Incitation
"Scott? Scott!"
At the sound of his name being called, Scott fought to open his eyes. It was a struggle, taking all his energy just to crack them a bit, enough to get a blurry image of familiar faces gathering around him. He felt someone take his left hand in their own, but couldn't find the strength to grasp onto them, to let them know he was aware. He could feel the rough bark of the tree at his back, the hard, cold ground underneath him. He could smell his friends, their blood and their sweat, the scents of battle. He could hear their heartbeats, their concerned murmurs as they stood around him. But try as he might, he couldn't make his body respond, couldn't move, couldn't speak.
"What's wrong with him?" It was Lydia, her voice full of worry, of fear for him. He could just make out the reddish blur of her hair off to his right.
"I don't know." There was worry in that voice too, and frustration. Stiles. Through mostly-closed eyes, he watched as his best friend knelt next to him and reached out to grab his shoulder. "Scott, buddy, what happened? Talk to me, man."
Parting his lips, he tried to reply, but his voice just didn't want to work. Soundlessly, he moved his lips, trying to form the words, trying to reveal the source of his problem. But nothing came, no sound, no answer. Just a sharper burning sensation from the small dart stuck in his thigh. The dart he'd ignored during the fight, pushing aside the spike of pain from the initial contact, discounting it as nothing but a minor discomfort he'd have to deal with later. But now it was later, and he couldn't move, couldn't point out the problem, couldn't do anything. His friends were worried, and he couldn't even tell them what was wrong.
"Stiles, move." Another voice, from somewhere on his left, deeper, in command. The weight of the hand on his shoulder disappeared as he watched the blurry figure of his oldest friend back away, only to be replaced by Argent, kneeling down in the dirt next to him. "He got hit with something. Look."
The searing pain when the former hunter pulled the projectile out of his thigh was so intense, Scott could feel his eyes watering, but he still couldn't give voice to his pain. All he could do was scream in his head as white hot agony seared through him, radiating out from his leg, making his already-impacted vision swim and blur worse. The only distraction came from the comforting feeling of the hand holding his, squeezing with a strength he might have found painful under normal circumstances. He tried to focus on that, concentrate on the contact, on the pressure, and not on the burning in his leg.
"What is it?"
"I'm not sure. Some kind of poison. We need to get him to Deaton." He felt a rough hand on his cheek as Argent leaned closer and spoke, urgency in his voice. "Scott, look at me. Open your eyes." It was getting harder, his eyelids getting heavier, but he managed to force them a little wider, enough to look the former hunter in the eye. "You need to stay awake. Don't pass out."
He heard the words, understood the meaning, but it didn't matter. He could already feel the darkness creeping in, even as he used every ounce of strength in his body to keep his eyes from slamming shut. He was fading fast, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
Just before the darkness claimed him, he felt the hand slip out of his. A second later, he was rising, lifted to his feet. He was dead weight, but whoever was holding him was strong. They slipped under his shoulder and got an arm around his back, taking his weight fully on themselves. "I've got him," he heard, the words muffled, like they were coming from far away. Then everything went black and he knew no more.
o0o0o0o
The television, tucked away in the corner, was on some twenty-four hour movie channel, but Malia wasn't watching it. It had been on constantly since she'd woken up hours ago, but if pressed, she couldn't have recounted a single thing she'd seen, any words that were said. It was just background noise, all her thoughts, all her attention focused on the sick werewolf lying nearby, on a bed in the center of the room.
In the three days since he'd been poisoned, Scott hadn't moved an inch. He hadn't opened his eyes, or clenched his fists, or said a word. He just lied there, his only movement the slow, almost imperceptible rise and fall of his chest. Initially, they'd taken him to the animal clinic, and Deaton had worked furiously to identify what was wrong with him, and how to treat it. It turned out to be some extremely rare plant toxin Malia couldn't even pronounce, something fatal to werewolves, and, according to the veterinarian, something that had no antidote.
"He'll resist it as long as he can," he'd told them all, standing over the body of the boy closer to him than his own family. "He's strong, so I expect he'll put up one hell of a fight. But once his strength runs out..." He'd trailed off, unwilling to say the words, the words none of them wanted to hear.
The hours after the diagnosis were mostly a blur to Malia. She'd focused on staying busy, distracting herself from the reality of the situation by acting as the muscle for the group as they did what they could to help Scott. She'd been the one to bring him out of the woods, and she was the one who carried him out of the clinic, into Argent's SUV, and then into his house. She'd helped his mother set up a bed in the living room after pushing all the furniture against the walls. While the nurse and Argent were hooking him up with an IV to keep him as strong as possible as he fought, she'd driven Lydia home, pushing her own internal pain aside in an effort to try and comfort her distraught friend.
"He'll be okay. It's Scott. He'll be fine." She'd meant the words, but even to her own ears, they'd sounded flat. Still, it was all she could do, so she'd kept going. "He's strong, stronger than any of us. And Deaton will find something. Stiles and Mason are helping him, and those two always seem to find a way. He'll be okay."
He'll be okay. Words she'd repeated more times than she could count in the three days since. To Stiles, when he showed up at the house in the middle of the night, eyes a little glazed, hair a mess, and pale as death. To Liam, who growled every word he said like they were physically hurting him, and whose eyes were yellow more often than they weren't. To Melissa, and Argent, and Mason, and everybody else who checked in on Scott, hoping to see him sitting up and laughing even as they prepared themselves for the worst.
She said the words to everybody else because they needed to hear them. But also because it helped her to say them, because it helped her to see her friends nod and agree and say them back. Because she needed to feel like she was helping, like she was doing something. It was the only thing keeping her calm, keeping her sane.
It was harder when nobody was around, when it was just her and him and an unnatural silence that shouldn't have existed. It was a painful reminder of all the hours she'd spent in this house with him over the last few months, studying, talking, eating meals, watching movies, growing closer as they gave Lydia and Stiles time and space to explore their new relationship on their own. So many things they'd said, words thrown away on conversations that didn't matter, conversations about nothing at all. The whole time, there were things she wanted to tell him, things she needed to say, but she'd kept them inside because she didn't want things to change. And now he couldn't hear her, couldn't respond, the choice taken out of her hands and his.
"You should go home, get some rest."
Shaking herself out of her thoughts, Malia shifted her gaze off Scott and over to where his mother was standing, leaning against the wall in her scrubs. Melissa had a concerned look on her face, but it wasn't aimed at her son this time. Instead, she was staring directly at the girl who hadn't left the house since she'd gotten back from dropping Lydia off the night it all went down. She'd been a constant presence, taking over Scott's room, sleeping in short bursts, showering and eating as quickly as possible so she could reclaim her self-assigned position on the couch, watching over him.
"I'm fine," she insisted, looking back at Scott. "I need to be here. Argent said—"
"Argent suggested it was a possibility somebody might take the opportunity to try and get to Scott while he's weak," Melissa interjected, cutting her off before she could get the excuse all the way out. "That doesn't mean you need to burn yourself out standing guard all day and night, Malia. Go home. See your dad. Sleep in your own bed. He's safe here."
"I'm not leaving him alone," she replied flatly.
Melissa sighed. "You won't be. Argent and Deaton are coming over to try something. They'll be here in an hour. If you want to stick around 'til then, fine, but once they're here, you can go. Nothing's gonna happen to Scott while those two are here, all right?"
This time, when their eyes locked, Malia's were bright blue. "I'm not leaving him," she repeated, no louder than before, but with new emotion simmering just below the surface.
For a moment, the two women stared at each other, neither willing to give in. But then Melissa's lips quirked up in a little smile, and she nodded. "Okay," she said softly, uncrossing her arms and straightening up. "You stay. I have to go to work. If anything, anything changes, call me."
Malia nodded, her attention already back on Scott. She kept her eyes on him until she heard the front door close, because she didn't want to see that understanding look on his mother's face. It was just another reminder of what she might have missed out on.
-l-l-l-l-l-
As she stepped back inside the house, Malia froze, a familiar and unwelcome scent filling her nose. Her eyes flashed blue and she let out a snarl, racing through the house, already cursing herself for stepping away from Scott. Unused to being inside all day, she'd stepped out onto the back porch, just looking for a little break, some fresh air to keep her going. She hadn't even been gone five minutes, but that was apparently long enough for some uninvited company to come calling.
When she reached the living room, a figure in a dark coat was leaning over Scott, near his head. "Peter!" She flicked out her claws and bared her teeth as her biological father straightened up and turned to face her. "Get away from him!"
"I wasn't doing anything," he quickly said, a little smirk on his face as he raised his arms up mockingly and stepped away from the bed.
Letting out a threatening growl, she pushed past the arrogant werewolf, purposely putting a shoulder into his chest as she went by, and reclaimed her spot on the couch. Leaning over, she took her time checking Scott over, making sure Peter hadn't done anything to him, as the man in question took a seat in an armchair across the room from her.
Once she was sure everything was okay, Malia looked up and locked eyes with Peter. "What are you doing here?"
He shrugged, folding his hands in his lap as he stared back at her. "I heard about the unfortunate situation our friend here is in and felt it was my duty to come by and check up on him." He smiled then, showing more teeth than was necessary. "Imagine my surprise when I found nobody here with him. I would have thought your little pack of misfits would be working around the clock to try to find a way to save him."
"We are. Deaton and Argent were here a couple hours ago, trying something new."
It hadn't worked. Nothing seemed to be working. But the vet wasn't giving up yet, not while Scott was still breathing, still fighting. Argent had mentioned something about some contacts in Canada who may know something useful. He hadn't sounded hopeful, but not totally defeated either, not yet.
Malia's relationship with Peter since he'd helped them survive the Wild Hunt had been better, enough so that she even visited him occasionally, trying to encourage the little bit of progress she was seeing in him. But right now, she wasn't feeling particularly friendly, and considering his history with Scott, the faster he left the better. So she didn't hold back, staring him down and arching an eyebrow in challenge.
"So, did you come to gloat, or to finish him off?"
His jaw dropped and he clutched his hand to his chest in an overly dramatic mock-up of false offense. "Please, Malia, give me a little credit. I think I've proven I no longer want to kill him, despite all the trouble he's brought me." His eyes moved, sweeping over Scott's unconscious form. "And I think I'll keep my gloating to myself until he's actually dead and... what are you doing?"
As he was speaking, Malia had stood up and grabbed a little bottle off the end table next to the couch. Leaning over Scott, she cupped his cheek, carefully tilting his head back. "Deaton said to give this to him every four hours," she explained as she sprayed the substance in the bottle underneath his nose. "He thinks it might be having some kind of positive effect on him."
Peter didn't immediately respond. She would have found that odd, given his usual propensity to talk like the whole world was a stage at all times, but she was too focused on what she was doing. So she didn't look up at him, didn't see the realisation dawning on his face as he watched her gently tend to Scott. She did hear him a moment later though.
"Oh, God."
"What?" she asked, as she set the bottle back down and sank back onto the couch.
"Really, Malia? Him? As my daughter, I hope you know you could do better than Saint Scott here." He grimaced and shook his head as she stared at him with wide eyes, like a deer caught in the headlights. "What's the appeal? I just don't get it."
Her first instinct was to loudly deny what he was saying. But she didn't. Did it really matter if Peter knew? Or anybody else, at this point? She still had hope Scott was going to pull through, but those odds seemed to be getting slimmer with every passing hour. He was dying, and she had things she wanted to say. He was probably never going to get to hear them. Somebody might as well.
"You know him, Peter." She looked him in the eye. "What do you think?"
"I think too many people credit a lack of foresight as mercy," he replied, staring right back at her. "I think he's lucked his way through the last few years, carried by the strength of people better than him. I think it's a waste to have the power of an Alpha, a true Alpha, and use it like he does. That's what I think, Malia. What do you think about that?"
"I think you're an asshole," she shot back, eyes flashing as she glared at him. "And I think you're jealous because he's better than you've ever been, without even trying. You were a failure as an Alpha, and you blame him for it. You're weak, and he's strong." Her expression faltered then, and she leaned over to look down at him, letting her hair fall down to cover her face. "He's strong," she repeated, voice much softer, and teeming with emotion. "He fights. He doesn't run. He tries so hard, harder than he should sometimes. He's the best person I know." Reaching out, she stroked the side of his face softly, angrily blinking to try and clear the sudden moisture out of her eyes.
"You love him." It wasn't a question, just an observation spoken in a voice devoid of its usual arrogance, superiority, judgment.
"Yes. I love him." Lifting her head, she smiled humourlessly. "Not that it matters now."
Silence reigned for a solid minute as Peter stared at her, expression blank, unreadable. Abruptly, he stood up sharply, reaching up to adjust his collar. "There really is no accounting for taste." Then he turned on his heel and strode out of the house.
She watched him go, feeling completely drained after finally giving voice to her feelings. It hadn't been freeing to finally get the words out, only painful, frustrating, because the one person who needed to hear them couldn't. Left alone once again, she sank back against the cushions of the couch and finally let the tears freely flow.
o0o0o0o
The sun was just breaking over the horizon when somebody knocked on the passenger-side front window of Peter's car. Leaning over, he opened the door, then pulled back as a man got inside and settled into the seat.
"Peter Hale," the man said, nodding to him.
"Deucalion," he acknowledged, keeping his tone as unassuming as he could. "Thank you for agreeing to this. I'd do it myself if I could, but—"
"Would you?" Deucalion interjected, a little smile twisting his lips as he observed the man sitting next to him. "I've heard stories about you, Peter, about you and Scott. Not the... cleanest history between the two of you, is it?"
Gritting his teeth, he fought down the angry growl that was trying to escape. "I'm here, aren't I?" he grated out. "I didn't have to contact you."
Deucalion's smile widened, and he grunted an acknowledgment. "No, no you did not. Perhaps you have more of your sister in you than I thought." Then he shifted in his seat, turning to look straight ahead, out the windshield at the house across the street from where they were parked. "Are we waiting for something in particular?"
"Yes."
"Ah. You don't want to be seen."
"No, I don't want to be seen," he snapped, turning to glare at the Alpha wolf. "My reputation's taken enough of a hit over the last few years. God forbid anybody ever figures out that I had anything to do with this." At that point, his self-preservation instinct kicked in and he stopped, clearing his throat and taking a moment to calm himself as Deucalion arched an eyebrow, that smile still prominent on his face. "Now, I'm trying to listen. So, if you wouldn't mind..." He trailed off and closed his eyes, concentrating on the heartbeats he could hear emanating from the house.
The quiet in the car persisted for maybe a minute. Then, "I'm surprised you're so familiar with Scott's condition and the toxin itself. I've never heard of it being used by hunters in America before. Where did you learn of it?"
Dropping his head, he sighed heavily. "Remember what I said about trying to listen?"
"I can hear just fine," Deucalion replied, just a hint of amusement in his voice. "Answer the question."
Peter could feel one of the muscles in his jaw ticking as he slowly straightened up, taking deep breaths to keep from exploding on the man next to him. He hated having to interact with somebody he knew was more powerful than him, and who was fully aware of the imbalance. He could talk down to Scott and his friends and Derek because he knew at least a little part of them feared him. But not Deucalion. His usual manner wasn't going to get him anywhere with the Demon Wolf, and that fact irked him a lot more than he cared to admit.
"I was poisoned as a teenager," he finally admitted, studiously avoiding looking at his interested audience. "I was in the woods, and I stumbled on a pair of hunters. They were chasing someone else, and I got caught in the middle. I don't think they never even knew. I fell between some rocks and passed out. Talia found me and she recognised what was wrong." He snorted and shook his head. "I don't even know how she knew, but she did. Afterwards, I did my research. I'll be damned if I'm going to fall victim to the same thing twice in my life."
Deucalion was quiet for a moment, letting the tale sink in. "Fair enough. And I think we should probably get this over with." Turning his head, he held very still for a second, then nodded. "Yes. It sounds like they're all asleep now."
Without a word, Peter got out of his car and started across the road. He heard Deucalion mirror his movements, quickly falling into step beside him as he made his way up the walkway, toward the house. On the front step, he paused and cocked his head, listening, double-checking. He could hear three heartbeats, two on the first floor and one on the second, all of which were slow, steady. Sleeping. Or in Scott's case, dying.
"We have to be quick," he said, keeping his voice low as he reached for the doorknob. Deucalion just hummed an agreement.
Inside the house, the pair of wolves carefully made their way into the living room and stopped at the end of the bed. Scott looked exactly like he had the previous night, pale and unmoving, close to the end.
Motioning for his current ally to wait for a second, Peter slipped around the side of the bed and knelt next to it. "I know you can hear me, Scott," he whispered, leaning in close to his ear. "I know you've heard everything. Understand that the only reason I'm doing this is because of her. If she felt any other way about you, I'd have left you to die, and done it with a smile on my face. I don't like you, and I doubt I ever will. So remember that. You owe her your life."
When he rose and turned, he scowled at the smirk on Deucalion's face. Biting back a growl, he roughly gestured for him to get on with it. He was rapidly running out of patience. It was time to get this done.
Stepping around the other side of the bed, Deucalion pulled back the sheet, exposing Scott's shirtless torso. Glowing his eyes, he flicked out the claws on his right hand, then took a deep breath and plunged them into the teenager's stomach. Scott immediately tensed, his whole body going rigid as red lines began to snake their way up Deucalion's arm. The older Alpha curled his lip slightly, letting out a little growl of discomfort as he took the toxin inside his own body. A little whimper escaped from Scott a second later, the first sound he'd made in days.
From the other side, Peter watching the process with interest. The last time, he'd been on the receiving end, unable to see exactly what was happening. There had been some illustrations involved in the research he'd done afterward, but they hadn't been particularly clear. It was very similar to how wolves took pain. The toxin, once injected, bonded with the wolf's system, essentially becoming a part of them as it killed them. It made it almost impossible to neutralise, but also meant it was corrupted, irrevocably altered, weakened. Still enough to kill a Beta if they tried to draw it out and into themselves, but not an Alpha. His sister had done it for him, all those years ago, taken that vile poison into her own body and out of his, saving his life.
Suddenly, Deucalion yanked his claws free and stumbled back, collapsing into the same chair Peter had sat in the night before. Leaning his head back, he took a deep breath, then blew it out slowly. His eyes burned an even brighter red for a second, then darkened and faded back to their regular colour.
"That was... unpleasant," he stated, flexing his right arm as he tried to shake off the pain.
Before either of them could say another word, Scott abruptly sat up, eyes open and glowing red in the dimly-lit room. As they looked on, he took a deep breath, then let out a long, low growl Peter grimaced, praying the sound wouldn't rouse the house's other two occupants.
When it finally died out, Scott turned to his left and locked eyes with Deucalion. "Thank you," he rasped, voice hoarse from disuse. The other Alpha just nodded, still recovering from his life-saving efforts. Then he turned to Peter, dark eyes staring a hole in him. "You were right. I did hear everything. And I'm not going to thank you."
"I don't want your thanks." Even as he spoke, Peter was already heading for the door. He'd done his duty. Scott would live. Malia would get her chance. It was time to go.
o0o0o0o
Once Peter was gone, Scott turned to Deucalion and arched an eyebrow. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," the older man replied, waving off his concern. "That just took more out of me than I imagined it would. Do you mind if I just... sit here for a little while?" He grimaced as he spoke, holding up his right arm, which was still lined with red.
"Oh, yeah, sure..." Scott trailed off as Deucalion leaned back and closed his eyes.
Left without anything to distract him, he did a quick check on himself. He was weak, his muscles aching, which was to be expected, and hungry enough to eat a horse, but otherwise, he felt all right. His stomach was a little sore, probably from the five holes Deucalion had put in it, but he could already feel them healing, the blood clotting. With the toxin gone from his system, everything was already functioning properly again. Letting out a sigh of relief, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and slowly began to rise to his feet. His limbs shook a little underneath him, but held, three days enough to leave his muscles weaker than usual but not completely useless. After a moment, the tremors disappeared, and he was confident he wasn't going to collapse as soon as he tried to walk. He could move again, and the joy he felt in that moment was almost overwhelming.
It had been hell, lying there, unable to move a muscle, but fully aware of what was happening around him. He hadn't been conscious the entire time, fading in and out every few hours, but it was still enough to nearly drive him crazy. He could hear, could smell the worry and fear of his friends, his family, and couldn't do anything about it. He could feel their pain. He could feel her.
Reflexively, his eyes moved to the stairs. He could hear her heart, steadily beating somewhere over his head. And he knew what he had to do.
Slowly, carefully, Scott headed for the stairs, mind on the girl currently asleep in his bed. Over the last few months, he'd begun to suspect her feelings for him were something other than platonic. Not unlike his own for her. But she hadn't said anything, and he wasn't going to press. He knew something between them would be complicated. As much as he wanted to take things between them to a different level, she'd needed a friend, and he could be that, regardless of how he felt. Now he knew that he'd been right, and he wasn't going to wait any longer.
It was more than a little frustrating when he reached the top of the stairs and had to take a second to steady his legs again before continuing on. But soon enough he was standing before his room, reaching for the doorknob.
As quietly as he could, Scott let himself inside the room and stepped over to his bed. Malia was there, lying on her side, legs curled slightly, her hair fanned out over his pillow. He just stood there for a second, looking down at her and debating whether to wake her up or not. He knew she hadn't been sleeping, had barely been living, as she watched over him, his self-appointed guardian angel. As badly as he wanted to talk to her, he wasn't about to disturb her. It could wait, he could wait.
A second later, the choice was taken out of his hands. Her nose suddenly wrinkled and there was a hitch in her previously-even breathing. Slowly, her eyes cracked open, before abruptly widening when she realised she wasn't alone, and who exactly was with her. "Scott?" Her voice was soft, vulnerable, maybe the most vulnerable he'd ever heard her sound.
"Yeah, it's me."
Pushing herself up, she tucked her legs under herself and looked up at him. "What happened?"
He shrugged, a smile tugging at his lips. "I woke up."
A soft smile spread across her face, matching his own. "Are you all right?" she asked, slowly, tentatively, like she couldn't quite believe he was actually standing there.
"Yeah. I'll be okay."
At that, she broke. Letting out a sob, she stood up and pulled him into a tight embrace, jerking him roughly against her as she pressed her face into his neck. His own arms went around her, rubbing her back comfortingly as she dealt with her emotions, finally letting go of the fear and worry she'd been living under since he'd been poisoned.
"It's okay," he said softly, "I'm okay. I—"
His words were lost then when she abruptly shifted, grabbing his head and pressing her lips to his. She didn't hold back, aggressively moving against him, trying to convey months of growing attraction and appreciation in a single, drawn out gesture. If she wasn't holding him so tight, he was pretty sure it might have knocked him over, but he couldn't bring himself to care in the moment. He could feel the passion in the kiss, could taste the love, the desire, the need. It was intoxicating. It was the only thing that mattered.
When they broke apart a second later, she looked into his eyes, and he could see a little uncertainty there. "Was that...?" She trailed off, searching for the words.
"It was fantastic."
The smile that lit up her face then was one he'd never forget. He'd remember that moment, how brightly she glowed, until the day he died. And he'd remember the kiss that followed just as fondly, the promise that lied in it, the connection. There were no words, just a physical declaration. The words would come later, he knew, from both of them. For now, this was enough.
He'd also remember the shocked shriek that suddenly rang out from downstairs just as they pulled apart again.
"What the hell was that?" Malia asked, looking around through wide eyes.
"My mom," he said, fighting to suppress the laughter that wanted to come out. Leaning in, he pressed a quick kiss to her lips again, then turned and threw his arm over her shoulders. "Come on, we should probably get down there before she tries to brain Deucalion with a plant pot or something"
"Deucalion?"
Scott just chuckled as they started toward the door. "I'll fill you in later."
AN: Just a one-shot this time. I liked the concept of Peter helping the good guys for Malia, and I like the idea of Peter and Deucalion playing off each other a bit. Didn't get too far into that this time, but it's something I think I'll revisit somewhere down the line. Let me know what you think.