A/N: Written for the intoabar challenge on Dreamwidth, based on the prompt "Scott McCall walks into a bar and meets...Dr. Jeffcoate." This is a crossover with the television show "My Secret Identity," which doesn't appear to have a category here, so I can't post as a proper crossover. As always, questions, comments, concrit, and squee are all welcomed.
Just Another Full Moon
by LadySilver
Beacon Hills wasn't the kind of town that stayed up late. Even before the wild animal attacks started, most businesses shut their doors early in the evening. Now that mysterious attacks and unexplained deaths had become "just another Monday," few business owners were willing to risk the potential for revenue over the likelihood of their employees getting mauled to death on the way to or from work. Or at work, if the case of the Video*Star was any reminder. Which meant that when the lacrosse team poured off the field after winning their sixth straight state championship, they didn't have a lot of choice about where to go to celebrate. Piling into their cars, they aimed for the next town up the road.
They made it as far as the truck stop off the highway before abandoning their vehicles and stampeding across the parking lot and into the low building, whooping and cheering.
Only Scott paused in the parking lot for a moment to collect himself in the solitude. The ticking of cooling engines filled the night air; the sun was fully down, yet stars pricked a sky that was gray with light pollution from the floodlights the truck stop used to advertise its presence. A full moon shone down. Scott closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, feeling the moon's power thrumming through him. He knew how to keep control now and not give in to the shift, yet he'd never be immune to the supernatural energy that ruled his life.
The game had pushed him close to the edge. It was a tightly fought match with the opposing team staying one goal ahead of Beacon Hills all night. Not only did Scott have to captain the team and keep their morale up through the ever dropping temperatures, but he had to keep both Liam and himself from wolfing out. At least, he thought, the team was down to only two werewolves. He didn't know what he would have done if Isaac or Jackson had still been on the team, especially since he had never been their Alpha and he didn't have the kind of control over them that he had over Liam.
From inside the diner, he heard his teammates clattering the silverware and loudly yelling for drinks. He winced in sympathy for the diner's other patrons who hadn't planned to get sucked into the team's celebration. Though, maybe he didn't need to worry? A glance over the cars in the parking lot showed that most belonged to the team. Only a lone SUV, an ancient blue RAV-4, looked unfamiliar.
He wanted to join his team in their celebration, and that meant putting as large a buffer between himself and the moon as he could. The night air chilled his lungs and brushed over his skin, its touch pleasant after the heat of the game. He forced his breath out, and with it all the pent up tension.
Though he hadn't meant to plan a hero's entrance, that's what he walked into when he entered the diner. His teammates, as one, rose to their feet on spotting him and began to cheer.
"It was you, McCall!" someone shouted.
"That's our team captain!" someone else added. That was one of the freshman, a guy that Scott barely knew, though he thought his name might be Rico. Rico promptly pulled a waitress over and explained, "He's the one who got the winning goal."
The waitress was a tall, blocky woman with bottled-tan skin and the whitest teeth Scott had ever seen. Ever mindful of tips, yet probably aware that a room full of high schoolers probably weren't going to be worth her effort, she nodded politely and offered a golf-clap. Rico didn't even notice.
"You did it, McCall!" the shouts rang out and turned into a chant of his name that filled the tiny diner.
"What do you mean you only have Pepsi?" another voice shouted. Reflexively, the team quieted, which meant that Coach's next words rang through the diner in all their enunciated glory. "I wanted a real drink. But since I'm doing the whole sobriety thing—" Right about this point, Coach realized that he wasn't speaking over anyone, and now everyone was staring at him in a truly unprecedented display of focus. He waved his hands, but kept barreling on. "—since I can't have a real drink, I at least want a real soft drink. This is a celebration! Bring me a Coke!"
"Is there anything else I can get you all?" the waitress asked. While the team members consulted menus, joked about their own abilities to order alcohol, and counted their money, she turned to the sole non-Cyclone member in the diner. At the end of the soda counter sat an older man with thinning white hair that straggled to his shoulders, a round face, and a pair of rounder glasses. Papers were spread out in front of him, fenced in with his arms in a mute definition of his territory. A coffee cup sat near his elbow. "How about you? Would you rather have a warm-up or a quick exit out the back door?" She was joking—at least, her tone was joking—but Scott saw the man give the question a moment of serious consideration before his frightened eyes ticked toward the coffee cup. "One coffee, one Coke," she said. With rapid efficiency, she took the rest of the team's drink orders and went back to round up the necessary glasses and pitchers. Scott didn't envy her; she was the only one on staff tonight. It was too bad the truck stop hadn't planned their staffing schedule with the team's game schedule in mind.
As expected, the team had taken over every available booth and seat, spreading out well beyond the number of seats that their butts strictly required. Stiles, Kira, and Liam had one of the booths locked down. No soon had Coach finished making an ass of himself (this time), than Stiles raised an arm and summoned Scott over.
"Yo, Scotty! We saved you a seat!" he shouted, as if anyone was going to question where Scott would sit. Liam grinned broadly, though his exuberance didn't mask the strain of him fighting to stay in human form.
Getting to the table was slow. Scott had to keep stopping to receive congratulations and share high-fives.
Soon, the waitress emerged with a tall plastic glass. "Here you go," she said, plunking the cup down in front of Coach. "One Coke, as ordered.
Coach took a long slurp of the drink and nodded his approval. Scott didn't have the heart to tell him that he'd been given Pepsi. The smell was distinctive, even from where Scott stood. No one else seemed to notice, so Scott decided not to say anything.
Just as Scott was about to slide into the both next to Kira, Greenberg appeared from…somewhere…and slid into the vacant spot. He slapped his hands on the table and grinned broadly, as if he'd just done something even bigger than make the winning goal. "Drinks for everyone!" he called. "On McCall!"
Another round of cheers broke out through the room.
Scott cringed. He had enough money to cover his own bill and probably enough to cover Kira's, too, though she wouldn't ask, and would probably end up paying for him anyway. He definitely did not have enough money for everyone, though, and Greenberg knew that. For him to make such an announcement was indicative of a level of jealousy that Scott had never before realized his elder teammate harbored and which now filled the air with its potent scent.
"You're an ass," Stiles stated, speaking for everyone. "Now get out of the seat and let Scott sit down where he belongs."
"Make me," Greenberg challenged.
"Scott's not buying drinks for everyone," Kira said, loudly enough that everyone could hear if they hadn't been too busy cheering. She tried again, a little louder, and quickly gave up when it became obvious that no one was interested in this correction. "Maybe if it's water," she added, a lot quieter. Since Greenberg wasn't taking the hint, she hip checked him, which only succeeded in moving him a couple inches since he was so much bigger than she was.
"Did you feel something?" he asked. An ugly sneer marred his features.
Next to him, Kira huffed her offense. Being the only girl on the team wasn't without its challenges, though Greenberg was the only one who'd ever implied that she couldn't hold her own because of her gender.
"Come on, Greenberg. Move it. Why don't you go sit with someone who—I don't know—wants you around?" Unable to resist, Stiles punctuated his suggestion with an expression of mock-revelation and, "Oh. Wait. That could be difficult."
"I said, 'make me,'" Greenberg responded. "This is a team party and, last I checked, I'm on the team."
He had a point. Greenberg spent more time benched than not, and even the Coach made no bones about how little Greenberg's presence on the team was appreciated, but he was on the team.
As captain, defusing the situation fell to Scott. He could sit with other people; he saw plenty of his friends outside of school, plus there was a good chance that Stiles, Liam, or both would be spending the night as part of their full moon safety routine. Hell, if he had to, he could sit next to the guy with the coffee. Somehow there was still an open seat at the counter. "It's OK, guys. I can—"
Just then, Liam leaned across the table. A flash of yellow in his eyes gave away how close he was to losing control. "Get up," he said. His voice held the gravelly overtones of a werewolf on the edge of transforming. Stiles yelped and scooted toward the window while Kira curled in on herself. Greenberg remained oblivious to the danger he was in. Scott grabbed Liam's arm and yanked him out of the seat. Where to take him, though? The large plate glass windows that lined the diner showed everything that happened in the parking lot, which meant that he couldn't go outside; they'd never make it to a car in time. With no other options, Scott dragged him toward the bathrooms, where at least he could close the door. Liam offered a perfunctory fight, slashing once at Scott's head.
Scott ducked out of the way. Dragging Liam down the short hallway, he used his superior strength to toss the younger werewolf into the men's room. Fortunately, the doors had the round knobs on them with built in locks. "Stay in here," he said. The implied, "until it's safe for you to come out" was backed up with him pulling the door shut and, using his own talon, locking the door from outside. The harsh scent of piss and bleach wafted out from the gap under the door. From inside, he hear a low snarl. The door thumped as Liam threw himself against it. Scott pressed his back to the graffiti scarred plank of wood and added his strength toward keeping it from shattering under the repeated assaults. "Come on, Liam," he muttered, knowing full well that Liam could hear him.
"Excuse me," another voice interrupted.
Scott jerked his head up. In front of him stood the coffee man. He had on a wrinkled brown sports coat on over a white shirt and pressed jeans. He couldn't have looked less like a truck-stop-kind-of-person if he'd tried. "Yeah?" Scott asked.
"Is the bathroom in use?" the man asked, with the tone of someone who knew full well that it was.
The door shuddered again, ripples of vibrations that started in the middle where Liam's shoulder hit and spread out, shaking loose dust and dirt from the ceiling tiles. "Uh-huh," he answered, trying to sound as if there was nothing unusual about someone throwing themselves against the bathroom walls.
"Do you know how much longer your friend will be?"
Scott blinked at the question. Why would he know that? Why would anyone know that? It wasn't like bathroom use had a timer when it was being used for its intended purpose. When it came to being used as a temporary holding pen for an out-of-control werewolf, they could easily be here all night. "Nope."
"Do you suppose—"
"Scott! Let me out of here!" Liam shouted.
Scott's head turned fractionally toward the summons. "What three things shall soon be revealed?" he asked, careful not to raise his voice. He knew about Liam's use of the mantra and how it had allowed him to gain control during the last full moon. Clearly, they still had some work on teaching him to use the mantra on his own.
"I'm sorry?" the man asked.
With a slight shake of his head, Scott indicated that the question hadn't been meant for the stranger. There was a pause, a moment of silence from inside the bathroom.
On the other side of the dingy hallway was mounted a corkboard. Flyers and advertisements on scraps of blue and pink paper overlapped it in layers of hopeful pleas for community involvement. Scott saw ads for exercise equipment for sale, job postings for dog walkers and lawn tenders, an offer to BUY HOUSES ANY CONDITION!, and three different church pancake suppers, all of which were over. The door behind him shuddered again; he widened his stance to better brace against the upcoming battering and stopped trying to read the flyers.
"Is this some kind of team hazing thing?" the man asked suddenly.
"What?"
"Well, your friend sounds like he doesn't want to be in there, and…" He trailed off, a gesture toward Scott then out toward the rest of the diner-area indicating the team jersey.
The cheering and shouting of the other guys on the team as they negotiated their food orders and relived their favorite moments of the game drowned out most of Liam's yells.
"This is some kind of hazing thing, isn't it?" the man asked. He shook his head slowly and disapprovingly. "I thought that kind of behavior was no longer tolerated."
"There's no hazing on my team!" Coach shouted. He swept past the older man and stepped right into the ladies room without so much as nodding at Scott or pausing to wonder why the men's room was occupied. The door shut behind him, then opened. "We do team building," he pronounced, out in the hallway. "Team. Building." With that, he slammed the door shut again.
The breeze of his passing rustled all the paper on the corkboard and two pieces came loose from their staples and fluttered to the tile floor. Scott watched them descend, helpless to do anything about them from where he stood only a scant three feet away. Their unmooring, though, freed up a new layer of announcements for the seeing.
And right in front of Scott's face was a flyer he recognized from school. He'd walked past it every day on the announcements board and the science room door; the teacher had even passed out copies for everyone in the class to make sure they couldn't claim not to know about the event it was advertising. A guest speaker. A famous inventor Scott had never heard of, who also happened to be one of the science teacher's heroes, was coming to Beacon Hills at his former student's behest to give a lecture on inventing and then to guest judge at the high school's science fair.
The picture of the inventor on the flyer was small, black-and-white, and poorly copied. For a long time, Scott had thought that his teacher had accidentally put a picture of Benjamin Franklin on the flyer. Or maybe he'd done it on purpose to see who would catch him. Now looking at it, Scott realized that his impression had been apt, if not accurate, because the man in front of him with his thinning, too-long hair and glasses only looked like Ben Franklin if one imagined the famous inventor to have a smiley-face with puffy jowls.
"I know you," he said. "I mean, I don't know you, know you. Your Mr. Clements's teacher."
The man peered closely at Scott as if looking for some resemblance. After a second, his gaze traveled from Scott's face down to his jersey. "Beacon Hills?" He sighed as if being forced to acknowledge a fact he had been trying to deny. "Andrew led me to believe that you were a different kind of school. Is this the kind of behavior I should expect from all you students?"
Scott tilted his head, not understanding, then realized that the man, Dr. Jeffcoate, thought that Scott was deliberately trying to impede his use of the bathroom. "Uh, no," he said. "It's just...we won our game... and it's a full moon." He rolled his eyes, because not only was he at risk of giving too much away, but now he sounded like he was lying.
To his surprise, Dr. Jeffcoate nodded sagely.
"Look, this might be awhile," Scott said. "if you really have to go, you should find somewhere else. Besides, I don't think you'll want to go in there after my friend is done." Because the walls were bound to be scratched to pieces, the ceramic on the sink clawed, and the floor ripped apart, though Scott was not going to specify that. Let Dr. Jeffcoate believe what he wanted. Scott tried to offer a friendly smile, or at least a non-threatening one, but Dr. Jeffcoate pursued his lips together in a disapproving frown before he gave up and went to stand in front of the door for the ladies' room.
A moment later, Coach emerged. "Team building," he said, before breezing back down the hallway and rejoining the rest of the players. "Pizza for everyone!" he called, which elicited a new round of cheers. Scott wondered if the diner even served pizza, and what they would provide the Coach if they didn't. But, at least Coach was picking up the tab, now. Maybe the team would forget about Greenberg's assertion that Scott was paying for drinks.
Just as Dr. Jeffcoate shot Scott a final, exasperated glare and stepped into the ladies' room, Liam's shoulder hit the men's room door again and the wood splintered. "What three things?" Scott asked again. He heard silence from inside the tiny room, then a croaked response.
By the time they got back to the table, Stiles and Kira had evicted Greenberg, and the smell of grease and searing hamburger filled the building.
"We good?" Stiles asked. He swept a practiced eye over Liam first, then Scott, checking for signs of wolfiness that shouldn't be there.
Scott nodded and slipped into his seat. No one died, no one got mauled. In all, he was going to count this as a bigger win than the championship. He shared a brief, sweet kiss with Kira, then settled back to enjoy whatever food appeared and the rest of the celebration.
Liam, sweat from his exertions still dampening his hairline, glanced down the row of booths. Greenberg was now huddling with Rico, inducting him into the role of being the most annoying person on the team. "Why do we have to put up with him?"
Scott, Stiles, and Kira could only shrug. No one ever had an answer to that question, and Coach had been asking it for years.
"What I really want to know—" Stiles propped his elbow on the table and leaned into his hand—"is what's up with that guy?" With flick of his head, he indicated Dr. Jeffcoate, who had returned to his seat and was now speaking furiously into his cell phone.
"I thought you said this school was different," he hissed. "You know I only agreed to come all this way as a favor for you."
"It is different, trust me. I told you to be careful." Mr. Clements's voice came through the cell phone clearly to Scott's ears, sounding amused yet thin from the distance.
"You still haven't told me what I'm supposed to be careful about." Dr. Jeffcoate leaned toward the counter as if to disguise the fact that he was talking on a cell in public. With his other hand, he cupped his hand around his mouth. "It seems to me that this town has let the sports teams get way too full of themselves. Please tell me that's not what you brought me all the way out here to see."
Now Mr. Clements barked with laughter. "Let's just say that if I'm going to last here as a teacher, you're going to need to figure out how to give me back my invulnerability."
"Andrew!" Dr. Jeffcoate reprimanded, a combination of shock and being appalled. "I've told you…"
"I know, I know, Dr. J. You made me by accident." He sounded like he was repeating an old argument.
Made him? Scott looked closer at Dr. Jeffcoate, who seemed to be trying to bury himself in the Formica countertop. He was an inventor, true, but he hardly looked like a mad scientist. A fashion-impaired scientist, definitely. A guy who had forgotten how kids behaved and either had never been one himself or hadn't been very good at being one. Either was possible. Had he been like Greenberg when he was young? Scott shook that thought out of his head because the idea of Greenberg becoming any kind of inventor terrified him. What he really wanted to know was how this inventor and his science teacher knew each other, exactly? Mr. Clements was a good twenty years younger and still new enough at teaching that he cared what his students thought of him. If Dr. Jeffcoate had ever had that passion, it was gone now.
"Seriously," Mr. Clements continued, "it's a good thing that you're staying out by the highway tonight. You shouldn't be in town during a full moon."
Scott met Liam's gaze across the table, both of them frowning. Their new science teacher clearly knew far more about what was going on in Beacon Hills than he should. What else did he know? And what did he mean about getting his invulnerability back? Had he come to Beacon Hills because the Nemeton had summoned him? If so, what kind of creature was he? And what was Dr. Jeffcoate's association, exactly? Were they looking at some kind of Frankenstein scenario?
"Him?" Scott answered, silently entreating Liam to stay silent. Whatever was going on, he needed to know more before he told his friends; this was their night to celebrate, too. "He's a friend of Mr. Clements's."
Stiles screwed up his face. "Our science teacher? Our science teacher has friends? No, no, no, no. This is bad. You know how that ends." He dropped his head to the table and buried it under his folded arms.
"Nah, he's just a guy with bad timing on when to go to the bathroom," Liam replied.
As much as Scott hoped that Liam was right, there was a reason that Beacon Hills didn't stay up late. The burgers arrived then, but as Scott bit into his, he knew that they weren't done with Dr. Jeffcoate or Andrew Clements. The science fair was the next day, and that meant…"Come on," Scott said, hoping to break the pall that had fallen over the table, "We won! Let's not worry about our teachers tonight. Let's enjoy the party." After all, for the team captain, Alpha werewolf, and life-long Beacon Hills resident, this was just another full moon.