It had been weeks since they'd gotten back from Oak Creek, and Lydia's agonized banshee screams still pierced through Scott, resonating with his own pain. At the time it had been a dull, high-pitched background noise, a ringing in his ears which combined with the sudden blindness he experienced had a similar sensation to that of a flash grenade. All he saw was Allison's eyes, drooping closed as she gave up, assuring him that she still loved him. The blood… there was still blood on his hands – he'd tried to take her pain… Not for the first time in his life, Scott experienced a wave of fury at himself, for not being able to save her. He ran.
Out of town, away from Beacon Hills, into the safety of the woods where he could revert to primal instincts. He slipped into his wolf form and howled for what surely must have been several hours. Tearing at tree barks and ripping down the smaller ones, Scott could not allow himself to stop until his anger subsided. Just as he went through this violent and somewhat cathartic process, he briefly heard the soft tread of what could only be another wolf's paws on the leaf scattered forest floor. With his hackles raised, he slowly turned to bare his teeth at this unwonted stranger. He relaxed. Derek. He hadn't come alone.
"What do you want?" snapped Scott.
"Man, I'm so sorry," sighed his best friend. Scott hadn't seen Stiles Stilinski since things had been put right after his attack at the school. He felt some amount of guilt at not being there to support him in the wake of being possessed by a terrifying Nogitsune; his pain after Allison's death simply overpowered everything else, and he no longer felt priority or responsibility.
"You're sorry? Why are you sorry?" laughed Scott, but it was a forced laugh, laced with bravado and not a little irony. "Please - just go. Neither of you need to see me like this."
"We're a part of your pack, Scott. If we don't help you back on your feet, who else will? I mean, what other poor soul would wanna look after the emotions of a teenage werewolf?" said Stiles, smiling, and Derek stared at him realising now the depth of his responsibility as part of a pack; he'd never had to take on this element of the experience of being in a pack. It had always been about physical support – rarely emotional. Stiles moved closer to his friend, his hands raised in surrender. "Please, Scott," he said when he realised his words had brought a slight smile to the teenage werewolf's face.
Scott's face drooped again. "I can't do this, man. I can't", and he sobbed now, his barriers unceremoniously dispensed with. Stiles moved towards him, hugging him and patting him on the back, crying now, too, and they grieved together over their dead friend. Derek was staring at the ground, thinking of Allison, too. He could see why Scott had loved her; she was fiery and passionate, and Scott's grief was his own – Derek never moved on from the death of Paige, and perhaps he never would, but Derek felt real empathy as he watched the members of his pack mourn over a girl who had many parallels with his own dead girlfriend. This was something Scott was going to have to learn to deal with, he knew that.
With tears in his eyes, Stiles looked at his friend. "You can't stay in this forest forever, though," he sniffed. "What if you, y'know, turn into a Derek? I'm not sure I can put up with two eternally grumpy faces and broodiness."
Scott choked out a laugh, and Derek gave a weak smile. They stayed out in the forest for a few more hours, though, and when Scott returned home it was with a more strongly-knit pack than he'd ever had before. Derek recognised this, and though he let Stiles and Scott do most of the talking, he felt for the first time that his pack members were also his friends.