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Scott McCall is about 95% sure he isn’t going to die right now.
Or maybe 70% sure.
Actually about 45% sure
Shit it doesn’t matter what percent sure he is, Stiles’ is the one that is good with numbers anyways. The point is: Scott doesn’t think he’s going to die right now. Or at least he hopes he isn’t going to die right now. Well hope is a strong word, moreso he knows his friends hope he doesn't die and he wants what they want. But as he used his forearms to drag his body through Beacon Hills Preserve, undoubtedly leaving a trail of red in the pristine white snow, he’s starting to get less and less confident about if he’s going to live.
He tries to drag himself a little more but loses momentum and the upper half of his body slumps into the snow. Scott lets out a slightly irritated huff before he rolls over onto his back, unfocused eyes barely seeing the trees above him as flurries of snow land on his face. He’s so fucking tired, exhausted is probably the word to use. He can’t find it in him to drag himself any further. He can’t keep going like this and he doesn’t want to. There’s no point in it anyways. Whoever was chasing him would have caught up by now if they were going to. They probably would have got him when he was still stumbling but now that he was dragging himself he was practically a sitting duck. Not to mention the trail of blood he was leaving. And Scott is just so tired.
He realizes that he can’t breathe. Not in the way he used to not be able to breathe whenever an asthma attack would hit him; like his chest was tightening and he wasn’t getting oxygen in. No, this is way different. It’s like each breath was leaving through the gash in his side, not sitting in his lungs at all. Each wet exhale was basically a sputter mixed with blood that he could feel starting to coat his mouth which meant that he would probably start to choke on it soon.
The gash on his side was so fucking painful. It hurt more than any other injury he had ever received and he couldn’t figure out why. He couldn’t tell how big or deep it was; it just felt like a giant throbbing pain that was consuming his entire abdomen. Like a large chunk was taken out of his side. It felt like it was burning. Maybe it had been laced with wolfsbane? Scott honestly had no clue. He had taken the hit for Liam… or Malia or was it Alec or maybe it was Allison—
Wait no, it couldn’t have been Allison. Allison is dead and she’s been dead for years. But Scott swears he had heard her while he was crawling out here. That’s why he crawled so far. So far from his friends or anyone who could help him find her. It had been his idea to split up from the rest of his pack, the enemy (whoever it was because Scott was starting to forget) could only follow one person at a time right. They would all find each other when it was safe. But the ache in his side is starting to get worse, it doesn’t feel like it’s healing.
No it’s definitely not healing. When he focuses on it, he can feel the blood pumping out of it and tainting the snow around him. His back is starting to feel a little wet from it’s spreading, or maybe that's the snow. He knows he’s not keeping it from healing on purpose. So maybe it’s his body just giving up, tired of the pain; and this wound has been causing a lot of pain. Scott doesn’t really mind though. He’s also sick of pushing through the pain, of the trials and tribulations and the healing and bleeding and healing and saying he's okay and bleeding and not being okay and worrying and his friends worrying and pain and pain and more pain and–
Scott inhales roughly as another sharp pain shoots through his body. He wishes he could take his own pain like he does for others or that someone was here to take his pain or that someone was ever taking his pain cause he doesn’t really remember if anyone has ever tried; except for that one time Malia tried but she couldn’t because he was dying. Did that count? Why does he always seem to be in the least pain when he’s dying? It's like the most tempting sneak peak of what’s to come if he can't get help. Who wouldn’t choose death if the neverending cycle of pain and healing is the alternative? The time he did die was more peaceful than he liked to admit. Coming back had hurt, getting home had hurt, his moms cries had hurt, showering and bandaging and his pack being distant from him had hurt even more. And sure dying hurt but the death itself was just so…nice. Tranquil even.
Like a 15 minute break on the worst shift of your life. You start to look forward to it and its like your only pillar to get you through the day. And once it’s over you can’t tell if you needed the break or if it sucked because it made the rest of your shift feel worse. Scott could go for another 15 minute break honestly. A little break from the pain. That would make things better and maybe this wouldn’t hurt so much and he would–
the snow is so beautiful
The stray thought comes out of nowhere and cuts through his stream of consciousness, in a voice that almost sounds like a poor imitation of Kira’s. It takes him a second to realize that his eyes are still open and starting to focus. The trees above him are covered in the pure white snow, outlining their bare branches. The sky is gray but somehow it isn’t gloomy and the flurries are quickly making their way to the ground. He can feel each snowflake landing on his face.
Scott can barely remember the last time it truly snowed. It wasn’t something that happened very often in this part of California. His mind instantly bounces to the Nogistune and the trick it played on his pack; the illusion of snow and a foreign land when they were simply inside the school. One of his first thoughts had been ‘wow snow’ before he remembered that was a life or death situation and none of it was real. That definitely didn’t count, he tried to shake the memory away.
There had been a little bit of snow in November of his freshmen year of high school. Nothing stuck to the ground, just snowflakes chasing each other in the wind. He and Stiles sat on his roof, admiring the mood before it had any real meaning to them and talked about their futures. Not girls or lacrosse or school but their future of getting out of this stupid town. They had felt so mature and poetic that night. Scott still chuckles at the memory; those kids didn’t know shit.
But now if Scott really thought about it, the last time it truly snowed was when he was 13. Or maybe he was 12. Or maybe Stiles was 12 and he was 13. Whatever it doesn’t really matter. It happened in January on what was supposed to be the last day of winter break but the snow extended it. Scott remembered how excited Stiles had been just watching the weather forecast the day before. Stiles had woken him up at 6am by climbing through his window, saying he had left a note on his bed telling his dad not to worry, not that that did anything to stop him from worrying. While Scott bundled up and blinked the sleep out of his eyes, his best friend explained that they had to get a head start on the snow before anyone else touched it. They built a small snowman outside of Scott's house and a slightly bigger one outside of Stiles’ since they were slightly more awake.
Then they were off to the woods near their houses. Stiles led, like he would do every time they went into the woods, until they found a hilly area, a huge pile of snow formed in the slopes between hills. Scott gaped at the view for a second, not having a memory of seeing Beacon Hills so covered and beautiful. But before he could finish engraving it into his brain, a snowball hit his face and Stiles' wild laughter hit his ears. The two of them played for hours until Scott could no longer ignore how snow bitten Stiles’ face was getting and he couldn't take how often his best friend pointed out the pretty way snowflakes were collecting on his eyelashes.
They trekked their way to Scott’s house; his mom, Sheriff Stilinski, a pot of hot chocolate and a lecture already waiting for them. Their parents let them plop in front of the tv, bundled up watching reruns of TMNT until Scott fell asleep with his head on Stiles' boney shoulder. He remembers waking up hours later to Stiles' face pressed against the glass, watching the snow begin to melt because nothing that peaceful lasted too long in Beacon Hills. He had wrapped an arm around Stiles shoulder, consoling him by reminding him that they had had fun today.
Stiles had only nodded and sighed, then chimed that they hadn’t even made snow angels, something he liked to do with his mom.
The memory made Scott’s arms and legs start to move. His limbs sliding in the snow until they made an impression. Scott cursed in his head that he couldn't even stand up to view the angel afterward. He didn’t even know if he would want to remember that he’d get struck with the sight of all of his blood.
“Hm?” He hummed out. He wanted to look around but he couldn’t. But he could swear he had heard Allison call for him, say his name as sweetly and softly as she used to. In the back of his mind, he knew that was bad. That could mean he was dying so quickly he was starting to hallucinate the voices of the dead. But he didn’t care. He had to find Allison, especially if she was calling for him. But all he could do was stare up at the beautiful trees.
He takes another deep breath and this time it stings, the cold air finally getting to him. That's a bit strange, his mind is sluggish to realize. Werewolves don’t really get cold or at least it takes a whole lot for them to get there. But all of a sudden he’s so cold he can’t even shiver. The red shirt he’s wearing isn’t doing anything to keep him warm but it’s not like he expected to be out here like this.
For a second, the irony of it all hits him hard enough to almost make him laugh. He’d been wearing that stupid red hoodie the night he followed Stiles into the woods — because he would’ve followed him to the end of the earth — the same night all of this started. The night he went from a scared teenage boy looking for a body in the woods to a True Alpha with a pack of his own. Maybe it was only fair he’d die like this too. Red hoodie turned red shirt. An inhaler traded for a tattoo. Everything had changed, but somehow nothing had changed at all. The red felt like proof of that. A reminder. A gash in his side that was killing him instead of a bite that was making him reborn. The woods had given him life once. Maybe now they were taking it back. The morbidity of searching for a dead body all those years ago felt washed clean beneath the snow, because this time, he would be the body in the woods. Scott had spent so long making sure nobody else became the body in the woods and so frustrated with failing that he’d never really considered what it meant that he was always willing to be it instead. The snow softened everything. The pain, the blood, the fear. Like the woods were trying to make dying gentle for him.
The snow was beginning to cover his body anyways, and it was probably covering the trail of blood he left. He hoped it didn’t fill in his snow angel. Scott McCall was about to join the long list of bodies that were found in Beacon Hills Preserve. It was only right, he starts this journey looking for a dead body and he ends it as one. He briefly wonders how close he is to when he found Laura’s body.
Scott wonders who will find his body. It’ll probably be one of the supernaturals and more than likely it will be Malia. She's good with the woods and she’s good at tracking things. Better than Liam. He hopes they don’t feel too much guilt about it. Some small part of Scott had always believed the story would end with his body between danger and the people he loved. He didn’t mind that. Somewhere along the line, protecting people had stopped being a choice and started feeling like the only thing his life was actually for. And now that he was dying for that, it felt like some kind of poetic justice.
He doesn’t want his friends to find his dead body. Selfishly, he just wants them to find the angel he’s leaving behind. He slides his arms and legs again and this time it takes way more out of than it should. He does it one more time though, he has to leave something for his friends. Something that shows he was here and he tried and he’s as pure as this snow even though he knows that’s not true because he’s ruining it. Scott could never be as pure as the snow he’s apparently chosen to die in. Because he’s a werewolf, and while not a monster, he’s still a bloodstain.
“Scott?” A voice calls and it sounds like Allison every time he hurt her feelings. Teary and upset and so sick of him but also a bit worried. He always hated when she sounded like that and he wondered if she would’ve sounded like that so often if he wasn’t a werewolf.
He wonders where he would be if he wasn’t a werewolf. If he would still be bleeding out in the woods all alone on such a beautiful day. Probably not but some part of him feels like he would’ve anyway.
Maybe he didn’t have to take that hit for Liam, or maybe it was Alec but it definitely wasn’t Allison. Maybe he didn’t have to jump in between the enemy and his pack. Maybe he could have let them take the hit so he could save them. Maybe he shouldn’t have crawled all the way out here, separating from his pack. Maybe he should have let them help him. Maybe shouldn’t have been so casual about his life and remembered he can also die. Maybe he shouldn’t be okay with that.
Maybe he shouldn’t have followed Stiles into the woods that day.
“Scott,” the voice calls again. It stills sounds like Allison but this time it also sounds like Stiles and his mom and Liam and Malia and even Derek if he listened closely enough.
Life is full of maybes, Scott thinks, delirious.
Full of juxtapositions too — a word he memorized during his ‘be a better Scott’ agenda junior year. Life is full of werewolves and monsters and people who have no idea either of those things exist. Full of friendships that end in bloodshed and romances that never got the chance to become anything at all. Full of monsters making snow angels because the stain in the snow is the closest Scott McCall will ever get to being one.
Full of moments where you would do anything for your friends — even die for them when they don’t want you to — because somebody has to. Because it might as well be you.
The sky above Beacon Hills is huge tonight. Endless. Blue-black and freezing and beautiful enough to hurt. Life is full of views that you only appreciate when you're 12 years old with your best friend or dying all alone. Snowflakes are melting in his eyelashes, and he thinks of Stiles. Stiles would hate this. Not the dying part somehow — though he would hate that too— the dramatics of bleeding out in the snow where everything started.
Life is full of death and Scott is only 2% sure he’s not going to die right now.