red in your veins and red in your heart, a teen wolf fanfic

Multiple hits. Big money. The list will arrive in your email accounts by noon. Are you ready? - Allison

She goes by Allison.

You never see her. You never talk to her. You don't know what she looks like or how old she is or if Allison is even her real name. All you know is that she wants every supernatural in Beacon Hills dead and she's willing to pay to make it happen. You couldn't care less about who has claws or fangs or glowing eyes, but it's a challenge and you're not afraid to get your hands dirty. You know that anyone with a gun could potentially have access to the list, but you've never taken kindly to losing. And you also know that you're the best there is. You can handle a little competition. Some will do it for the cash, some will do it for the same reason Allison is, some will do it because they're bored.

And you...well, you like to win.

The list comes in three parts to your email account; each with a cipher key as the subject line.

Part one. Kate.

Part two. Gerard.

Part three. Victoria.

Part of you wonders who they were and why they're important enough to cause a deadpool to be created. Part of you wants to know, wants to research it until your fingers cramp up and you've got all the answers. But another part of you, the bigger part, doesn't want to risk losing everything you've already managed to acquire.

After all, you like answers. But you like winning more.

He's fast, but you're faster and he's on his knees with your knife in his back before he realizes you've gotten so close. His name is Sean Walcott and he's the last one for the night. The rest of his family is already done, now just broken bodies littering the living room floor.

You kick at his side and he starts to crumble, but your red nails clutch his hair and pull his head close enough that he can hear you when you lean down to whisper in his ear. "Are you gonna cry like the others?" He glares at you and you let go and watch him fall, teeth still out.

You snap a picture with your phone and text it to a familiar number.

Done.

The response comes quickly.

Good job. The money will be in your account before dawn. - Allison

Most of the other players bow out after realizing that the names on the deadpool are a little less than human. But there's a few that stick around. You remember the instructions that said to avoid any other potential assassins. But you've never been very good at following the rules. So you find yourself tailing a boy who looks far too innocent to be a killer while he trails the girl who was supposed to be your next target.

You can't see a weapon on him and it makes you wonder if he's the type to watch the life drain from their eyes as he cuts off their air supply with his bare hands. It makes you curious because he walks with slumped shoulders and something like that takes confidence to the point of arrogance.

The girl starts down the street and he speeds up, his fists clenching, and once again, you're puzzled because it's not in anger or excitement. You watch him break into a sprint and tackle the girl to the ground and you watch his eyes turn red and you watch his hands change and it's all over in a flash.

You marvel at the fact that there was no screaming, no begging to live, no fighting back because it happened so fast. And then you step forward, your heels clacking on the pavement, and watch his head turn towards you slightly because of course he would have sensed you from a mile away. But you just raise an eyebrow at his blood-splattered claws. "Well, that was unexpected. Since when do monsters hunt monsters?"

"Since banshees kill banshees." He looks at you with hard eyes, but you can see the sadness underneath and maybe that's why you don't kill him right there.

"How'd you know?"

He shrugs and gestures to his claws. "Werewolf, remember? Some creatures have very distinct scents."

"What's mine?"

"Death."

Meredith stares at you with a blank look and then tilts her head to the side and says, "You're going to kill me now, aren't you?"

You don't reply.

His name is Scott McCall and he's not at all what you would expect a cold-blooded assassin to be. He insists on walking you home and at first, you think he's going to try and kill you (and you may good with a knife, but you don't have superhuman strength and fangs, so you're at a disadvantage) but then he shakes his head and drags his fingers through his already messy hair and shrugs.

"It's dark out and who knows what kind of people are out here this late."

"You are," you point out and his shoulders stiffen. "Exactly," he says.

He walks you to your door and watches you until you're inside and then nods and turns to leave. And for some reason, you don't want him to. So you lean against the door frame and call out to him just before he's about to reach the end of your driveway. And you watch him turn around, eyes wary and head hanging low, and all you want is for him to not look so small.

"Come inside. We can talk about how a pretty boy like you got caught up in a world so ugly."

His lips twist slightly in what you think may be a smile and he slips past you into the house. You lead him up the stairs to your room and sit criss-cross on the bed, your back resting against the headboard. He stands awkwardly in the center of your floor and you roll your eyes and pat the space in front of you.

"Would you sit down? You're making me nervous."

His quick, stuttered apology is so quiet that you almost miss it, but banshees don't typically miss anything. No matter how much you wish you could.

He's cute, you think, in an awkward kind of way. But he's also shy and sweet and not at all the kind of person that should be involved in something as dark as a deadpool. "You're not an assassin." Your words make him blanch and he looks like he's about to run, so you reach out and grab his arm, your nails digging into his jacket hard. "You're not an assassin," you repeat. "So why are you doing this? It's obvious you don't enjoy it or you would have already killed me. So why?"

"I don't have a choice."

You scoff at that, but let him go and settle back against the bed frame. "You always have a choice."

And then he mutters something under his breath that even you can't hear and you lean forward. "What?" And he looks up at you with brown eyes full of desperation and something else you can't quite pinpoint.

"They have my best friend."

You've never really had a best friend before. And maybe it's partly the assassin in you and maybe it's something different, but you still feel a pang in your chest at how far Scott is willing to go to protect someone he loves.

He tells you that his name is Stiles Stilinski and you cringe at the name, wondering what he did to make his parents hate him so much, and when you ask, Scott's eyes harden and you can see the red tint to them. "His mom died when we were eight. And Stiles is a nickname. He picked it himself because he hates his real name. It's hard to pronounce."

"Who took him?"

"The Benefactor."

"What would Allison want with a teenager? He's not a werewolf, too, is he?" Because if he is, you're one hundred percent sure that Scott isn't going to find his best friend alive. And you're not sure you want to see what that would do to someone already on the brink of overwhelming desperation.

Scott shakes his head. "He's human." The small chuckle he gives is dark and makes your skin crawl. "She's using him to get to me. Some of the people on that list are harder to kill than others. Some are a little more supernatural than others. I guess she wanted to be sure they would all die."

You reach out to touch his arm because he looks so bitter and so broken and you can't help it. "We'll get him back."

"We?" He looks up at you with a curious, slightly hopeful expression and you can't take it back now. Not that you want to, which surprises and slightly scares you.

"You're not a killer. I am. So you're gonna teach me about all the names that could be a problem and I'll handle the dirty work."

You exhale heavily, eyes sharp. "I'm going to help you."

You weren't born an assassin. You never killed your pets or got into fights at school or showed an unsettling love of violence. It wasn't black and white. It was confusing and happened in shades of red.

(You're standing in front of your doorway and you have no idea how you got here. But the door swings open when you put your hand on it and you'd be lying if you said you weren't a little scared. You feel like you're going to scream and you don't know why. But you squeeze your hands together and hold it in. You start walking towards the kitchen, as if there's a magnetic pull tugging you forward. And there's so much red and at first you don't understand it, but then you do and you really do scream this time. It's loud as it tears from your throat, the sound grating and bordering on hysterical, and you're still screaming when the police show up. You don't know if it was a minute or an hour, but your lungs feel like they're on fire and your throat aches and you can't breathe.

"Lydia?" The sheriff is standing in front of you, his hands on your shoulders, asking if you're okay and you're not, not at all, because you can still see the blood and the way your parents looked covered in slashes. You're not sure you'll ever be okay again.)

The cops run out of leads a few months later and six weeks after that, they stop trying to find new ones. It makes you feel sick inside, but to be honest, you didn't expect much of anything. Beacon Hills isn't the kind of place that has the resources to solve murders. Even when the unsolved cases start piling up.

And finding your parents must have broken something inside of you because all of the sudden, you're always the one finding the bodies. And you're the one with no idea how you got there and you're the one hearing voices in an empty room. You stay up all night for days, researching until your fingers ache from typing so much and your head is reeling from trying to decipher fact from fiction.

And then, there's a word for it and you don't feel quite so crazy anymore.

Banshee.

(Turns out, it's a lot easier to kill someone when you can sense who to target.)

Scott stares at you and for a second, you're terrified you've said the wrong thing because he looks equal parts gracious and conflicted. And then he smiles, weakly, but it's still a smile, and squeezes your hand.

"Thank you."

He tells you that the girl you saw him kill was a kitsune. Her name was Kira and you can tell that she was the first person he killed by the haunted look in his eyes. If you can help it, she'll be the last. And then he tells you that she's not the only kitsune on the list. That her mom is on there too and she's had a lot longer to learn how to use her power.

By the time he's done explaining about Oni and dark spirits and thunder, your heart is pounding in something akin to nervousness and it makes your knees shake.

"Lydia? Is it too much? Because I'll do it. I shouldn't have brought you into any of this." And then he's rambling and he sounds so apologetic and so small that you do the only thing you can think of to do. You grab his face in your hands and press your lips to his hard. His eyes widen and he blushes when you pull away.

"It's fine. I'm just thinking strategy. Now shut up and help me plan."

And he does.

The next few names on the list are surprisingly easy with Scott's help.

Malia Tate just takes a drop of wolsbane in her water bottle when she isn't looking and she's dead ten minutes later with black blood pouring from her lips.

Derek Hale is brought down by silver bullets full of mountain ash.

And it just keeps going from there. One by one you target each name until the paper is completely blacked out and there's enough money in your bank account to buy the world.

(in all honesty, you'd really rather just burn it all down)

And Scott's eyes eventually lose the broken look that makes your stomach hurt. He smiles more and after weeks of working side by side, you start to recognize that you could love this boy.

It scares you, but the thought of losing him scares you more.

You're standing at your kitchen counter a few days after your revelation, triple checking the list to make sure you didn't miss anything or anyone when you decide to do something about it. And then you're standing on your tiptoes and gripping his shoulders and kissing him until you see stars. He kisses you back, his hands effortlessly falling to your waist and you think Scott McCall might just be the one thing that can make it all okay again.

The first person you kill is a werewolf. His name is Peter Hale and the aura around him is like cruelty and darkness. It's not until your knife is at his neck that he confesses to being the one who tore your parents apart. It doesn't make it any easier to dig the metal into his skin until blood pours over your fingertips, but you do it anyway because you're going to scream either way and it may as well be for a reason.

"I'm sorry."

Meredith doesn't look scared and she just blinks at you when you step towards her with the twisted sheet in your shaking hands. "It's okay."

You wrap the makeshift rope around her throat and she closes her eyes and you close yours too.

And then you squeeze.

(you can still hear the choked sound and then the echo of silence)

You don't scream this time.

(she wasn't supposed to die)

Scott is asleep on your bed, his head against your thigh and your fingers dragging lazily through his hair. You hum under your breath to the song playing softly from your laptop speakers and scroll through an article you've been reading on nogitsunes.

Your computer dings, signifying that you've received an email and you switch tabs, expecting something about college offers or a facebook notification. It's not until you see the subject line that you realize it's something much more important.

RE: Cipher 4 - Chris

Your fingers tremble when you open it and click on the attached file. You type in the code and wait for the file to load, your palms pressed hard against your knees.

When the list appears, there's only two names. Your breath hitches and your eyes widen and it feels like the room is closing in on you and it's like every part of you is on fire because this has to be some kind of joke and it can't be real, it just can't.

Scott McCall 25m

Lydia Martin 20m

You don't tell Scott about the email. You don't tell him that you feel like your entire world has just been flipped upside down or that you're scared there's someone with a gun waiting outside your house. You don't tell him that there's a scream at the back of your throat, begging to come out.

You don't tell him anything. You know he sees right through you, that he can hear your heartbeat and how it skips a beat when he asks if you're alright. He holds your hand and doesn't ask again, even when you can't stop your leg from shaking.

You can't decide if you love him or hate him for it.

It all falls apart five days later. Every little lie you built around yourself to try and keep Scott from finding out. Every wall you put up to keep your emotions in check. Everything.

It starts with a man with a gun. Then a girl with a knife. And the people may change and the weapons may vary, but the goals are always the same. One by one, they attack and one by one, they fall. Scott never kills them. And the part that knows him is glad because you never want to see him look as defeated as he did after Kira. But the bigger part of you, the part that loves him, is terrified because if they're not dead, they can still come back. They can still try again. And eventually, one of them is going to succeed. And maybe that's why you aim for the heart. He may not be a killer, but you always have been.

You tell him the truth after the first manages to fire a bullet into Scott's chest. It heals, but you can still remember the way his eyes closed and how you were sure they weren't going to open. You can still hear his body hit the ground and you can still feel the blood soaking your hands and the jacket that you had pressed frantically over the wound.

At first he's quiet after you've finally gotten the words out and you think he's going to leave and never look back. To be honest, you wouldn't blame him. But then he's wrapping his arms around you and whispering that it's going to be okay and no one is going to hurt you, Lydia. Not if I can help it.

"We've got to find Stiles," is the first thing that Scott says to you after the fifth time someone aims a gun at your head.

You raise an eyebrow. "Okay. What's the plan?"

Because this is Scott and you may not understand why or how or who, but you understand him and that's enough for you. He holds a red sweatshirt to his noise and you can see his chest rise and fall as he breathes it in. His eyes flash red and then he's running, following the scent. You drive after him, your phone tracking his movements. You end up at a broken down house in the woods and you can see the charred floorboards before you even get out of the car. The door is hanging of its hinges and this entire building looks like a tragedy waiting to happen and you just really hope Scott is okay, since he's nowhere in sight.

And then he's stumbling out of the house, half-carrying a boy with dark hair, and you rush forward, sliding an arm around Stiles's back and taking some of the weight.

You glance up at Scott and see the worried, desperate look in his eyes and hold the backdoor open for him as he slips his best friend into the seat with trembling hands.

"Scotty?"

"Hey, yeah, it's me. I'm right here." Scott climbs in beside him and wraps the smaller boy in his arms, laying his cheek against his hair and whispering that it's going to be fine and that he's safe now. You reach out and squeeze Scott's shoulder and peck him on the cheek before sliding into the driver's seat and starting the car. It's a short drive, but it feels too long because you can feel the concern coming off of Scott in waves and you can see the gash on Stiles's forehead.

By the time you get back to your house, Stiles is passed out against Scott's chest and you can tell the werewolf is about to panic.

"Come on, let's get him inside. I've got a first aid kit."

This time, Scott just swings the teenager into his arms and carries him through the door to the bathroom, setting him on the counter and holding him steady. Stiles blinks slowly and his eyes take a moment too long to focus on Scott.

"Hey, I need you to keep your eyes open. Okay, Stiles? Can you do that for me?"

He nods and you can see the strength it costs him, but he does it anyway. It doesn't surprise you because you can tell that he would do anything for Scott. You don't blame him. Scott has a way of making you want to be better, even if you're made of darkness and chaos.

You're not surprised when Scott pulls the kit out of your hands and starts to bandage Stiles's cuts on his own. You know his mom is a nurse and you know he works at an animal clinic, so you're well aware that he can handle it. But this is the first time you've seen him work. His fingers dance across the other boy's injuries with a gentleness that you've become accustomed to. He fixes each scratch, small or large, and checks for a concussion. When he declares that there isn't one, you watch the way his shoulders sag in relief and the way his smile stretches across his cheeks.

And then he leans forward and grabs Stiles, bringing him to his chest and hugging him with everything he has. Stiles wraps his own arms around Scott in return and buries his face in his jacket. The gesture makes your heart thump painfully because you can't remember the last time someone had hugged you like that. You think he must hear because he reaches out an arm and tugs you closer until he's holding both of you and then you feel his lips against your hair.

Stiles might possibly be the most infuriating person you have ever met.

"So you can like see dead people?"

"Does that mean you've got a sixth sense?"

"Can you talk to ghosts?"

But he's also one of the most loyal. He lets Scott hover around him and triple check his injuries, even when it's only been an hour since the last check. He knows it more for Scott's benefit than his own, but he lets him poke and prod and follow him around with concerned eyes.

"He really cares about you," you tell him the next day and he grins.

"We've been best friends since we were kids. Except he's more than that. He's family."

The ache in your chest comes back and you force a smile. "Yeah. I can tell."

Stiles raises an eyebrow and leans against the fridge, a glass of soda in his hands. "You know, he really likes you. Says you're some kind of goddess with a knife."

"He said that?"

"Oh, there was a lot more than that. Just...you look like the kind of girl that breaks hearts. Don't break Scott's, okay? I know that the world is kind of falling apart right now and that you're both on a supernatural hit list, but he's not just an alpha with sharp teeth and pointy claws. He's still Scott."

You're not sure that this is a good idea. But you're out of bandages and Stiles needs them, so you find yourself walking through the aisles of the nearest twenty-four hour store in the middle of the night with your arm tucked through Scott's. He had asked, practically begged you to stay at home, but you had refused, telling him that you would be more useful next to him if anything went wrong.

He grabs a few boxes, just to be safe, and checks out, quickly swiping his credit card through the machine. You watch him stuff the receipt in his pocket and grab the bag, his fingers tightening around the plastic until his knuckles are white. You squeeze his arm and lean your head against his shoulder for a moment, trying to convey the fact that you're fine and Stiles is fine and it's all going to be fine.

It's all fine.

And obviously, people like you aren't allowed to be fine because two minutes later, you're watching an arrow slice through Scott's chest. The bag falls to the ground and so does he, his eyes widening as the blood spreads across his shirt. And you're screaming and it's raw and real and harsher than any other scream you've ever produced because this is Scott and he can't die. You won't let him. Your eyes follow the arrow's path backwards until you find the owner and you don't think you've ever felt death as strong as you do in this moment.

She looks like she's your age and you can feel anger coming off of her in waves and you don't have to see the necklace around her neck with an 'A' on it to figure it out. You just know. This is Allison. The reason there's a target on your back and a hole in Scott's chest.

It makes you head hurt because this was never supposed to turn into this. Innocent people weren't supposed to get hurt. People like Stiles and Scott. Your eyes are locked on the brunette with a deadly look in her cold eyes. The bow in her hands doesn't shake as she walks closer. She pulls another arrow from behind her back and points it at your throat. She's less than ten feet away and for some reason, you can't move. Your knees knock together as tremors rack your body because the taste of iron fills your mouth and you just can't find it in you to scream anymore. So you don't.

You watch as a girl who looks too young to have ruined so much narrows her eyes and you watch as her lips curve into an expression that holds more hatred than any arrow ever could. You close your eyes and wait for the pain. It brings back memories of the last time you closed your eyes for a reason. You think of how Meredith wasn't scared when you tightened the sheet around her neck. You think of how she didn't cry or beg or plead. You think she might have been the bravest out of all of you. You think you might be the weakest.

And then there's the sound of claws coming out and an inhuman howl breaks through the silence. When you finally get the courage to open your eyes, the first thing you see is red. There's just so much red. Scott's eyes are glowing and it scares you because you've never seen them so red. And you only look at Allison for a second because there's not a spot of her that isn't red and it makes you nauseous. Then Scott is falling again and you're catching him around the waist and watching more red pour from his mouth.

His eyes turn back to brown, warm and light, and his claws turn back to fingernails, chipped and broken, and you feel like you're drowning in a sea of red and silent screams. He groans when your hands press desperately down on his wound and he smiles at you sadly when it doesn't help.

"I'm sorry, Lydia. I never should have brought you into this."

"You idiot," you say, because it's the only thing you can think of.

He brushes his nose against your arm and his breaths are short and labored. "I love you."

"No, Scott, don't. Please don't go." Your own breath is caught in your throat, stuck somewhere between panic and shock.

"Take- take care of Stiles, okay? Tell him it's not his fault."

"I promise." You brush his bangs back and kiss his forehead and he smiles again and then his eyes close and you feel his heart stop under your palms.

You can't remember the last time you really cried, but your eyes are watering and you can't see through the blurriness and your chest is heaving with the force of each sob. You think about how his lips felt on yours and how he always pulled you behind him when there was a threat. You think about Stiles, sitting alone in the bedroom, waiting for his best friend to come home. You think about how you don't want to think anymore. You just want to cry.

So you do.

You don't go home. Not yet.

You kick off your heels and run until you can feel the blisters forming on your bare feet. You run until you can't remember that the only person you have left just bled out in your arms. You run until the urge to scream is gone and you can breathe again. Your entire body aches and it feels like someone ripped your heart out of your chest, but you know that you can't afford to be weak right now. Because Stiles is still waiting and if there's one thing Scott would have wanted, it's for his best friend to be happy. You think he would have wanted you to be happy too. So you turn around back towards the direction your house is. You don't run this time. It feels like you've spent your whole life running and maybe it's finally caught up to you. Maybe it's time to slow down.

Stiles is sitting on the couch, his foot tapping nervously, when you walk through the door. You know the exact moment he sees the blood on your hands and realizes that his brother isn't coming back. He shakes his head and you can already see the watery tint to his eyes and it makes you want to find the nearest bridge and jump. But you made a promise. So you sit next to him when he collapses on the couch and curls up on himself. You wrap your arms around him and tell him that it wasn't his fault and that Scott loved him.

He looks at you with bitter eyes. "Yeah. He loved everyone. That was always his problem, wasn't it? He loved everyone more than he loved himself."

He's right and it makes your heart hurt, so you just squeeze him that much tighter.

"It's okay. It's going to be okay."

It isn't.

Because there's a girl with dark eyes twirling her fingers around a silver arrow haunting your dreams and an empty space in your room where a boy with a bright smile used to fit.

And nothing will ever make that okay.