Dark Horse Chapter 1, a teen wolf fanfic

Dark Horse

Chapter 1

A/N:

This is my first fic, please be gentle!

I am Australian so have tried to ensure the American-isms are correct but there may be some that I've missed!

This fic is set immediately post season 3B. Some contextual details have changed -Allison lives, Gerard was never cured and is still an inky, leaking mess and Stalia didn't become a thing. Also handwaving away Kate Argent at the end of 3B.

Drip…

Stiles absentmindedly twists the cold faucet off as he meets his own eyes in the foggy bathroom mirror. The darkly bruised under eye shadows haven't entirely faded away but at least he doesn't look like a Tim Burton character anymore with a pasty, pale as death complexion. He's finally looking a little less like Edward Cullen and little more like he has an iron deficiency. It's an improvement he supposes. But not by much.

He stares intently into his own reflected, determined eyes. Seeking anything that he's missed – a shadow, a flicker of something other—

Drip…

Eyes cutting to the leaky faucet, Stiles grips the handle with both hands and twists as hard as he can, frowning when it won't budge.

Drip…

Stupid, useless tap.

A dull thud sounds as his dad thumps a hand on the door, causing his hand to slip in the condensation on the sink's edge and bowling over the haphazard collection of bottles stacked there.

"Stiles? Everything alright in there?"

Stiles opens the door hurriedly, (thanking the deities he'd put clothes on already) releasing a cloud of foggy steam into the sheriff's face. Whoops, he probably should have cracked the window.

"Yeah, yep, a-okay Daddy-o why—" Stiles blurts, leaning against the door frame.

Noah holds up a hand to forestall the flow of babbling erupting from his son.

"You've been in there for almost an hour. I'm sure you can conclude why I would need to check that you haven't drowned in there," he focuses intently on Stiles' face.

"Well, when a man and his hand love each other very very much—"

The Sheriff scoffs and rolls his eyes skyward "Nice try. Can we cut the deflecting, please?"

Stiles shifts his gaze uneasily to the floor, his casual lean on the door frame becoming a dejected slump. Damnit, can't he leave it alone?

"Do we have to talk about this?" Stiles asked, blunt fingers playing with the lock in the door frame, "I'm a big fan of just ignoring that this whole thing ever happened. Let's just fast forward through the whole touchy-feely Dr. Phil thing, alright?"

He pushes off the frame, avoiding his father's eyes as he feigns casual steps to his bedroom. The muffled thumps of his father's work boots follow.

"You've been shut up in your room for a while there, kiddo. Look, son, I get it. I truly do—"

Visceral frustration rises in his gut, eyes flashing angrily he whirls around, "How can you possibly get it? You couldn't possibly understand, none of them do—"

"Because you won't give us the chance to help you."

Stiles crosses his arms protectively, fingers rising to brush the still foreign Lichtenberg mark on his shoulder. He doesn't want to face this yet, face her… it's all his fault, he let it in…

He startles to awareness as his father claps a calloused, warm hand on his other shoulder.

"I'm sorry… I know I've been a bit overprotective these past two weeks—"

"Is that what we're calling it? I thought you were my shadow for a while there," he mutters.

"I know," Noah sighs as he takes a seat at the foot of Stiles' bed, patting the empty space next to him, gesturing for his son to join him. He takes a moment to gather his thoughts, staring off into space just above the cluttered desk.

"You can't blame me for being worried. I know you acted like it was fine once that thing was outta you… but take it from someone who knows. I've seen bad things in my job, son. Hell, I've had to hurt people… and criminal or not these things stick with you, even when you put on a brave face and try to push it down. You think I can't still see my first homicide crime scene? The first kid we pulled out of a violent home? I remember so many of those faces, but that's not always a bad thing…" He hesitates, "You probably think I've been waiting for you to…," Noah shrugs helplessly, "relapse or something. That I've been babysitting you because you can't be trusted but that's not it at all. I'll be honest with you… you're going to struggle for a while with this whether you admit it or not and I want to be there to help you. It's not your fault, but you'll be the one suffering from the memories of what that thing did while it was wearing you. But it was not you. Do you understand me?"

Stiles wrings his hands together, breath catching oddly in his chest. Blinking rapidly to clear the moisture gathering in his eyes, "I know it wasn't me in control. I fought so damn hard against him…" he swallows harshly, "but it was wearing my face, sharing my body… I know it wasn't me." He gestures in the vague direction of his ear, "Hell, I've got this freaky non-consensual tattoo courtesy of the weirdo ninjas to prove that I'm 100% me again. But I'm not sure if the rest of them believe it… after Allison—"

"Stiles, stop. Allison chose to go to Eichen House to fight those Uno's—"

"Oni," he snorts.

"Yeah, those things," the Sheriff mutters to himself, "God, why are there so many of these supernatural bastards to remember…"

Stiles represses a snort, breath juddering out of his nose, "I made you a chessboard!" he protests defensively "It's not my fault Cora did the fainting damsel routine before we could finish explaining."

The Sheriff raises his eyebrows disbelievingly, "Yeah- your chessboard was not as helpful as you seem to think it is-"

Stiles squawks with outrage with a mutinous mutter of "There were post-it notes!" as his dad speaks over the top of him. "Regardless, she chose to be there. She worked out the solution and she went there with full knowledge of what could happen. What could have happened to any of you." Stiles closes his mouth and looks away, breathing harshly through his nostrils. "She's very lucky, Stiles, despite what you may think. A wound like that in the gut? I can't even tell you how close that could have been to fatal. She might be struggling now with the side effects, but she will recover, Stiles."

"I thought she died, Dad," Stiles whispers in a strained voice, "It still feels like my fault. I don't know how Scott could possibly forgive that."

"Allison doesn't blame you, kid. Everyone knows you and that nogitsune thing were split before all that happened-"

"Then why hasn't anyone come to see me? It's been two weeks, Dad. They still see the nogitsune when they look at me. Who could blame them when I—"

"No one blames you, son. You just can't see that because you've locked yourself away in here feeling sorry for yourself. You're pushing them away. Your phone's been out of charge for who knows how long trying to ignore them and you're refusing to open the door for them. This is a two-way street, Stiles."

Stiles huffs an irritated breath as he cards his hands through his hair in frustration, "No, dad—"

"No, you listen to me," his dad chides, "Life moves on for other people. Just because time has stopped having meaning for you doesn't mean they don't have obligations. I admit I had some part in it–" Stiles glances at his dad warily, "I wanted you to have some time and space to recover, but they're trying not to crowd you. They know you'll see them when you're ready. Though I'll be honest with you, Lydia is getting impatient. You need to charge your phone and reply to your messages before she marches over here and does it herself. Hell, I'll give her the key myself."

A frisson of guilt-inducing fear travels up Stiles' spine at the thought of an irate Lydia Martin. A surge of regret fills his anxious, writhing stomach. Maybe he shouldn't have shut her out for the past two weeks…. especially after all they did to save him.

Noah's soft, sympathetic voice breaks the stress filled silence, "You can always talk to Derek. I know he left his new number with you when he went off with Peter. If anyone understands what it's like to have to adjust after their world has been turned upside down, it's him."

Astonished, Stiles jerks and swivels to face his father, "Wait, you want me to talk to Derek? You mean Derek Hale, right? Broody eyebrows, perpetual grumpy Hale? The one who's off on some quest slash repo mission with Zombie Wolf?"

The sheriff rolls his eyes in exasperation, "Do we know any other Dereks? Look, while you were… not you… Derek and I had some time to go over his role in all this,' he gestures broadly at the scattered printouts on Japanese mythology littering the desk, the labeled chess pieces and Deaton's thick leather tomes on all sorts of arcane matters. "Fact is, he's grown up a hell of a lot since you first got involved in all this. He helped a lot in trying to save your ungrateful ass. Maybe if you stopped pulling his pigtails you'd be able to see that."

Embarrassment licks its flames up Stiles' neck and cheeks, he tries to deny, "That's not what I-"

The Sheriff holds up a hand to stop him in his tracks as he rises from the soft bed. "Kid, I don't even want to know. But if you're still being stubborn about talking to your…" he hesitates, the word feeling odd and foreign in his mouth, "pack… then promise me you will talk to someone, Derek or not."

Stiles rubs the back of his neck, admonished, "Ok. I'll try. I just don't know—"

"You know who would be perfect to talk to?" Noah interrupts. "Jackson. What did he turn into again? A Cavoodle?"

Stiles lets out a sudden, undignified snort, "A kanima, dad. I'm not talking to Jackass about this!" he protests, "though I suppose possession isn't that far off being a kanima," he mutters to himself.

The Sheriff's radio crackles loudly as the dispatch officer's voice breaks through from its clip on his shoulder.

"Sheriff, Code 20, what is your status?"

Sighing briefly, he reaches for his radio, "10-10A, Margie, due to start in 30, 10-98."

"Parrish is requesting assistance at Beacon Hill's Memorial Cemetery, crowd control and public safety hazard."

The Sheriff meets Stiles' eyes, a puzzled expression flickering across his tired features. Crowd control… at the cemetery? "Can Clark assist?"

"Unit 19 Clark and Stadtler are at a 909, multiple 10-91d on Hillcrest Road and 11-79." Noah blinks in surprise. A roadkill incident that requires an ambulance? With multiple animal fatalities? He's going to have to get on to the park rangers office and—

"Unit 21 is responding to a report of a 10-91V with animal control near Beacon South Elementary."

"10-91V? That's a vicious animal, Dad. Is it-"

Noah interrupts, "Stiles, I hate to break it to you kid, but sometimes an animal attack isn't caused by the supernatural. Hell, maybe it is a mountain lion for once," he shrugs as he thumbs at the receiver to respond.

"Margie, do you have a status update on the 10-91V?", he side-eyes Stiles, who is damn near quivering in anticipation.

The voice on the radio crackles out, "It's a bear," the Sheriff's eyes widen in shock, "been tranq'd by animal control. En route to control holding cages near ranger's office."

Stiles mouths a bear?! in disbelief.

"10-9 Confirm, near Beacon South Elementary?"

"Confirm. No media presence, it was in the woods at the fence line after going through a few yards."

The Sheriff lets out a relieved sigh, that's the last thing he needs, a media circus about his department endangering children…

"That remains to be seen, Margie. Status on Parrish?"

"There's been a flood from a creek in the preserve. Caused significant property damage in a section at the rear of the cemetery. There's been some heavy erosion and exposure of caskets from the earth. Health Department at the scene. Crowd control and media management requested by Parrish."

A grief-stricken look flashes across the Sheriff's face. Bile rose in Stiles' throat as nausea threatened to overwhelm him. Caskets just lying there in the mud… he was suddenly grateful his mother had wanted to have her ashes spread instead.

"10-4. On my way," said the Sheriff, a sombre mood engulfing the room.

The moment stretched as the Sheriff got lost in his thoughts. Stiles cleared his throat, "Well, Pops, better let you get to it. Sounds like you'll be pulling a double to manage," he gestures out the window, "all of that."

"Why don't you charge that phone of yours and hang out with Scott? I'm going to be gone a while, it seems. I'd rather you had someone with you."

"Dad," Stiles protests, "I don't need someone to watch me all the time. I'm not going to… I dunno… have a mental breakdown or anything."

"I never said that. But it would make me feel better to know you're not shut up in this house alone. You promised you'd start reaching out to your friends again—"

"Technically," Stiles interrupts, "I never promised any of that—"

"Kid," his dad sighs as he steps over the cluttered mess of the bedroom floor and plugs in the abandoned phone of the bedside table, "Text Scott. Eat pizza. Play one of those strange video games you begged me to buy you for your birthday. Just don't sit here alone. Promise me."

The phone chimes and buzzes loudly against the wood with an influx of messages. Stiles casts it a wary glance as the phone makes its presence known for an almost absurdly long time.

The Sheriff claps him on the shoulder as he leaves, throwing a, "Guess you've got some catching up to do!" over his shoulder as he descends the stairs.

"I guess so…"

He takes a few calming breaths and gathers himself. It's now or never, man. Stiles wipes his clammy hands on the denim of his jeans as he approaches the lit-up screen. A cascade of notifications greet him upon unlocking the phone. He sits, shakily, careful not to unplug the charger.

14 Missed Calls glares at him accusingly. He ignores the angry red number as best as he can and opens his messaging app reluctantly. He's met with a wall of notifications. Stiles scrolls through the unread text previews, heart rising in his throat the more he reads.

Scotty
· Hey, tried calling you again but you're…
· Dude, can you please pick up we're havi…
· Allison's doing so much better after the…
· Call me back when you're up for it, we'r…
· C'mon, it's been a week, will you please…
· + 9 unread messages

Stiles winces at the beseeching tone of Scott's messages. He cringes internally; some best friend he is. Stiles kind of thought Scott might just get distracted with Allison all over again after that awkward near-deathbed love confession. Seems he underestimated his friend. He eyes the next set of messages warily.

Lydia
· How are you feeling? Call me if you wan…
· Thought you might want an update on All…
· Pick up your phone right now. I mean it yo…
· Stiles Stilinski, so help me god I will come o…
· I did not go to all this effort for you to hid…

He recoils at the increasingly threatening tone in Lydia's texts. Shit. Maybe he should have replied to at least one of them. It had only been two weeks though! He thought they'd give him space and then get over pushing the issue. Though he guesses he hoped they'd forget about it… about him. That way he wouldn't have to face them knowing what he did- Stiles shakes his head to dismiss the intrusive, negative thoughts; 'Can't think like that, come on, you haven't even seen them yet. It wasn't you. They don't blame you.' He scrolls down letting out a snort of surprise when he sees the next name on the list.

Derek
· Isaac said you looked awful. Get better soon.
· Peter and I are going on a trip to Nevada w…
· The loft will be empty. No more parties I mea…
· Your dad is worried. Talk to him.
· If you needed someone to talk to who isn't Sco…
· Peter says he'll give you advice. Don't listen to…

Stiles shakes his head ruefully, same old Derek. Terse, barking orders at everyone. Not that he'd appreciate the dog comparison. It is unusual though, he ponders, that Derek is clearly showing he cares instead of being his usual emotionally constipated self. He's also clearly been around his father in the past two weeks if he knows that he's been worried. Eyebrows furrowing, he realizes he hasn't seen too much of Derek during this whole catastrophe. He'd heard from the others immediately after the split about what Derek had done to help, including trying to keep the options non-lethal. Bit of a change of heart after the Jackson fiasco. He should be thankful for that at least.

There are two messages from an unknown number still blinking at him. Puzzled, he opens the message thread.

408-690-0476 | 10:23 | So you did things while not in your right mind. Been there, done that.
They won't understand. Well, Lydia maybe. My bad ;)
Text me if you want to speak to someone with a modicum of intelligence.
About anything other than your feelings, that is.

408-690-0476 | 10:27 | Do not put me in your phone as Zombie Wolf. I will know.

Stiles chuckles to himself as he saves the number under the name 'Creepy Uncle'. He'd noticed that Peter kept his head down and remained uninvolved in the nogitsune conflicts. Unsurprising that he tried to preserve his own skin, but surprising that he's bothered to reach out to Stiles at all. Although he had always seemed a little too invested in Lydia. Perhaps he was intrigued by the intellect and cunning he showed planning the bank vault break in and the level of illegal access he has to key locations in town. God, he hopes his dad never realizes he has those station keys and logins. Not that Stiles will ever admit it, but there are some unnerving similarities between Peter, Stiles and their flexible moral code.

He flicks through his missed call log. Mostly Scott, one from Derek, a few from Lydia and two from Allison. The last one surprises him a little. They'd been amicable, but hardly… it's not like they spent time together when Scott wasn't around. How she could possibly want to speak to him after what she's been through because of him? He shelves that thought for now. One step at a time, dude.

He taps on the screen with nail-bitten thumbs.

Stiles | 9:52 am | Yo Scotty. Sorry I've been MIA. Xbox sesh?

He promptly throws the phone screen down onto the bedspread and flops backwards, forearm covering his eyes. That sounded good, right? An apology and a casual invitation. Minimal risk. If Scott is mad and refuses that's fine. He can play solo, it'll be totally fine. Yep, no issue with that no-siree. You deserve to be alone after the trouble you caused whispers a malicious voice in the back of his head. Nope. No. Shut up. Not today, Satan. You can get fu—

A muted buzz erupts from the bedding next to him, interrupting his thoughts.

"Arguing with your own conscience. A sure sign of sanity there, Stilinski," he mutters. He reaches for the phone, swallowing heavily as he flips it over.

Scott | 9:54 am | Can't right now.

Any sense of hope Stiles had remaining crashed and burned. A crippling sense of—bzzz-

Scott | 9:54 am | Deaton called me in to work- emergency
Scott | 9:55 am | Mom has car – overtime at work and bike busted. Can I catch a lift w you?
Scott | 9:55 am | I'm not even gonna give you the chance to say no.

Heading over. Be there in 5.

Relief floods through his system. Quickly followed by anxiety. Was Scott mad at him? He scans the messages for some sort of subtext. Shit. What if he is mad? He wouldn't blame Scott after pushing the pack away and giving them the silent treatment for weeks after they got the nogitsune out.

All too soon he hears a thumping on the front door. Tumbling from his place on the bed, he rushes his way down the stairs, nearly falling into the door frame in his haste. He twists the deadbolt, wrenches open the door and is immediately engulfed in an encompassing hug from Scott. The icy December breeze from the wide open doorway winds its way around his ankles. They sway on the spot a little as Scott refuses to relinquish his tight grip on the back of Stiles' hoodie.

"Dude, I know you want to get all up in this… but you're letting the cold in," Stiles mumbles into Scott's shoulder.

Scott pushes off him with a gentle shove, "What can I say, it's the hair, man. Just does it for me," he shrugs before his face splits into a lopsided grin. "I missed you, bro. I know you needed time and space, but don't ever do that to me again. You're the Timon to my Pumbaa, it's just not the same without you."

"That is the single most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me. Are you sure you don't wanna make out a little—" Scott pushes his face away with a laugh.

"Please, we all know I'm not your type," Scott scoffs.

"Hey, don't put yourself down, you could be!"

"Nah, you like them sarcastic, out of your league and vaguely threatening," Scott chuckles as he pushes Stiles' towards the shoe pile near the door.

"Well, Lydia did recently threaten me via text. Which I should probably reply to before she de-balls me…"

"Who said I was talking about Lydia?" Scott replies, looking at him with mirth filled eyes.

"Wha- You- Who else could I possibly be talking about?" Stiles protests, wobbling as he tries to jam a foot into a pair of red converse.

"No one, just a thought. Let's roll, man. Deaton said it was all hands on deck." Scott's expression brightens, "Hey, maybe you can be my assistant!"

Closing and locking the front door behind them Stiles replies, "I bravely volunteer to help socialize the puppies and kittens. It's a challenging job, but I'll take it."

Scott hums as if in thought, "I was thinking more along the lines of me not having to clean the cages out." Stiles opens the driver's side door of the jeep and leans across to unlock the passenger side door.] as Scott meanders his way around. "I've got a better sense of smell than you now, it's almost cruel to make me clean the litter trays… and you are my assistant now after all," Scott smirks. Stiles glares at Scott and he buckles himself in.

"Hard pass on all bodily fluids. Not a chance."

The jeep rumbles to a start, gears grinding as he reverses out of the driveway.

They drive through the mostly empty streets with only the dull roar of the engine and faint voices from the radio to break the silence. Stiles drums his fingers on the steering wheel in anxious anticipation.

"So… do you wanna talk about it?"

Whoop, there it is. Stiles knew there was only so long Scott could last without addressing the elephant in the room.

He hesitates, thinking carefully before he answers, "I mean… I don't know what to say exactly. It's been… god, so damn awful… I'm just trying to ignore it until these feelings go away if I'm being honest. I mean- thank you, obviously, for saving my ass and getting rid of that dusty bastard. It's just… I'm not sure if I entirely trust myself now? Like, how can I be sure that it's gone?"

Scott considers those words, a solemn look upon his face. Haltingly, he explains, "I think it's probably normal to feel… paranoid, I guess? After being possessed. Well, as normal as possession can be. But Stiles, you have to know that we are absolutely sure it's gone. Isaac caught it in the box and Kira's mom made certain it could never escape again."

"Because that worked so well the first time," Stiles mutters mutinously.

"Yeah, well… when has anything worked out well in this town," Scott shrugs. "I know you'd rather just pretend everything is back to normal. But it's important to talk about it. I'd hate for you to still be struggling with nightmares and… I dunno, PTSD by yourself. We're a team. A pack. We need to rely on each other. Think how much quicker we could have helped Lydia if she was more open about the nightmares and visions she was having when Peter was messing with her head. Looking back, I can see the signs were there but we were too caught up in the kanima stuff."

Silence descends upon them. Eye blinking rapidly to dispel the quickly gathering moisture, Stiles coughs and busies himself with adjusting his rear-view mirror, "…Thanks, Scotty. It's just going to take some time ok." He meets Scott's eyes with a sad smile, "I need to forgive myself before I start getting my feelings over everyone."

"No one blames you dude, least of all Allison. She's doing a lot better now that she's out of the hospital. She thinks you're being ridiculous the way. She's said she's ready to smack some sense into you, but it'll have to wait until she's recovered more," Scott smiles.

"But Scott, she almost died. Lydia screamed her name, I can't—"

"Yeah, almost died. I thought she was dead for a while there too. She thought she was done for. I mean, while you and Lydia were in the tunnels, she told me she loved me. And… I don't know what to do with that now. I mean…I've got Kira and she has Isaac—"

Stiles twists his head to stare at Scott in shock, glancing rapidly between the road ahead and Scott's profile, "Woah, she what? Holy shit… what… what are you going to do with that?"

"Nothing for now. I mean, it was basically a deathbed confession, right? Or close enough to it. I can't hold her to that like she… owes me an explanation."

That… is surprisingly mature of Scott, he has to admit. Far more mature than he would have given him credit for considering the Allison sagas of the past.

"Doesn't it make things awkward between you and Kira? Not to mention Isaac," he hisses between his teeth, "that's harsh," Stiles cringes in sympathy. He's glad to be single. He's even more glad that Malia has to be halfway to Nevada with Derek and Peter right now. He has a feeling if he tried to tell her he was under the influence of a demon when they kissed, and his feelings of revulsion when he realized they'd been coerced, she'd eviscerate him.

As Stiles approaches the intersection to turn onto Hillcrest Road he hums to Scott, "Hmm, Dad got a call over the radio this morning that there was a traffic incident up here. Something about roadkill. Sounds like it'd be up past the welcome sign."

"Roadkill?" questions Scott. "That would be cleared off by now, right? I mean, how long can it possibly take to-" he makes an awkward shoveling gesture.

They turn the sharp bend which takes them along the eastern edge of the preserve, the vet clinic just through the stretch of forest, lined by short rocky cliff where the edge of the business zone begins. It's supposed to be a shortcut with less traffic than driving through the outer Beacon Hills busy business district. Key word supposed to, Stiles thinks uncharitably. Just ahead of them they see a short trail of red taillights crawling through the haphazardly laid out traffic cones. Red and blue patrol car lights flash against the foliage lining the road.

"Well, guess you're going to be late to work," Stiles sighs.

The cars queued in front begin to creep forward ever so slowly.

"Wow, they must have really-" Stiles imitates an explosion with his hands, "some sort of mutant deer to cause this much damage." He mimes chunks flying off but stops at the sickened look on Scott's face.

"You ok, bro?"

Scott exhales shakily, "I can smell it—"

"Oh, dude, gross. Don't tell me—"

"There's so much of it."

"So… much deer?"

Scott shakes his head and Stiles soon sees why. A blood-smeared car rests on the verge, bonnet dented beyond repair. On the road, pools of garnet glisten wetly in the flashing police lights. Another car, this one with bloodied, shattered windows is being strapped to a tow truck. The white of its paint makes the deep red splashes all the more macabre. There, lying across the other lane is a buck, its neck twisted at an unnatural angle.

"That's a lot of damage from one deer? How fast were they going?" Stiles asks disbelievingly.

"There can't be just one," Scott whispers, head tilted towards the window, frowning in concentration taking deep, careful breaths.

Another one. This time a doe. Legs tangled and broken, ribcage noticeably caved in.

They edge past the destruction, tires leaving blood slicked tracks behind them. They near the end of the roadblock when they see it. Scott hisses between his teeth, "That's a full-grown elk, not a common deer." Stiles takes his word for it that he knows his animals. The frankly enormous bull elk has come to a rest halfway inside the windshield of an SUV, broken shards protruding from its neck. Its sprawling antlers almost a hand reaching for the sky. For help.

It's a morbid sight, Stiles wants to look away but can't seem to drag his eyes from the disaster before him. The elk nearly dwarfs the car, a veritable river of blood drips over the side of the car.

It's several long, quiet minutes before Stiles puts the car into park in the lot of the animal clinic.

Stiles breaks the silence, "What… what could have made them do that? Why would three of them just…"

"Something must have scared them out of the forest. I mean, it's nothing but rock on the other side. It's the only explanation I can think of," Scott sighs, "it's what prey animals do. They run as far away as fast as possible." Scott continues sadly as he throws open the jeep door, "sometimes that ends up being onto a road."

Stiles calls out to Scott's retreating back as he makes his way to the clinic doors, "I'll catch up with you in a second!" Humming in thought Stiles draws his phone out of his back pocket, fingers drumming uncertainly against the case. He eyes the tree line in the distance with vague suspicion, ideas drawing together as his fingers open an unread message thread.

Derek | 11:15 pm | Peter says he'll give you advice.
Don't listen to a word he says.

Stiles | 10:20 am | Something in preserve scaring out wildlife. Bear. Elk.
Question… What's bigger and scarier than you are in those woods?