Wishful Thinking
He's dying. He knows it in every fiber of his being. He knows it in the way that he knows the sun will rise in the morning and that the sky is blue. He knows it in the way that he can barely hear his heartbeat and everything that doesn't hurt is numb.
The supermoon is the only thing keeping him tethered to the world around him. He feels the energy coming from it holding him down like fraying threads. They'll snap soon. He knows that too.
The moonlight around him bends, and through the pain he sees her there, right above him, even though he knows he can't. Even though he shouldn't. It isn't possible. But she is there, by his side, every detail perfect down to the square edge of her jaw and the playful glint in her dark brown eyes. She smiles at him, dimples and all, like he's just hung the moon and stars.
"Come on Scott," she says, her voice crystal clear. "You have to go back."
He tries to speak back, but his voice won't work. He wants to tell her that he can't go back. That he has broken things further than they ever should be. That he isn't the alpha she remembered anymore. That he doesn't deserve to go back.
But she seems to know that he can't speak, and smiles softly. The moonlight hits her and appears to pass straight through her. Her form is fuzzy in the light, like she is comprised of dust motes and wishful thinking.
"Our friends need you Scott. They need their alpha. Even if you can't see it."
He struggles to sit up, frozen to the floor when all he wants to do is wrap her up in his arms and never let her go. But he feels her words in his bones, ricocheting like impulses throughout his body, synapses connecting and sparking reactions.
And he knows. He sees. Past, present, and future all running together.
Lydia's mind corrupted with claw marks. Stiles rushing to his father's side as the sheriff slowly bleeds out. Parrish burning in the center of the Nemeton surrounded by the bodies of dead chimeras. Kira's fox striking the Dread Doctors down. The Desert Wolf razing Beacon Hills to the ground. A battle between a Hellhound and something unknown. Friends reunited once more. Families torn apart and brought back together. So much death. Death death, death.
And then he forgets.
From somewhere far off, he feels hollow drumming on his chest, heavy pressure constantly applied. Phantom screams echo through his ears, but he can't find the source.
All he finds are brown eyes.
"Get up Scott," she repeats, still just as soft and soothing in her command as before.
She leans down close, so close Scott can count the flecks of hazel inside brown irises. Her nose brushes his yet he can't feel the touch at all. But he feels her lips, soft and feather light on his. The kiss lingers for a moment, just a moment, a brief connection of pure warmth and joy.
When she parts their lips the warmth lingers. Scott feels tingly, like something is burning inside him. She smiles at him with wise eyes.
"Roar," she tells him. A simple request, but Scott doesn't think his vocal cords can work. He doesn't know if anything will work at all. But he will roar for her.
He tries and fails. It's harder than it looks and his throat feels closed, his chest too heavy, like his lungs are frozen in place. Everything aches. Everything burns.
"Roar," she repeats, soft and smooth.
He tries and tries for what feels like hours. He's failing again. He's failing her.
"Roar."
On the third time the burning reaches a crescendo, eating through his body, his mind, his soul. He's glowing now too, a bright fiery white. He feels his lungs rip from his chest and his heart burst from an increase in pressure. Air works through his throat and forces the block out.
And he roars.
He roars so loudly he is sure that every supernatural being in the state hears him. He roars like he has never roared before. He can't remember why or how, but he roars for her.
But when the roaring is over, she's not there. He wonders if she was ever there at all.
His mother is at his side, holding him up while Mason sits in front of him and marvels at the wonder that is Scott McCall. It's a miracle he's alive. He'd been dead fifteen minutes. Not even supernatural healing could bring someone back from something like that. But no one dwells on that too much. No need to question miracles.
He doesn't know why he looks back as he leaves the library. He doesn't know what he is looking for until he finds it. He sees a lot of his blood on the carpet. He sees tables overturned and chairs splintered. He sees the memories of fights past and adds this night to the pile.
And if he looks close enough, he can see brown eyes in the moonlight, like they are comprised of dust motes and wishful thinking.
And then they're gone.