"Do you want the bite?"

Stiles stared at the older man, unblinking and a little confused. Doesn't he just… give people the gift no matter their consent? And since when does he 'like' people. He's more the murdering type, from what we know.

"What?" he managed.

Hale repeated himself, seemingly annoyed. "Do you. Want. The bite?"

He stayed silent, for a moment, in consideration despite the voice screaming no, no no no no yesin his head.

The alpha werewolf continued. "If it doesn't kill you, and it could… you become like us."

There was a pause, before Stiles replied, "Like you…?"

It took less than a second for Peter to reply, honestly annoyed at how slow the human was seemingly being. "Yes. A werewolf." He added, "Would you like me to draw you a picture?"

He took a step forwards. Stiles made no effort to move, still as was possible. He spoke again, "That first night in the woods I took Scott because I needed a new pack." Continuing, he then pointed out, "it could have easily been you. You'd be every bit as powerful as him…" Stiles tuned him out. No thank you, you aren't persuading me via Scott. Nope. He listened, the same expression on his face as before. "…Watching him get the girl." Stiles looked to the side, down and the swallowed. Nope, no thanks I don't want it. "You'd be equals." There was a pause. "Maybe more." Maybe more what does he mean by 'maybe more'- Peter reached forwards and took his right arm, and Stiles did nothing to stop it, his eyes following the movement. "Yes, or no?"

Seriously though why does he care about consent right now he didn't before, not for Scott not for Lydia-

Stiles said nothing, and did nothing, and Peter didn't move, just left the question floating in the air. Yes, or no?

He really wants me to answer, doesn't he? Well, tough luck.

"No." He said, finally, after a long pause. "I don't want to be like you."

Peter lowered his arm, but didn't let go, the visible teeth returning to human ones. He turned his head slightly. "Do you know what I heard just then?" He asked, rhetorically. "Your heart beating slightly faster over the words I. Don't. Want." There was a pause, in which Stiles gulped slightly. Well shit. "You may believe what you're telling me but you are lying to yourself." There was a pause, in which the only sounds Stiles could hear were breathing. That isn't good. Can you just please not bite that would be good, thanks. "And since your heartbeat is telling me what your words aren't…" Stiles' eyes widened a fraction. No, nononono. No. Peter sighed. "I was hoping not to have to ignore consent again, but as it seems…" There was a short pause, and before Stiles could wrench his arm free from the Alpha's grip, the Werewolf's head had turned, and time seemed to slow as teeth changed to fangs and buried themselves into his wrist. White hot pain coursed through his system because of where he'd been bitten, and a little while later that seemed like eternity, he knew no more.

Peter stared impassively, as the boy slumped over unconscious. He held onto the teen's wrist so that he wouldn't crash to the floor and possibly break his fragile human skull open, which would remove the backup plan he'd chosen by scratching Lydia Martin and biting this particular Stilinski. With a sigh, he took the keys to the jeep - which wasn't in a very good state he could tell (since out of curiosity, he'd opened the hood and seen a fair amount of problems just from a short glance) - and used them to open the boot. He took note of the small space, and that it was filled with things that would bring concern to the boy's father since he doesn't know anything useful. Yet.

There were the usual things, like a box of tools for the car, like wrenches and such things, but there was also more than one half empty first aid kit, a fair few, and by a fair he means what medical professionals would probably consider to be far too many but he doesn't really care about, empty Adderall bottles and different brands and strengths of anxiety-related medication, most probably not prescribed. Also, there was a single wooden baseball bat that seemed unused for baseball yet had definitely seen better days.

He decided the boot wasn't going to be where he'd put Stiles, considering that there was no space, and he put him in the backseat. The keys in hand he locked the car so that the boy couldn't interfere, then crushed them in his hands. He threw them under the car, and walked back to the one he'd stolen, and drove off to the place Stiles had shown him.

He ignored the smell of the dead woman in the boot, but decided it would be a good idea to dispose of her before others could smell it as well.

It didn't take too long for Stiles to wake, and when he recognised the interior of his jeep and the lack of any other person he relaxed, for a moment, before frantically searching for his phone.

Staring at his contacts, he stopped still, wondering who'd be available to – to do pretty much anything, and who'd have a decent enough car.

He paused at one of the most recently created contacts, under the simple moniker of 'jerk', and decided then, that humiliation was worth saving his friends.

He was honestly surprised at the lack of humiliation, but Stiles wasn't going to complain, and the drive to the hospital was quick and silent. (stiles had grabbed his keys from under the jeep, and hoped beyond hope that it'd still be there once he'd gotten them replaced). Jackson's expression was faux impassive, but Stiles could see the confusion and concern for Lydia underneath his rather terrible mask.

Once they got to the hospital, Stiles practically sprinted to where Lydia was, and just after he'd caught a glimpse of her, lying unconscious in the hospital bed, he was grabbed by his dad. Jackson stood off to the side, a little wary but mostly just staring at his ex and the state she was in.

His dad pushed him back, and spoke to him angrily, pointing at Stiles. "You know what? It's good that we're in a hospital, because I'm gonna kill you!" Stiles stuttered, and made a half truthful excuse. "I'm – I'm sorry, I lost the keys to my jeep; I had to – call him" he gestured with his left arm, carefully keeping his right down so the jacket sleeve wouldn't move enough to show the bite.

(Jackson, for once, had ignored it, and stiles had grabbed his jacket which was in the back, on the floor between the seats before leaving his jeep.)

"He drove us here, fast as possible-"

The sheriff yelled, interrupting his son. "Stiles, I don't care!" stiles grimaced, a little angry but gone in an instant, as his concern and fear for Lydia took over. "Is she gonna be okay?" He took a deep breath, and his face showed only worry. The sheriff turned to look at Lydia, the fight seemingly gone out of him for the time being. He sighed, as he turned back, and his eyes closed for a moment. He shook his head then looked at his son, and admitted quietly, "They don't know."

Jackson heard this, and interrupted, loudly, whatever the Sheriff was going to say next. "What do you mean, they don't know? Isn't that their job?" He'd turned, glaring at the cop, but all he got in return was a look of sadness and slight pity, and the sheriff continued, addressing the both of them. "It's partially because they don't know what happened. She – She lost a lot of blood but there's somethin' else going on with her."

Jackson stayed quiet, and Stiles spoke, stuttering, worried and scared. "What… - What do you mean?" He took another breath. The sheriff sounded confused as he continued, explaining the situation. "The doctors say it's like she's having an allergic reaction. Her body keeps going into shock."

There was a pause, and his dad's tone became questioning. "Did you see anything? I mean, do you have any idea who, or what attacked her?"

There was silence, as Jackson looked on expectantly and the sheriff waited for an answer. Stiles breathed, in then out, and swallowed, before lying his face off. "No" he breathed, quite convincingly. Then insistent "No, I've no idea." He shook his head. The sheriff nodded. "What about Scott?" Stiles let out a huff of air. "What do you mean, what about him?" "Did he see anything?" Sheriff Stilinski questioned. "What d- is he not here?" Stiles seemed surprised, and Jackson shook his head. "He hasn't been here. It – It's just me… and Lydia. And the Sheriff." They looked at him, and he shrugged uncomfortably, then wandered over to the windows and stared at Lydia. The Stilinskis continued their conversation. "What are you talking about?" The Sheriff asked him. "I- I've been calling him on his cellphone – I've gotten no response." Stiles looked down, then at Jackson, who shrugged but stayed eavesdropping on the conversation.

"Y- You're not gonna get one." Stiles admitted, slightly terrified but hiding it.

Derek has his phone. Scott has nothing.

Sheriff sighed, and took his son's shoulder, beckoning Jackson over with his free hand. "Stiles, Jackson – just, go wait in the waiting room, alright?" Stiles lifted his shoulder and shook his head, as Jackson turned his to stare back at Lydia's room. "Dad, just tell me. You know this has something to do with Derek." Jackson's head snapped in their direction. The Sheriff stopped their movement, and looked around, then at the two of them. "Wha-", he looked around again. "I – I thought you and Scott said you barely know him?" he gestured, pointing his finger at Stiles then at himself. Stiles lifted his arms and dropped them to his side, and the Sheriff glanced at Jackson as he snorted in derision. "Alright, we might know him a little better 'n that." He admitted. The sheriff looked behind him, then grabbed his son by the back of his neck, and Stiles morphed his expression into one of pain. Jackson followed behind them. "Ow", stiles muttered as his dad spoke. "You do realise that I'm elected to this job, right?" Stiles straightened up and spoke quickly. "And if I help you figure this out you'll be re-elected. Am I right?" He stated then asked, and his dad stared at him. "Dad, come on." They stopped moving, and Jackson leant against the wall. His dad let go of his neck "You know what? That girl in there – Lydia Martin - has got nothing to do with a six - year - old arson case." Stiles reached out and grabbed his dad to stop him from moving "Wa- When did you decide it was definitely arson?" He demanded, and his dad replied. "When we got a key witness." Stiles moved and his dad spoke, annoyed "And no, I'm not telling you who it is, but yeah, yeah, we know it's arson. And it was probably organized by a young woman." "What young woman?" Stiles questioned, an idea forming. The sheriff replied, annoyed and a little frustrated, "If I knew that, she'd be in jail." "Was she young then, or is she young now?" he asked his father. The Sheriff replied "She's probably in her late 20s. Oh, I gotta grab this call." "You don't know her name?" Stiles asked, bewildered. Sheriff replied, more than a little annoyed now. "No, I don't - What is this? 20 questions? All we know is that she had a very distinctive - What do you call it - a pendant." "What the hell's a pendant?" Stiles asked, frustrated. "Do you go to school? A pendant! A pendant! It's a necklace. Now, can I answer the phone?" His dad replied, also frustrated, then asked. Stiles, having gotten all the information he needed, replied, "Yes."

The man walked off, speaking into the phone as stiles turned in the opposite direction heading towards the exit. Gotta find Scott. I know who did it. Jackson moved forwards and grabbed his shoulder. Stiles reflexively wrenched it from his grip, spun 'round and glared at him. "What?" He snapped. I don't have time for your shit, Jackson. "I know for a fact you don't have a car so wherever you're going in such a hurry you won't get there on time." He replied, as annoyed as Stiles was by the fact they were conversing at all. "I'm aware of that. Thank you" He retorted, sarcastically. Jackson spoke, almost softly. "Here, look, I'll drive, come on-" Stiles interrupted him, snapping. "Look, just because you feel guilty all of a sudden doesn't make it okay, all right? Half of this is still your fault." A little offended, and a fair bit annoyed at some of the truth in that exaggeration, he retorted. "And some of its yours." Jackson sighed. "Look, Stilinski. I have a car, and by the state of your keys you aren't gonna be able to drive yours for a good while. So. Do you want help, or not?" He asked, and Stiles was annoyed that it was reasonable, that he could see the logic in it.

Doesn't mean he was going to be nice about it though. It was still Jackson.

Stiles twisted his mouth annoyed, and nodded, sharply and only once. "Fine. But I'm driving." "what- why?" Stiles rolled his eyes. "Sheriffs son mean anything to you? I don't have any driving tickets." Jackson nodded, then froze, staring at something behind him. Stiles spun around quickly, then blanched at the sight of Argent himself and some lackeys blocking the hallway to the entrance. "Boys" Chris said, his threatening smile plastered on his face as per usual. "I was hoping you could tell me where Scott McCall was?"

Stiles faltered, staring at the unconcealed weapons the others were holding. "I – I haven't seen him since the dance." He elbowed Jackson, not caring how obviously he did it. "I – I –", Jackson stuttered.

"Oh, for the love of god-"

"let's try this again." Argent said, hand on his pistol. "Where's Scott McCall?"

Neither of them answered, and Allison's dad gestured to his men. "Grab them." Faster than the boys could run, one of the men lifted his weapon, and the other two grabbed them, and Chris lead the way to an unoccupied room that had a bed in it. They were thrown onto it face first, and the door was locked as the two of them scrambled on the inflatable bed into a sitting position.

Chris leaned forwards, and in the darkness he was somehow more terrifying, if that was even possible.

"Let's try again. Where is Scott McCall?" He demanded, saying each word slowly, leaning forwards and glaring at the both of them. "I-I don't know" Jackson near babbled, terrified for himself and staring at the assorted firearms the men had. Chris nodded, calmly, then grabbed Stiles by his front and threw him up against a wall, pinning him in place.

"Let me ask you a question, Stiles. Have you ever seen a rabid dog?" His voice was almost calm, but too loud to be quite convincing enough. Stiles retorted "No. I could put it on my to - do - list, if you just let me go." Chris continued, seemingly ignoring him. "Well, I have. And the only thing I've ever been able to compare it to is seeing a friend of mine turn on a full moon. Do you wanna know what happened?" Stiles replied, "Not really, considering I have experience of that. No offense to your storytelling skills." Chris blinked and continued, ignoring Stiles' side note. "He tried to kill me-" Stiles interrupted him. "Yeah, and Scott tried to kill me. You don't see his grave round here anywhere, and I'm still around. That sort of thing doesn't have to end in any death, you know." Chris paused, and stared at him. He continued, slowly. "…and I was forced-" Stiles interrupted again. "Okay, look – you weren't 'forced' to do anything, Argent. I sprayed him with a fire extinguisher and he was fine. The next time he just went for a romp in the woods, until you shot him out if it. It's honestly not as bad as you make it out to be, jeez." Chris waited until he was finished, then marched on. "I was forced to put a bullet in his head. The whole while that he lay there dying, he was still trying to claw his way toward me, still trying to kill me, like it was the most important thing he could do with his last breath. Can you imagine that?" Stiles replied, certain. "No. And it sounds like you need to be a little bit more select –" Chris interrupted him. "Did Scott try to kill you on the full moon? Did you have to lock him up?" Stiles answered, annoyed. "Yeah, he did. And yeah, I did. Which I've already told you not two seconds ago, by the way. So yeah, I had to handcuff him to a radiator. Why? Would you prefer I locked him in the basement and burned the whole house down around him?" Stiles demanded, knowingly, glaring angrily at the older man, countenance defiant. Chris lifted a finger in silence, and closed it into his fist and smiled, looking amused, before becoming serious. "I hate to dispel a popular rumor, Stiles, but we never did that." He sounds so certain… oh man. "Oh, right. Derek said you guys had a code. I guess no one ever breaks it." He suggested, implanting doubt into Chris' mind. Chris spoke. "Never.", though this time he didn't seem so certain. "What if someone does?" Stiles asked. Chris replied, curiosity winning out. "Someone like who?" Stiles landed the bombshell at the perfect moment to do so, and knew he had him. "Your sister."

Chris and his goons had left the room shortly after, (thankfully he had been in too much of a hurry to notice the glaringly obvious blood on stiles' arm and dripping onto the floor below him) throwing Jackson back on the bed and letting Stiles drop from the wall, him stumbling a bit but staying up. They looked at each other for a moment, before Jackson threw his keys at Stiles and they sprinted off after the Argents.

Contrary to what most thought, Stiles was a very good driver, he just didn't have the best car (mainly because they'd splurged on the roll cage, so if it got knocked over he wouldn't be crushed dead.). He knew the roads of the town as well as was possible, and so he realised where the Argents were going not long after they'd started chasing them. Realising that for where they were going, they'd need some protection, Stiles thought for a split second before taking a right, driving towards the school. "Where are we going?" Jackson demanded. "Aren't we supposed to be following Allison's crazy Father?" "I know where they're off to." Stiles replied, eyes on the road and taking a sharp left where he shouldn't have taken one. "We're going to the school, and this time, you're not going to mess up the bombs because I will kill you if you do, jackass." Stiles sounded deadly serious, and Jackson gulped. Would he? He spoke, steady as he could but not quite enough, still shaken up from their earlier encounter with the Argent, one that seem to have affected Stiles not at all – in fact, once Chris had left, he'd almost looked triumphant for a minute. He blinked when they took a left rather than a right, and opened his mouth to ask what the fuck was the route they were taking. Stiles anticipated this. "It's faster this way. There aren't gonna be any cars this route, at least. Cops don't check 'round here as often, the camera stopped working last week; Some idiot looped the footage of a day, and no-ones noticed yet." Jackson nodded, then sat back, silent. Stiles spoke, "Put your seatbelt on idiot; I don't fancy Lydia eating my head off if you get yourself killed while I'm driving." Jackson sighed but did as asked; mainly because Lydia'd probably do worse to him than she would to Stilinski if he did survive and she ever found out.

The silence in the car was awkward, until Jackson noticed the blood on stiles' right hand and the wrist of his jacket. Of course, his first reaction was "What the fuck Stilinski you're going to get blood all over a Porsche, and why is your hand and wrist covered in blood, Stilinski, it's dripping." "Don't worry yourself Whittemore, it's only mine." Jackson rolled his eyes. "One, I don't care who's it is, second – you're getting it all over my Porsche." Stiles rolled his eyes, still unconcerned. "Pity." Jackson huffed, then opened his glove compartment and grabbed some bandages, shoving them at Stiles, very much annoyed. "At least have the courtesy not to bleed to death in my expensive car." Stiles muttered some choice words but grudgingly took the bandages. He parked the car at the entrance to the school, and sat back as he wrapped his wrist in the bandages, and ripped off the ruined lower part of his shirt sleeve. Jackson stared unwillingly at the bite – it wasn't messy; in fact, it seemed almost deliberately neat, as it avoided all major arteries. It was still bleeding profusely though, and he made a noise of protest as some got on his seat, on his gearbox and pretty much everywhere – he was certain there'd be some on his door. In fact, he just noticed that some had gotten on his hand from when Stilinski shoved it away earlier, which was pretty gross. He grunted in disgust, and wiped it away, grimacing. Stilinski glanced at him with a raised brow, before going back to neatly and expertly wrapping his wrist. Without any tape, the teen simply tied the bandage instead. It was wrapped around his forearm and hand, like a glove but not. He pulled his jacket sleeve down, grimacing when he got even more blood on his left hand.

I'm not gonna be able to hide this, Stiles grimaced, as he finished tying off the makeshift bandage glove. His front, and some of his trousers were covered in blood – it had even gotten on his skin and his face when he'd accidentally wiped some off of his left hand there. Blinking up at the sun-shade mirror thing that had a name he'd forgotten, he saw the bits of blood on his forehead and his cheek, and remedied his statement.

"There's no fucking way I'm gonna get rid of all this blood" he muttered, angrily tying some more bandage around his wrist. Once he was done he threw the now bloody roll of bandages onto the floor and smeared blood on the door as he opened it. He got out, and slammed the door behind him, angry. He heard the quieter shutting of the passenger side door, and Jackson came around the car and stood near to him a little distance away.

They stared up at the schools entrance for a moment, then Stiles jogged up the stairs, and Jackson followed a few seconds later. Once they were inside, Stiles took a left up the stairs to the chemistry room, and started taking out the equipment needed to make the Molotov Cocktails. Jackson stood by awkwardly, so Stiles snapped the instructions on how to make them at him. "Oh, and you can't mess it up because the labels are on the freaking bottles, jackass, so don't, okay?" Jackson nodded stiffly, then got to work.

The two boys worked in silence. Once they were done, Stiles grabbed a box and they started quickly packing them away. Because of Stiles' wrist, and because he was driving, Jackson took the box with a "Yeah, I'll be careful, for fucks sake I don't want to blow up- fine, be on fire, Stilinski."

He nodded, and sprinted (faster than Jackson expected) down to the car. Jackson took longer; not wanting to break the fire bombs, and set fire to himself and the school – but mostly himself – so when he got there Stilinski had the engine already on, and was tapping fingers impatiently on the steering wheel, fidgeting slightly. "'Bout time," he grumbled, as Jackson got into the car. He'd just managed to close the door before Stilinski drove off, the car at its top speed. They zoomed off towards the preserve, and Jackson suddenly realised what they were doing. "Wait- we're going to fight those guys?" He exclaimed, louder and more scared sounding than he'd meant it to be. Stiles nodded. "Yeah, jackass." He sighed, and added, "Look, Whittemore, just – just, and believe me I hate to say this – trust me, for now, okay? And we're not fighting the Argents – At least, not Chris anyway. Guy named Peter Hale, the Uncle Creeper of the remaining family members. Just – throw the Molotov when I do, at what I do, okay? Don't think about it. Just – Just do it." Jackson grimaced at the 'trust me' part, ignoring that Stilinski had done the same. "Fine" he bit out, one hand holding the box and one gripped on the door handle. "Alright, whatever Stilinski. Only for Lydia though." Stiles nodded. "Why else?"

They'd arrived at the entrance to the preserve, and Jackson swallowed. No going back now.

I guess I'm a part of this shit.

For better… or for worse.

Stiles drove a little slower but by no means slowly through the woods, and slammed on the brakes as they arrived at a rather odd scene, at least, by Jackson's standards.

Stiles didn't seem so shocked; he just grabbed a Molotov, honked the horn and sprinted out of the car. He threw it, as hard and as fast as he could with his injured arm, but it wasn't good enough. The… monster caught the bottle before it could shatter, and stared at it, then roared at the boy who'd thrown it. Resigned, Stiles said, "Oh, damn."

Jackson could see Scott throw Allison a bow, and the girl caught it, stood and shot the Cocktail. It exploded, lighting the thing's arm on fire, and Jackson took his chance, opened the door (after quickly putting the box down,) grabbed a fire bomb thing on his way out and then threw it at the creature once in range. It exploded on impact, and the being roared in pain as it's whole body was set alight. It stumbled around as they stared, and it fell over, burned and human, as the fire went out.

Stiles watched, almost passive, as Derek walked over to his uncle, and stared down at him. Stiles was quite a distance away, but he thought he heard the burnt man speak, something like "You've already decided", and with a horrible realisation, Stiles knew Scott wasn't being cured tonight; maybe not ever.

He knew Derek had lied; had said killing the man who bit you would cure you so he'd have help killing him for revenge – and for power, Stiles understood.

Alpha power transferred to the one who killed the owner.

In retrospect, it was obvious, and he listened to Scott's pleading – pleading in vain, he knew – with an almost emotionless appearance.

He felt faint, and wondered how much blood exactly did I lose?

Jackson was looking everywhere but at the man who pronounced himself as the new 'alpha' – whatever that was – and noticed Stilinski fall to the ground. He spotted the bloody sleeve, and remembered that in the chaos he'd forgotten that loosing blood is very, very bad. "Shit." He muttered, and dropped down, grabbing the other's arm as the people there seemingly were more interested in Allison's decision to kiss the rather ugly looking Scott – with ridges and more hair than before, fangs and a whole manner of what the fuck. He stripped off the bandage and cursed, and for once Chris noticed something was up. He blinked for a second before noticing the injury, then cursed. "Whittemore!" he called. "Get him in that car of yours, now!" Dumbfounded, Scott could only stare at his unconscious best friend as Allison widened her eyes and went to help Jackson get Stiles (who was heavier than one might think) into the back of the Porsche. Allison stared at the bloody interior, and the near empty roll of blood covered bandages on the floor. She got into the back, and Jackson got into the passenger side, as her Father got into the front, then drove; the ignition still on from when the two teens stopped the car earlier. Chris threw the bandages to his daughter, not looking away nor taking his foot off the gas, and Jackson was eerily still. Allison took to cutting Stiles' sleeves off with an arrow – promising herself she'd buy him a new suit in payment – and winced at the soaked bandages. Thinking it was important, she asked, "Hey, Jackson – did he get this cleaned or what?" A minute shake of the head was all he gave, the clarified because he realised she may not be able to see that. "No." he managed, and both Argents cursed, though Allison did so in French. "Well putain." She muttered, and asked if there was any water. In reply, Jackson handed her his depleted first aid kit, his whiskey flask and a half empty bottle of water.

She got to work.

It only took a few minutes, but she finally had it clean and hopefully the alcohol Jackson had given her had cleared the wound of any infection along with an antiseptic wipe which she hoped did the same – she was worried he hadn't woken, but there was little she could do and his pulse was still going, if weaker than she'd like.

She'd take what she could get, was the meaning of all that.

Without the blood the bite – because that was what it was, which was worrying and unfortunate, but they'd speak on that later, if he lived – didn't look so bad; she figured it hadn't gone through any major arteries, and the marks weren't big.

Really, it looked quite neat. Not neat as in cool, but carefully done in a certain way to minimize problems.

But he'd still lost a lot of blood, that was certain.

Having done all that she could, Allison put plasters over the individual bite marks and bandaged the whole situation.

It wasn't too bad, she thought that she'd done a decent enough job.

(Her hands had blood on them; some had even gotten on her front and trousers because of how she'd been holding his arm. And there was nothing she could do for the rest of him; she'd used all she could on his arm. There was still blood everywhere else.)

(Her hands wouldn't stop shaking.)

She breathed, in and out, in and out, trying in vain to calm herself.

Quieter even than a mouse, and certainly more quiet that she'd ever seen him, and definitely more thoughtful, Jackson reached a hand behind him between the two seats, and she grabbed onto his hand for dear life, taking whatever comfort she could and holding on to it with white knuckles in the hopes that it would stop all the shaking.

(He was shaking slightly too. She realised this was the first – and hopefully only – time he'd had to ever help kill someone; and he didn't know how evil the man was. She squeezed tighter, and was worried when that garnered no response.)

Her dad's hands were tight on the wheel and the gearstick, them bloody and his trousers bloody from all the blood in the front of the car.

Allison realised how much Stiles had managed to do – drive, create bombs, help kill a guy – whilst losing a lot of blood, and to be honest that deserved at least some respect. She'd respected him before for a lot of things, but this was a lot more than she'd ever expected.

(She resolved never to underestimate him again. And, considering how human at least four of them were, she decided having lots of med kits and other healing things would be a good idea.)

It wasn't long before they'd gotten to the Hospital, all driving rules ignored in the process of getting there before the situation got any worse, and Allison's dad got out, opened the back door and lifted Stiles up over his shoulder in a fireman lift. The teens got out, and ran up to the doors to open them, as her father power walked to the desk and demanded immediate hospital attention. "The boy has lost a lot of blood," He spoke, serious. "Get a doctor. Now." Allison realised the nurse at the desk was Miss. McCall, and felt immediate pity when Scott's mom recognised the teen her dad was holding. With wide eyes, her ex-maybe-not-ex's mother barked some orders, and in a flurry of activity Allison missed because she was still shaking, and covered in her boyfriend's friend's blood, Stiles was moved to a hospital room and all her hard work was removed; bandages and plasters were taken off and the wound was exposed. It seemed so little, so insignificant; there was blood coming out but at a much slower rate, and she dimly heard someone praise her on how well she'd bandaged and cleaned his wound, and how there was no infection or anything, and all they would have to do is a blood transfusion, and she noted but didn't notice her dad saying they'd pay, and where is the Sheriff, he needs to know, and whatever they said she didn't hear and she was steered away into the waiting room and there were words but she was covered in blood and tried to kill two innocents and her aunt was dead and things were going horribly wrong-

"hey, hey, Allison", someone said, calmly, quietly, a warm female voice that reminded her of Scott. "Miss. McCall?" She murmured, questioningly "Yes, Allison, it's me." Miss. McCall said. "It's me, Mellissa. I'm going to help you get cleaned up, is that okay? I'm going to have to take you somewhere, is that fine?" Allison nodded dumbly to both questions, still numb and unfocused and covered in blood.

Who's was it again?

Mellissa guided her into a room, then guided her to the bathroom of that room, and gently took her jacket, and sat her on the shower stool as she removed her boots.

Allison drifted, closing her eyes.

"Hey, Hey look at me" Mellissa said, quietly. "Allison I need you to concentrate, okay? Your mom will be here soon to help with more than the superficial things, but I need to get you clean, is that alright? Can you focus for me, Allison?"

Allison blinked, eyes focusing on Mellissa, and she nodded. She stood, a guiding hand on her shoulder, and moved to the sink. Mellissa carefully, kindly cleaned her arms, which was good because she'd have rubbed them raw because there's just so much blood.

"See?" Mellissa said, after a minute or so. "Not so bad, was it? There wasn't as much blood as your brain says there was, Allison. Barely any." Allison was transfixed on the pink water that was draining down the sink, out the sink, through the pipes and remembered. "Stiles…" She said, blinking. "I tried but there was so much and it was everywhere…" Mellissa nodded, and carefully drew the young girl into a motherly hug. "I know, but he'll be alright, Allison. He's getting blood as we speak. You did a good job, honey, the plasters stopped any more getting through."

She leant back and looked into her eyes. "Repeat after me, Allison. He'll be okay."

"He'll be okay…" She murmured, blinking, a small smile gracing her features, relieved and happy. "He'll – He'll be just fine." Mellissa nodded and let go of the girl. "Your mother is bringing some new clothes for you, Allison. She'll be here shortly; would you like to stay on the bed or sit with Jackson?"

She blinked at the older woman. "Jackson?" Mellissa nodded. "Yes. He's in the waiting area; near your friends' rooms." She nodded, absently. "Yeah, could I…?" Mellissa smiled, small and calm and careful. Nodding, she leads the way, and Allison finally relaxed.

We're going to be okay.

Chris and Scott were standing in Lydia's room, and Scott carefully took a look at the more-than-a-scratch marks Peter had left behind as his second to last act.

Possibly, second to last act.

Scott shook his head and dropped the material, let it cover the marks again. He looked to Chris. "They're still there. Fresh as if it had just happened." Argent looked… well, Scott couldn't quite tell. "Then we won't have to kill her." He said, blithely, and Scott glared at him. "You wouldn't have killed her either way." There was a pause, an uncomfortable silence before the door burst open and the Sheriff was there. Ignoring or unknowing the tension, he demanded to know where his son was. "Where is he?" his voice was loud and angry, and Chris looked on calmly. "Not until you calm down, Sheriff." He replied. There was a tense moment before the older Stilinski grumbled and left the room, and then stopped a young nurse and demanded answers from them instead. He was taken aside by an older one, then spoken to by Mellissa, which seemed to calm him down. Mellissa took his arm, then took him and Allison down the hall to the waiting area.

The silence was tense again, so much so that a knife could have cut it. "If she killed anyone…" There was a pause. "We would have then."

The male Argent left the room, leaving the door ajar.

Scott stood there, but was noticed by his returning mother, admonished then taken to the waiting area.

Allison was nowhere to be found, but Jackson was – asleep, apparently, though at any rate he was there, so Scott sat near but not next to him.

There was silence, and so Scott noticed his fatigue, and within seconds he was fast asleep.

A/N: Hey people! I really need to stop starting things before finishing other things. This is my second project in the Teen Wolf fandom, and I've got like five ongoing on this website, and some I haven't posted and have only part of one or just one chapter of completed.

Yikes.

So yeah, I guess this is my take on things? Eh, I'm not certain. Oh well. Here you are, I guess.

(This turned out verydifferently from when it was in my head, just so you know. I've never written things quite how I planned them.)

Cesca, out.