew.

“Go home, Scott. Please.” With that, Stiles turns toward the alley and leaves his friend standing near the warehouse entrance in the drizzle. And he turns the corner, he pauses, listening to hear if Scott will follow him.

He finds he's actually a little disappointed when he doesn't.

The man from before is leaning against a building parallel to the warehouse. When he sees Stiles has finally showed up, he opens a door to what appears to be a dark, empty building. Perfect, Stiles thinks, if they want to stay out of the rain.

He can see inside the building just fine, his eyes shifting ever so slightly to take in the maximum amount of light possible. The man, however, is stumbling in the dark. This time, Stiles takes his wrist, pulling him around a corner and into a room that has a bare bulb hanging in the center. He's actually surprised when light fills the room when he pulls the string. He's blinded for a second, needing to shift his eyes back to normal, when he feels the man wrap his arms around his waist from behind.

“This place quiet enough for you?”

“Depends,” Stiles says.

“On what?” the man asks, hands moving to places Stiles is not okay with. Stiles let's his face shift and fingers blacken as his talons extend.

“On whether or not you scream.”

-

Scott stands in the rain for who knows how long. He feels about a thousand things at once, but mostly he feels kind of sick to his stomach, like he's being torn in two directions. Stiles has a point; Scott isn't his keeper, as much as he might want to repay Stiles for all he's done. And it wasn't like Stiles went with the guy unwillingly. On the other hand...

On the other hand, this feels like one of those cry-for-help things his mom is always telling him about. It's most certainly one of the worst decisions he's ever had the misfortune of seeing in action. Stiles isn't... He doesn't... He didn't even know the guy's name! Scott kicks at a puddle, knowing his options are go home or follow Stiles and have his best friend get angry with him again.

It's really not that hard of a choice.

The alley is empty when he rounds the corner. A number of things run through his mind then – what if the guy took Stiles somewhere? To an apartment or a motel? What if Stiles told him to stop, and he didn't? What if he turned out to be some kind of pyscho murder?

He works himself into an impressive panic before he sees the door of another building slightly ajar. He walks toward it, wondering if perhaps they went in to avoid the rain. They must have, because he hears something when he stops into the building and out of the rain. He squints into the darkness, holding his hands out in front of him until he feels and wall and follow it to a corner. Turning it, he sees a flood of light spilling out of a room down the hall, the door only just open.

He quietly walks closer, the sound becoming more distinct. It's a wet sound, something he can't quite place. He peered through the cracked door and immediately feels his face turn red.

Stiles' back is to the door as he straddles the man from the warehouse, who's laid out on the floor. He's bent over him and Scott can now guess what that wet sound might be. He's about to leave, about to rush out before this goes any further, because shit, this is none of his business. What is he doing, creeping on his best friend when said best friend is trying to get-

And then he hears an impossibly loud series of cracks, and his eyes are drawn back to them. Stiles back straightens and Scott's once flushed face drains when he sees that Stiles' hands and forearms are covered in blood. He's pulling at something around the man's chest and with one final, loud crack, he pulls a rib bone free, bringing it to his face and eating the meat that clings to it.

He's eating.

He's eating it.

He's eating that man.

A small, terrified sound rips past Scott's lips, and he brings his hand up to cover his mouth when Stiles goes statue still. Scott does his best to do the same, but he's shaking and his heart is pounding and he can't believe what he's seeing. He almost lets out another sound when Stiles head turns to look over his shoulder. From his position, Scott can see his profile. There is blood and viscera clinging to his chin and rows of elongated teeth and his eyes glow unnaturally.

“Is someone there?”

It's Stiles' voice but it's not. It's ragged and the sound of it reverberates. It's a sound that turn's Scott blood cold and he wants nothing but to run. But Stiles is tilting his head, as if listening and Scott just knows he can hear the rapid-fire pounding of his heart.

But eventually Stiles turns back around, shrugging. He brings the rib back up to his mouth and tears the meat off of it before throwing the bone away and moving to lean back over the man's now exposed chest cavity.

Scott doesn't stay after that, he can't.

He runs out of the building as fast as his feet can carry him.

All the way to his house.

He knows it's a panic attack, but when he locks himself in his room, he lunges for his inhaler anyway. Two pumps in, he thinks he about to have a heart attack. He pushes himself against his bed and draws his knees up. He didn't just- That didn't just-

He pushes his head between his knees and tries to breathe.

He didn't just see that he didn't just see that he didn't just see that-

The bathroom is almost too far away, but he manages to make it to the toilet before he violently empties the contents of his stomach. His head is pounding in time with his pulse and he thinks he's close to passing out. Probably would if he wasn't shaking so damn much.

He should call the police. His dad. Somebody. He just witnessed a murder-

That his best friend committed. By eating the guy.

He's sick several more times that night.

-

His mom doesn't know what's wrong with him in the morning. He looks and feels terrible and he didn't get an ounce of sleep. She checks his temperature, checks his throat, but she can't figure out why her son is shivering or why he won't talk to her. When she mentions calling in to work along with letting the school know he won't be in that day, Scott finally speaks up.

“You can't miss work,” he says weakly. His mom shrugs a bit.

“One shift won't break us... much. Maybe I should take you to the hospital with me,” she says, putting her hand against his forehead.

“I'll be fine,” he tells her, and it convinces neither of them. “I was just out in the rain too long last night,” he says. She eventually does leave, but not without making sure there was soup in the kitchen for him to heat up and plenty of juice. He watches for her car out of his window, and when she's gone, he jumps out of bed and rushes downstairs for his bicycle. He nearly gets run over three times on his way to the clinic, but blaring horns or none, he's not paying attention. It's still early yet, the clinic isn't open and Dr. Deaton's car isn't in its usual parking spot. Scott uses his key to enter the back door, goes into the examination room, and just... collapses. He presses his back up against the row of cabinets and doesn't move, not even when he hears the bell over the front door chime.

Dr. Deaton is in the middle of removing his jacket when he sees Scott on the floor. He quickly strips it off and kneels down to him, hand coming up to rest gently on his shoulder, his face filled with concern.

“Scott? What is it? What's wrong?” he asks. Scott takes a deep breath, holding it before answering.

“You knew.”

And then realization dawns on Deaton's face and Scott knows he was right.

“Somehow. Somehow you knew something was... that he was...” He can't say it. He's spent all night thinking about it and he can't say it.

“Scott, did he attack you?” Deaton asks, eyes scanning over Scott to check. Scott shakes his head.

“N-no. I just- I saw. I saw him-” He's going to be sick again and there isn't even anything left in his stomach.

“You saw him feeding,” Deaton finishes for him. Scott forwards his brow and looks up at the man.

“Feeding? He was eating the guy! He torn his chest open and started eating him!” He's shouting now even though he knows he shouldn't, but he can't get control of himself enough to bring his voice down. “What do you mean feeding?” He sees Deaton wince, but before he can explain, Mr. Argent and his father walk in from the back room that was still unlocked from when Scott entered.

“It's what his kind do,” Gerard says. Any pretense he held of a kind, gentle grandfather is banished. The man speaks like a sermon, like something seeking retribution. “It's what all wendigos do. Feast on the flesh of man.”

“You're a little early for our appointment,” Deaton tells him, in that rare tone that says he's quickly becoming irritated. Mr. Argent holds up a hand and steps forward, as if to keep an argument from happening. He walks over to Scott and kneels down in front of him, and when he speaks, his voice is low rather than commanding like his father's.

“Scott, I need you to tell me what you saw and where.”

Scott looks to Deaton, and the man nods. The last thing he wants to do is relive last night again, but he does once more, and when he's finished Deaton and Mr. Argent are grim, whereas Gerard seems pleased.

“You were right, Chris,” he says. “It's seems we have a rather abnormal specimen on our hands.” Mr. Argent doesn't acknowledge the praise, he merely keeps looking Scott in the eye.

“I need you to tell me where Stiles lives, Scott.”

“I don't know. He'd never tell me. And he doesn't have a phone. If you knew it was him, why are you asking me?”

“We didn't know who it was exactly,” Deaton says next to him. “We only knew that we had to be looking, especially after the deaths of two of their men. I suspected it might have been your friend the day you introduced us. When the animals fell silent.”

Scott remembers. He wish he didn't, because that means all the signs where there and he either never noticed or he attributed them to something else.

“You said he was a... A-”

“A wendigo,” Mr. Argent supplies. Scott tries to force the lump in his throat to move.

“What is that?” he asks.

“It's a demon. A wild animal that lives off human flesh,” Gerard tells him. But Scott shakes his head.

“I don't understand! How is that possible? I was- I've known him for months now! He seemed so-” He's having difficulty reigning in his thoughts and words.

“That's why none of us were sure at first,” Deaton tells him. “He behaves in a way almost contrary to how he should. It's almost as if... as if he's still human in some ways.” Gerard seems to scoff at the idea, but Mr. Argent merely looks to his hands.

“Still?” Scott asks.

“All wendigos were people once,” Mr. Argent says, standing up. “Something has to happen for them to become like this.”

“There's no record of a 'Stiles Kowalski.' I've checked,” Deaton says. “His records at the school are incomplete as well.”

Scott doesn't bother asking how he managed to get a hold of school records- his head is spinning enough already.

“I believe I know who we're dealing with,” Gerard says after a time. All three turn to him.

“Feel like filling us in?” Mr. Argent asks angrily. Gerard smirks.

“He asked me about the previous sheriff. You know the one.”

Mr. Argent flinches, turning away from his father.

“That particular sheriff had a son. We assumed both died in Oregon, but I would hazard a guess that Carter and Morales were as inept as usual in handling the situation.” Gerard tilts his head in contemplation. “The boy was young and that was, oh... eight or nine years ago. I'd say he'd be about Scott's age now.”

Scott wants to scream that none of this makes sense, but he's instantly reminded of all the times Stiles had asked about his dad and how he became sheriff. About the time Stiles stared up at the department, looking lost and alone.

“This has been enlightening, gentlemen, but who it is doesn't really matter,” Gerard says, turning to Deaton. “Laura and Derek Hale will be returning any day now, after the news of their uncle's death reaches them. Best to have this mess wrapped up before then. I believe my son asked you to procure an item for us.” Deaton lips form a thin line, but he reluctantly stands up from Scott's side, walking over to one of the cupboards and pulls a bundle of cloth out. Scott stands as he places the bundle on the examination table, unwrapping it.

“A knife?” he asks, as the item is reveals.

“An Objiwa knife. The handle is carved from sumac root and the blade is made unrefined silver. Wendigos are built for survival of almost any kind. This is the only thing known to be able to reliably kill one,” Dr. Deaton says.

“Kill?” Scott asks, backing away from the table. “You're going to- Isn't there something you can do?" he asks the Argents. “You said he used to be human! And he's... he's my friend. There has to be something you can do to turn him back, right?” All three men fall into silence. “You can't just kill him!”

“He's a monster, Scott. He's killed so many in this town alone. He needs to be put down,” Gerard tells him, picking up the knife and weighing it in his hand. Scott feels the room spinning and he has to grip the table. Deaton comes next to him and steadies him.

“I'm sorry, Scott. If there was something that could be done, of course we would try. But there isn't. I'm sorry, but there isn't.”

“We're going to need your help, Scott,” Gerard said. He steps closer to him, and Scott tries to resist the urge to back away. “We have the advantage. He's unaware that we're onto him; from here we can stage an ambush. Go to the school. Tell him to meet you in the preserve, make up a reason. When he shows up, we'll be able to take him by surprise.”

From three different people he's being told he has to lead Stiles – his friend – to his death somewhere out in the woods.

And he doesn't know what to do.

-

Stiles is a bit appalled by how he and those he knows have become raging truancy delinquents. Or perhaps he's just irritated by the lack of Scott in his morning classes. There's only so much of Harris he can take before the need to be a smartass arises, and now he doesn't have anyone to admire his wit. Beyond that, he can't help but feel like Scott might be avoiding him after Stiles told him off last night. It's no reason to skip school, but the thought is still there in the back of his mind.

He's partially pissed because he spent all of last night after his impromptu dinner making Scott this damn study guide for biology, and the guy isn't even here to appreciate it. In between classes, he goes to Scott's locker and tapes it to the inside. He won't need it until next week, and he'll probably be at school tomorrow.

Or he could be standing right in front of Stiles when he turns around. Stiles flails, a horrible habit he's been developing, and stares at his friend.

“Dude! Warn a guy!” he says. Scott doesn't say anything at first, and now that Stiles gets a good look, he looks awful. His face is drawn and concerned, and it doesn't seem as if he's gotten any sleep. “Whoa, hey, are you alright?” Stiles asks, taking a step forward. He's confused when Scott takes a step back but doesn't say anything. “Um... Are you still mad about last night?” For some reason, Scott looks like he's about to be sick. “Hey, maybe you so go see the nurse-”

“I need to talk to you,” Scott says suddenly. Stiles scans the hallways.

“Okay…”

“Not here.”

“Where then?” Stiles asks. Scott tilts his head down the hall and Stiles follows him. When they exit the school, Stiles starts to worry.

“Hey, dude, you know we have a report due in-”

“I know what you are.”

Stiles freezes. Surely Scott's talking about something else, that Stiles is just misunderstanding, but grim conviction with which he says it still doesn't bode well.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“I saw you last night. I saw what you did.”

It's an interesting sensation, feeling the world drop out from under you when your feet are flat on the ground. And Stiles recognizes now the expression on Scott's face. It isn't concern – it's fear. It the same fear that he's seen in the eyes of countless others. He doesn't know how he didn't see it before.

Probably because he didn't want to.

“Scott...” he says slowly. “Scott listen to me, please-”

“No!” Scott shouts. “You listen!” And Stiles can't help but slam his mouth shut. “They know too. Gerard and Chris Argent. They want me to lead you into a trap.” Scott's voice is shaken and unsure. “Stiles... You have to leave.”

Leave.

Leave?

Leave, now, after he's decided to stay?

“... No,” he says. Scott gives him a desperate look.

“Stiles, I... I don't understand half of what's happening, but I know they're going to kill you! Please, would you just-”

Stiles feels bad for pouncing on him then, but he makes sure Scott's knocked out before he knows it. Glancing around the school, no one is in sight. It's broad daylight, so he'll have to be quick. He throws Scott over his shoulder and takes off for his hide-out.

-

He tries not to tie the ropes too tightly; Kate broke her other wrist on her third escape attempt, and Stiles isn't out to hurt Scott. He even goes so far as to throw a blanket over his legs, because it's cold as balls in this place. But Scott's tied up nonetheless because Stiles doesn't need another wild card. When his friend begins to stir, he sits down in front of him, preparing himself.

Scott takes in his bindings and the emptiness of the building before his eyes finally rest on Stiles, who can't help but wave.

“Mornin',” he says. Scott immediately tries to fight against the ropes. “Hey, hey! Easy!”

“Don't eat me!” Scott pleads, and Stiles feels his heart drop.

“... I'm not going to eat you,” he says. “Why would you ever think that?”

“I saw you!” Scott says, trying to press back even further into the column he's tied to. “You're a- a wendigo. You eat people.”

“... Then why warn me?” Stiles asks, anger building. “Why bother telling me to leave? Why not just let the Argents have me?” But whether still out of fear or being unable to explain himself, Scott ignores the question.

“You're the one that's been killing all of these people, aren't you? You killed Allison's mom.”

“And her aunt. And I'll kill her father and her grandfather, too,” Stiles says.

“But why?”

“Because they made me!”

He doesn't mean to shout. He doesn't mean for it to echo through the abandoned building or to cause Scott to flinch.

“Do you know what the Argents do, Scott? They kill people. They killed the Hales, they killed my dad, and they tried to kill me. How many more families do you think I'll find, the further back I go?”

“What about you?” Scott asks, an edge to his voice. “How many families have you killed?” The question angers Stiles, but he's seen it coming.

“As many as I needed. You can blame the Argents for that too.” He stands up and walks over to the table to gather up the manila folder he has addressed to the local news station. “I'm about to burn everything down around them, Scott. And when I'm done, I'll leave. Just like you want me to.” He lifts up Scott's phone. “I've put in an address on your GPS app. When you get out of here, and you will, tell the cops go there if they want to find the remains.”

“Stiles, please don't do this!” Scott yells, but Stiles ignores it.

“I would put some serious thought into finding a new girlfriend, Scott. Take some time while you're here to go over your options.” And with that, Stiles leaves him, doing his best to tune Scott out.

“Stiles! Please! Please don't hurt her!”

-

After mailing his evidence anonymously, Stiles heads to the Argent home. The investigation at the house has ended, and the Argents have been allowed to return, but not a soul is there, and Stiles has to assume Gerard and Mr. Argent are still preparing their little ambush somewhere. The garage, he sees, are where they store their merchandise. Their personal weapons must be down in the basement. The sports bow resting against the wall does catch his eye though. He leans again the wall next to it with the Kate Argent's cell phone in one hand and Mr. Argent's tape recorder in the other. He plays the cassette up to a certain point.

“Right now, I need to go pick Allison up from school.”

Rewinds.

“Right now, I need to go pick Allison.”

Rewinds.

“-pick up Allison-”

Rewinds.

“-Allison-”

He then turns Kate's phone on, waiting for it to start up before he scrolls through the contacts. It's about noon. Should be lunch time at school. He lets the phone ring as he draws a finger down the string of the bow. It's answered on the third ring.

“Oh my god, Kate? Where are you? We've been so-”

“Allison,” Stiles says, but it's her father's voice that leaves his mouth.

“Dad? Why do you have Kate's phone? I thought the police said-”

“Allison, listen to me very carefully. I found Kate's car. I need you to come home right away.” He pauses. “Do you understand?”

“You found her car? What about her?”

“Allison, I need you to do as I say. I need you home immediately.”

“... Okay. I'm leaving right now.”

Upon hanging up, Stiles lifts up the bow and walks to what must have been Mrs. Argent's car. The keys are in the ignition, and he stores the bow in the back. He goes ahead and pops the trunk for its future occupant. After a time, when he hears the front door open, he stalks out of the garage, careful to keep himself out of sight. Allison is setting her book bag down, ducking her head into the kitchen.

“Dad?” she calls out. He walks up behind her just as she's turning around and jumps back. “Stiles? What are you-”

Punching her out is both satisfying and petty in equal measures, but who cares. She's not conscious to call him out on it.

-

The drive back to the warehouse is painfully silent, but he refuses to turn on the radio. He needs to think, get his mind clear. His next step is obvious; he needs to bring the other two to him. That'll be easy. With Argent's daughter, he practically has the man in the palm of his hand. Gerard is another matter entirely and will be more difficult to handle, he knows. He'll have to deal with the old man first.

He drags Allison out of the trunk, placing her inside the darkness of the warehouse. Her bow he sets only a few feet away from her. It's a surprise he hopes she appreciates – no sense in hunting a hunter family if they can't even defend themselves. He smirks to himself. Or at least think they can defend themselves. He takes Allison's cell and seats himself high up on one of the rafters. Mr. Argent answers almost immediately.

“Allison, now isn't a good time. I'll have to call you back,” he says. Stiles says nothing. “... Allison?”

“Allison can't come to the phone right now, but she wanted me to leave you a message,” Stiles says in a conversational tone. He can practically hear the man's face drain.

“Listen to me. She has nothing to do with any of this,” Mr. Argent says.

“'Course she does. She's one of you. And I promised myself a long time ago that I'd kill all of you.”

“Please, she doesn't know anything, nothing about what we do! Please, Mieczysław!”

Stiles' breath catches in his throat and a cold, icy anger settles in his veins.

“... I'm going to peel your daughter's face from her skull. And maybe, if you take your time getting here, you won't have to watch.”

He hangs up, but leaves the phone on for Mr. Argent to track it. When Allison begins to awaken below him, he lets himself change. His fingers blacken, his face shifts, and his humanity falls. Even when Allison begins to ask where she is, who is there creeping in the dark, he says nothing. He merely drops from the rafters, startling her before hiding amongst the scattered crates. She soon sees her bow, and the two arrows he's left her. She dives for them, scanning the area as she begins to draw.

And then she screams, in a sound so reminiscent of Kate's, as the wire he's replaced her bow string with slices through the pads of her fingers.

She grabs her bleeding hand and tries to back away, tries to run toward the entrance of the warehouse, but he cuts her off. In the darkness, he can only imagine what he must look like to her.

“Poor little bird,” he coos, his voice distorted. “I think she hurt her wing.”

He's expecting her to run and scream, so he's decidedly surprised when she charges him. She tries to push him, perhaps to topple him over, but despite taking him aback, he was still much stronger. He grabs her arms and flings her to the side. She lands solidly, the sound of her body hitting the ground ringing in his ears. That's when she reaches down and grabs one of the arrows, holding it out in front of her in a practiced position. Oh, Stiles thinks, she is a hunter.

And she doesn't even know it yet.

She tries to lose him in the maze of the crates, eventually coming upon Kate's SUV. She dives to the door, wrenching it open and throwing herself inside. Stiles watches her tear through the front seats, trying to find the keys. Stalking in front of the vehicle, he digs into his pocket and pulls out the keyring.

dangling it from one of his talons. Allison's search ends when she looks up and sees him, the hope draining from her face almost immediately. Stiles throws them at the windshield hard enough to crack the glass, causing Allison to scream.

Stiles watches as she hurriedly climbs into the back and another scream lets him know that she's fallen into Kate's remains that he has piled there. Casually, he walks toward the back just as the trunk swings open and Allison propels herself out of the vehicle. He doesn't bother to give chase at once, preferring to give her a head-start. This isn't his first time toying with a victim; he knows when to back off and watch them spiral, occasionally giving enough rope for them to hang themselves with.

The lighting is sporadic within the warehouse, casting shadows and creating hiding spots. If the entire warehouse had been dark, his eyes would stay adjusted, but the occasional shaft of light from above makes it difficult to accommodate. Perhaps he should have taken care of that beforehand. At any rate, she's managed to find herself a decent hiding spot. For now.

He stops when he hears the subtle sound of cloth shifting and muffled footsteps. When he hears her lunge for him from behind, he sidesteps as thrusts her arrow where his torso would have been. He grabs her wrist, snapping it in an instant. She cries out, dropping the arrow as he tosses her back.

But before he can move forward to break every bone in her body, a gunshot rings out, and a bullet tears through his shoulder. He flings himself back into the shadows as Chris Argent runs to his daughter.

“Dad, what's happening?!”

“Allison, get behind me!” her father says.

From the entrance, Gerard stalks in with a broadsword in hand. A fucking broadsword.

Seriously, what is with these people?

“Come on out, boy!” Gerard calls into the darkness. “It's time we finished this.”

Stiles couldn't agree more. He charges from the behind the crates, hoping to catch the man off-guard.

He doesn't.

Gerard is faster with his sword than Stiles anticipated. He can barely jump back in time when the blade arches over to cut him head to foot. He's not quick enough to miss it completely and a gash is torn from his shoulder to his stomach, but at least he hasn't been deprived of one of his arms. The man swings again, but this time Stiles is expecting the speed. He side steps several times before he hears the gunfire again. A sword to his front and a gun to his back is not how he wants to do things. But there's a timing to it that he's noticing, and once the pattern is found, he rushes forward instead of dodging Gerard's swing, bracing his arm against the man's to keep the arch from completely. The force of it breaks Gerard's arm, causing him to drop the sword. At the right moment in the pattern, Stiles pulls the man forward, shifting behind him.

Mr. Argent's bullet pierces his father in the chest.

“No!”

But Stiles has already dropped the weight of the elder and begun his charge toward the son. Argent drops his gun and pulls out some sort of knife that has Stiles skidding to a halt. His instincts are screaming at him, zeroing in on the knife and shouting danger. He dodges several swipes, but wielding a knife is faster than wielding a sword, and Argent manages to catch his arms and chest a couple of time.

And it burns.

The wounds begin to sizzle and he can feel a searing fire in his blood, all the way to his bones. It wrenches a broken sound from him as the pain just doesn't stop. On the next dodge, he backs off, throwing himself into the shadows yet again. Argent starts to follow but stops. He runs to Gerard's body instead, checking for signs of life.

“Get off of me!” Gerard gurgles out, pushing himself to his knees. There is blood on his teeth and hatred in his eyes as he pushes Argent away from him. Goddamn this old man, Stiles thinks, shaking from the burning under his skin. Argent reluctantly steps away from his bleeding father, eyes scanning the area around them as he makes his way back to Allison. Gerard takes Argent's gun, stumbling as he inches closer to the crate Stiles has hidden himself behind.

For a geezer close to death in more ways than one, he's really turning out to be a torn in Stiles' side. Stiles intentionally makes sound as he moves further back into the crates, drawing Gerard's limping form out of the light. It's easy to circle behind him after that, as the man tries to scan the area in front of him.

Stiles then drives his talons into the man's back, drawing upward. Gerard chokes out, a gurgle of pain and blood. He flexes his hands, shifting his talons even further in. When Gerard's chest begins to spasm, Stiles knows he's punctured at least one of his lungs. He drops the man then, certain that this time stubbornness won't pick him back up this time.

The satisfaction of giving Gerard a slow death is canceled out by the resurgence of burning pain that flairs inside of him. It's so distracting that he almost doesn't hear the rapidly approaching footsteps.

Stiles runs farther back into the warehouse, shaking with the unbearable heat that's snaking its way through his veins. Fuck. Fuck!

“Dad?” he hears Allison call out. And he decides then.

He may not be strong enough anymore to kill Argent, but if he's going to die, he's definitely taking her with him.

-

Scott's wrists are burning and chafed by the time he manages to pull them free. His shoulders are sore and he's worked himself into panic. When he stands, he throws himself to the table where his phone is, checking the address that Stiles left him. Calling his dad doesn't even cross his mind, he already out of these empty offices and running. The location isn't far from where last night's party was but is a ways from where he is now.

His lungs and legs are burning by the time he reaches the warehouse, and he's light headed. But the adrenaline is pumping, even as he rushes inside. The first thing he sees is a body – Gerard Argent is dead at his feet, bleeding out onto the concrete and Scott thinks he too late, until he sees Allison searching into the darkness behind crates, an arrow at the ready.

“Allison!” he shouts. She startles when he calls, but soon recognizes him.

“Scott!” She starts running toward him when she's grabbed from behind. The hand holding the arrow is forced up to her throat as her other arm is pulled behind her. The same creature he saw last night is looking at him from over her shoulder.

“Stiles, please! Let her go!” The creature's face normalizes a bit, enough that Scott can see his friend underneath.

“I can't, Scott,” he says, and Scott can hear the pain in his voice. He sees then, the gashes and blood covering Stiles' arms. Some of the wounds are glowing an angry red. “I can't... I can't let them live. Not after what they did to me!” Allison struggles against Stiles' hold, but he just wrenches her arm back further until she cries out.

“Stop!” Scott pleads. “Stiles, you don't have to do this! I know what happened to you wasn't fair-”

“Fair?!” Stiles hisses out between his teeth. “Fair would have been dying with my dad. Fair would have been him not dying at all.” There are tears on Stiles face now. “I am past not getting what's fair, Scott! This is just a fraction of what I'm owed!”

“You don't have to be a monster, Stiles!” Scott yells.

His friend goes still, eyes uncertain.

“You're still human, Stiles – I've seen it!” Scott takes a tentative step forward. “I know you're angry. It's okay to be angry, to lash out,” he says, remembering his mother's words. “But you're going too far. You know Allison couldn't have had anything to do with this!”

But then Scott sees it in Stiles' eyes. He sees the finality in him.

“I'm sorry, Scott.”

“Stiles, don't-!”

Everything happens all at once then. Scott cries out when Stiles brings the edge of the arrow across Allison's throat and blood flows freely down her blouse and onto the floor when Stiles drops her. Scott's running toward her, turning her over and trying to stem the flow of blood. Above him he hears Stiles grunt. Looking up, he sees the tip of Ojibwa knife sticking out from Stiles' chest. Breath catches in Stiles' throat as the knife is drawn up sharply. Scott looks on his horror as the skin around the wound begins to turn to ash. Stiles looks from the knife to Scott as the decay reaches his face, his expression filled with resigned anguish.

What falls to the grown is a charred skeleton of a child.

Allison's father drops the knife as he falls to his knees, reaching for his daughter. She's still alive, eyes wide, and occasionally choking. Scott's head is pounding even as he tears off his over shirt and hands it to Mr. Argent to press against the wound. Scott then attempts to dial 911, with his blood cover fingers shaking and stomach turning.

-

“I'm sorry I haven't been to work in a couple of days.”

“There's no need to apologize, Scott. How is Miss Argent?”

“... They say if she survives the next couple of nights, her chances of recovery are good.”

“I'm glad to hear that. She's a strong young woman; I'm sure she'll pull through. But it seems to me that there's something else on your mind.”

“It's not important.”

“Scott.”

“I just... I just can't help but wonder, you know?”

“What about?”

“Stiles. If things had been different, if our lives had been different... I can't help but think we could have actually been friends.”

-

When Scott returns to school a couple days later, he quits lacrosse. He no longer has it in him to play. When he walks down the hall, there is no one there to kiss him and say she missed him. When he reaches his locker, there is no friend to greet him. All he hears is the whispered gossip about the Argents, and their apparent involvement in several cold cases over the years, of how his father was fired because he was part of it, if the local news is to be believed. He tunes it out as best as he can.

Opening his locker, he almost misses the folded papers taped to the inside. Confused, he pulls them out, reading the note on the front.

Hey, Scotty!

Here are the study questions for the Bio test!

Now you have no excuse for backing out of a Halo marathon this weekend! ;)

-S

Scott can't breathe and his vision blurs as the tears begin to fall onto the paper. He slides his back down the lockers until he hits the ground, holding the notes tightly in his hands as the world narrows and darkens around him.