'Ello guys. So this idea has been floating around in my head for a while now, I s'pose, and I'm just now getting around to putting it to paper.
If you are bothered by writing that includes abuse, panic attacks, some swearing, a rather AU portrayal of a character (who it is will become clear in the second half), or Jackson being slightly decent for once then please leave now and refrain from flaming me.
Part one of two.
The first thing he heard was the shouting. Really though, that was only to be expected. The Stilinski kid had really screwed up during practice. If that had happened during a game... (Stilinski was a glorified benchwarmer but still, the point remains the same.) Despite the fact that he harboured no positive feelings towards him though, Jackson still believed the coach was being maybe just a bit too hard on him.
That thought only lasted for about half a second before Jackson shrugged and decided to enjoy the show. It wasn't as if he really gave a damn if the kid's feelings were hurt.
Jackson skipped his t-shirt over his head and rounded the bank of lockers, malicious grin already in place. What he saw, however, stopped him right in his tracks.
Stilinski, already in his street clothes, had his back pressed flush agains the wall, cowering away from the livid man shouting insults at him. Every word that left the coach's mouth at that almost inhuman volume sent a violent flinch through him.
To be quite honest, Jackson was surprised McCall hadn't already stepped in and redirected the anger. From what he'd seen, that idiot didn't like it when people messed with, much less terrorised, the younger, smaller, hyperactive boy.
The longer the tirade lasted the deeper Jackson's frown got, and the harder Stilinski shook. By now it looked like he was about two seconds from passing out, or having a heart attack or something. McCall definitely should have said something by now.
Looking around, Jackson remembered that McCall wasn't actually there.
Remedial science class. Right.
It didn't look like anyone else was going to stand up for him and risk Finstock's wrath either, though there wasn't a single person in the room who didn't look uncomfortable with what was going on. Isaac Lahey, standing about ten feet off with this wide eyed deer-in-the-headlights impression going on, looked like he was about to throw up.
Now, let it be said that yes, Jackson Whitmore is probably the biggest tool you will ever met.
However this didn't mean that while he did sometimes cross this line, he didn't know how far was too far. And when Finstock actually reached out and jabbed Stilinski hard in the chest with two fingers, causing his knees to physically buckle, sending the boy to the floor in a crumpled, shaking heap, Jackson was well aware that whatever the Hell was going on, it had gone too far.
In a display so unlike him that people would later wonder if it actually had been him, Jackson seized a fistful of the front of the furious man's shirt, physically yanking him away from the terrified kid.
"Jesus!" he shouted, shoving the coach roughly, putting a good five feet between him and Stilinski. "Back the Hell off!"
For a moment it looked as if Finstock was going to argue, but from the way his eyes flicked from Stilinski's whimpering form to Jackson's expression, mouth snapping shut, he had apparently thought better of it.
Good.
He may not have liked or cared about Stilinski all that much (at all, really) but he could remember the last time he'd seen someone fly into a panic attack and wouldn't wish it on anyone. (And he didn't really feel like dealing with all the trouble socking the jerk one would cause.)
Speaking of...
Turning back to the boy he had just rescued, Jackson peered down at Stilinski with his glare still in place.
"Well, you gonna get up?"
The only reply he got was another finch from the boy, throwing his hands up in front of his face. Okay. That was weird. In fact, this whole situation had skated right past weird and hit downright unsettling. Sure, their coach could be one scary son of a bitch, but getting reamed out by him didn't usually end with the recipient huddled on the floor. He had certainly never seen anyone react like this before.
Jackson knelt in front of Stilinski and reached out to poke his knee. Big mistake, apparently.
"Please, don't!"
Whatever that freak thought was going on, his clouded, glassy eyes weren't here in the present. Whatever he thought he was seeing, it wasn't what was actually happening.
Hearing a noise form behind him, Jackson whirled around to glower accusingly at the crowd of people just standing around and staring at them.
"Why are you all still standing here?" he demanded. The lacrosse players shifted awkwardly, and quickly began to filter out. Danny stayed back, crossing his arms and looking worriedly down at Stilinski, still mid panic attack. Quivering and hyperventilating and everything.
"What should we do?" Danny asked in a cautious tone. Jackson looked at him with a raised eyebrow.
"Danny."
"Yes?"
"Run and get McCall."
Danny froze where he was for a second.
"Oh. Right. Where is he?"
"Remedial science, now go before more of this idiot stops breathing and more of his brain cells die than he can afford. Don't look at me like that, I'll make sure he's still alive when you get back. Just... Hurry up."
Nodding, Danny bolted out the door as fast as he could.
There were very few things Scott hated more than science class, especially when forced to miss practice in order to attend said science class. Unfortunately though, this was a requirement if he planned on remaining on the team.
From the moment he had walked into the room, though, he had known something was wrong. Something was going to happen, and it was going to be bad. He knew it in the heart of whatever new senses he possessed. Scott was worried.
He couldn't concentrate, words ran together on the page in front of him, and he was scared.
At first his thoughts jumped straight to Allison. What if something had happened to her while he was stuck here in this stupid class? She could be hurt, or dead, or God only knew what else, and he had to do science. But as soon as Danny Malhealani threw the door open, breathing hard and face flushed, thoughts of Allison (for the first time probably since he'd met her) flew from his mind. Something about Danny's expression caused the earlier anxiety to rise up stronger than ever, closing his throat and causing him to clench his hands. The Hawaiian's one word statement only served to confirm that yes, he had cause to be worried.
"Stiles."
In about three point five seconds flat, Scott was off his chair and out the door, running towards the locker room.
What he found there was about eight shades of confusing. The first thing he noticed was Jackson, standing by someone who was huddled on the floor, looking down at him with an unreadable expression. When he noticed Scott standing there as well as the crowd of players still standing around outside the locker room door, he shoved off the wall and gestured at the person on the floor.
"You deal with him, I'll deal with them."
What Danny had said in the classroom clicked with the boy crumpled against the wall and Scott's heart froze cold in his chest. He could hear the blood whooshing in head ears, a sound like the tide that blurred out everything else.
"What happened?" he asked Danny, almost unable to hear his own words. Danny's reply was muffled as well, but he got the message across.
"Coach was really yelling at him, called him a bunch of names, and then something happened and Stiles lost it. Jackson got him away but by then... Well, you can see. We didn't know what to do, but you're his best friend and if anyone can help him, you can."
Moving slowly, as if through water, Scott walked closer and knelt on the floor beside his terrified friend. Stiles didn't look at him, merely kept his head down, shaking hands raised like he was trying to defend himself from some invisible attacker. This was the closest Scott had looked at him in weeks, and from this proximity he could see faint bruises around the boy's pale wrist, and the one shading the side of his jaw.
"What happened..." Scott repeated in a low voice, barely a whisper. Then he raised his voice slightly, keeping his tone carefully gentle.
"Stiles, it's okay. It's me. It's Scott."
At these words Stiles' hands lowered slightly and he peered up to see if it really was him. Upon finding Scott's eyes with his he seemed to deflate, slumping back completely and trembling harder than ever. His breathing was far too fast and with his heightened senses it was clear that his heart rate had rocketed past normal as well.
Reaching out incredibly slowly so as to not frighten him any more than he already was, Scott laid a hand on Stiles' back, now able to actually feel his shaking.
"Shh. Calm down. It's just me. It's alright, I'm not going to let anyone hurt you. C'mon Stiles, it's just me. It's just Scott. Whatever happened, you don't have to tell me now. Just... Just breathe, alright? It's okay. You're safe. You're safe."
Stiles had stilled somewhat under his friend's hand, shifting closer to Scott, but his breathing and heartbeat were still far too high. The coaching wasn't working. So Scott decided to try something else. Still moving slowly (the last thing he wanted was to send him back into hysterics), he grabbed Stiles' hand with his own, the one not currently resting on his back.
Scott then laid the panicking boy's palm over his own heart, exaggerating his slow, steady breathing.
"Follow my breathing, alright? Come on, you're going to pass out. Copy my breathing, copy what you feel under your hand. Okay? Just do that. That's all I'm asking."
It took several minutes, but eventually Stiles was calmed down to the point where Scott was no longer concerned that he was going to end up unconscious. At some point he had slumped forward, forehead coming to rest against Scott's collarbone, hand now clutching his shirt, white knuckled. There was silence in the locker room, and when the back of Stiles' shirt slipped down a bit Scott saw another bruise.
What had happened?
