Scott
Burning, Scott's world was burning around him. Why? He couldn't remember. He was too tired. He can vaguely smell someone's anxiety and fear near him-is it Stiles?- and he's terrified to find that he doesn't care. Pain is all he knows; he has no room for anxiety, or fear, or any of his five senses, really. Someone nearby grabs a hold of him and he finds himself snarling, ready to take on his attacker. He has a brief moment of clarity in which he sees Stiles next to him, his face the picture of absolute horror, and he hears him shout something to the front of the bus.
"Goddamn it, Coach, Scott's dying!"
Then, Scott's world dissolves into fire.
Coach
Contrary to popular belief, Bobby Finstock is no idiot. Sure, his students and his team may grate his last nerves every single day, but Coach Finstock is a patient man.
He has to be, when at least half of his students are keeping secrets from him.
So no, he does not confront Stilinski, Mccall, Lahey, Boyd, or even that new kid, Erich, on their abnormal behavior, not even with all five of them on the same bus heading for a cross country meet.
But honestly, sometimes these kids need reminders that he is in charge, not them. So he refuses Stilinski's whining about pulling the bus over until finally, the kid breaks.
"Goddamn it, Coach, Scott's dying!"
…Come again?
Coach Finstock barks an order at the driver to pull over at the nearest rest stop before rushing to the back of the bus where he can now clearly see that no, Mccall is not car sick. No, this is much, much worse. Coach Finstock has been a teacher for fifteen years, and nothing in those fifteen years has ever prepared him for what to do when he finds one of his students bleeding out in the backseat of a bus.
He blames this failure on his college.
Scott Mccall's skin is the color of molten wax. His eyes scrunch shut against the onslaught of what must be a tsunami of pain.
"Stilinski, move. Go calm the other students; we don't need a panic."
Surprisingly enough, Stilinski does just that, allowing Coach to get closer to Mccall.
"Mccall, can you hear me?"
Coach gets no response. His team captain remains ashen and slumped at an alarming angle against the window as if it is the only thing preventing him from careening off his seat and onto the disgusting, carpeted floor.
Coach takes his student's hand in his own. "Scott, listen to me. I need you to tell me what hurts."
Scott moans and now Coach can see the blackish-red stain growing ever larger and dying the boy's white shirt a sickly brown.
Coach gently takes Scott's cold, clammy arms and places them above his head on the seat in front of him. "Scott, if you can hear me, I'm going to take off your shirt now."
Coach gets no response. From what he can see, Mccall is on the verge of unconsciousness anyway. Gingerly, he lifts the blood-stained shirt over the boy's head, and falls backward in alarm at what he sees underneath.
"Jesus Christ, Mccall!"
Deep gashes cross haphazardly across the left side of Mccall's chest, bleeding sluggishly. Blackened veins pulse outward around the wound, desperately pumping sickly-looking blood from the wound through the rest of the boy's body. Mccall twitches and groans as if in the throws of a seizure induced by the poison seeping through his body.
The bus skids to a halt and suddenly Stiles is back by his side, clutching Mccall's hand in a death-like grip.
"We need to stitch him up," Coach decides with more confidence than he deserves, "Stiles, there is a med kit underneath the driver's seat."
Stiles stumbles back toward the front of the bus and for a heart-stopping moment, Coach thinks that this one's been injured too, but dismisses it at once. Stiles shows no sign of pain; just fear for his friend's life.
Stiles fumbles with the med kit until Coach snatches it from his hands.
"That's alright, Stiles, I can do it myself," Coach reassures the frightened teenager.
"You've done this before?"
"Not on this magnitude," Coach replies, threading the needle with suprisingly steady hands, "But I am trained in first aid."
Coach pulls the needle through the first stitch and Scott howls.
"Oh, suck it up, Mccall," Coach says half-heartedly, "Stilinski, since your friend obviously can't handle a few little stitches, you're gonna have to hold him down."
Stiles does has he's told. "Move fast, Coach. Scott's stronger than I am."
Coach grunts in consent, and continues with his work. Several minutes of silence pound loudly against their eardrums until finally, Coach ties off the final stitch.
Scott gasps for newfound air entering his body and as his eyes roll back in his head, the boy slumps into the arms of his best friend.
Time stops around them as Stiles' hands press desperately into Scott's neck, feeling for a pulse.
"He's alive," Stiles says with an exhale, "He just passed out from the pain. He'll wake up again once we get there."
With hands he now allows to shake, Coach closes up the medkit and puts it on the seat next to him before glaring at Stiles.
"Stilinski, after I literally put Mccall back together, I think I deserve one hell of an explanation."
Stiles is still pale and frightened-looking and refusing to take his eyes off the unconscious boy in his arms. Before the boy has a chance to speak, Coach cuts him off.
"I can see you concocting some bullshit story in your brain, Stiles, that you think is going to explain why he got the wound and why the wound looked poisoned, or why I can clearly see the gashes slowly closing as we speak. I'm not buying it."
Stiles bits his lip, obviously searching desperately for something to say, when two students- the red and dark haired girls who hang around the lacrosse team- climb onto the bus.
"Scott!" the dark haired one cries. Any words she may have had when her car stopped behind the bus die in her throat as she assesses the situation before her.
The red headed girl gulps, "Is Scott ok?"
Coach sighs and runs a hand through his wiry brown hair. "Your friend will live," he says at last. "Mind you, Stilinski, I still expect an explanation later."
Stiles shares a look with the dark haired girl, and the two still look terrified, so Coach puts a hand on Stiles' shoulder.
"It's going to be ok, Stiles," says Coach, "I don't know what you kids are getting into- heck, part of me doesn't want to know- but for now, let's just focus on healing Scott."
Eyeing the slowly vanishing gashes on his student's chest wearily, he adds, "Though he doesn't seem to need much help with that anymore."
"We have a car," said the red haired girl, "We should take Scott in our car; the students will ask questions."
And so, against his better judgement, Coach allows these students to carry his unconscious team captain out of the abandoned bus and to a silver toyota parked nearby before allowing the rest of the curious students back on the bus.
Whatever those kids may be hiding, Coach is just glad that for once, they know that it's ok to rely on a teacher.
"Greenburg get back on the bus now or I swear I'm leaving you here!"