Hey guys! I know I should be working on Sedona right now, and I will be very soon, now that I'm on break from college. But this Teen Wolf ficlet wanted to come out, so here's the start. This is chapter one of five. Takes place right after the end of Season 4 and before Derek and Braeden leave town. No Kira/Scott in this fic. I hope you guys like it!
I don't own Teen Wolf. Title and epigraph from the Death Cab for Cutie song "Transatlanticism." Enjoy!
Transatlanticism
The rhythm of my footsteps crossing flatlands to your door
have been silenced forevermore.
-Death Cab for Cutie
Chapter One
There is someone outside.
That was the first thought in Scott's mind as he flared awake from a deep sleep. He sat up and looked around his room.
A glance at his clock told him it was close to 3:00AM. The world outside his window was pitch black. The house was quiet. Scott sniffed the air and cast his senses outward. His mom was sleeping calmly down the hall. Downstairs, his dad was snoring on the couch. The normal sounds of night were humming along. Nothing seemed out of place.
So what had woken him? His whole body was tense, and he felt wide awake, like he'd been doused with a bucket of cold water. He'd surged into awareness with the single-minded clarity he only got before a fight began. His mouth was crowded with fang. Something, somewhere, was wrong.
Scott stood. He crossed the room to the window and peered outside. His roof was empty. The fingernail moon was low in the sky. A creeping unease was still settled in his guts, and he picked up his phone and checked for messages or missed calls. Nothing.
He sat back down on his bed and breathed out slowly. Maybe it had just been another nightmare. Every night for the past three weeks he'd woken up with his jaw sore from clenching his teeth and his head foggy from dark dreams. Even though he knew that everyone was warded, that Stiles and his dad were on high alert, that Lydia would be able to warn them if one of the pack was in mortal danger, it did little to alleviate the anxiety. It was getting to him.
Just a nightmare, then. Even though, somehow, this felt different. He'd woken with the intense feeling that someone was outside the house.
Scott sighed. He needed to sleep. The house was warded, the alarms were armed. They were safe.
Everyone was safe. He had to keep telling himself that.
He settled back into bed and closed his eyes.
He was just slipping into sleep when the sound reached his ears– a faint but distinct shout of pain.
From outside the house.
He surged out of bed and ran to the window. He scanned the roof, the driveway, but it was too dark to see. He flicked on his alpha vision and peered into the woods near the end of the driveway.
In the winter-naked trees was a human figure, shuffling toward the driveway.
Scott threw on pants and a black sweatshirt and stuck his phone and a folding knife in his pocket.
A few seconds later, he was downstairs, padding silently past his sleeping father and toward the front door. He opened it and looked out.
A person was standing at the end of his driveway. Their face was covered and their clothes were dark. The wind was blowing away from Scott so he couldn't catch a scent. He could hear them though– a fast, light heartbeat, that of someone under stress.
A growl rippled in Scott's throat. The figure paused, and seemed to look up at him.
Scott exited the house and shut the door behind him. This was probably a trap, or a threat. If it was either, he was not letting it come inside to where his parents were sleeping, to the sacred space of his home.
He walked slowly toward the figure. His claws slid out, and he felt his eyes glow. The figure did not move. It seemed to almost sway with the wind.
When he was twenty feet away, Scott paused.
Abruptly, the wind shifted. The figure's scent washed over him.
Scott gasped as memory rose up and choked him, and information cascaded into his mind– blood and fear and pain and–
And then he was rushing forward, a name caught in his mouth.
The figure swayed hard, then collapsed. Scott reached him and caught him just before he hit the ground, just as Scott managed to speak again.
"Isaac." Scott cradled him. "Isaac!"
Isaac stirred in his arms and moaned. His face was wrapped in a black scarf up to his nose. His eyes fluttered open and shut.
"Isaac," Scott said, running his hands over arms, torso, seeking injuries. He could smell a lot of blood on him. "Talk to me, man. What happened? What– how did you even–?" It had been over a year since he'd last seen Isaac, when he left for France with Argent without saying goodbye. Scott hadn't blamed him then, and he didn't now. But he was reeling from his sudden return.
He pulled the scarf down and uncovered the rest of Isaac's face. Blood ran from the corner of his mouth. His pale skin was purple with bruising.
Scott gently framed Isaac's face with his hands and drew his friend's pain into himself. There it was– a deep stab wound in his upper left chest, and a deep slash across his lower abdomen. The wounds throbbed and burned in a way that those of a werewolf shouldn't, and anxiety churned in Scott's stomach. Isaac's legs also ached like he'd run all the way here from the far side of the world. And maybe he had. Scott snarled in pain as he drew off Isaac's hurt before casting it off. Slowly, Isaac stilled under his hands. His eyes fluttered open and fixed on Scott's.
Scott smiled softly. He ran his thumb over Isaac's cheekbone. "Hey," Scott said.
Isaac's eyes filled with tears, but he half-grinned. There was blood in his teeth. He tried to speak, and started choking.
"Hey, hey, Isaac. Breathe. Take it easy," Scott said. He pulled Isaac up so he was sitting somewhat upright, and Isaac started to cough. Violent, wracking sounds escaped him, and blood splattered the asphalt. Scott rubbed his back soothingly, careful to avoid his wounds. He sniffed Isaac's clothes. Wolfsbane burned in his nostrils, and he snarled softly. "Who did this to you?" he asked softly.
Isaac coughed for a few moments more before his breathing started to even out. "Scott…" he whispered. His entire frame trembled. He swayed again, and Scott steadied him.
"Isaac?" Scott asked, allowing some authority to creep into his voice. Isaac was so out of his head with the pain, only an alpha's command might bring him out of it. "You have to tell me what happened. Who did this?"
Isaac coughed once more, then spat out a glob of black-tinged blood. "Hunters…" he rasped. "Bad hunters…"
"Are they nearby?" Scott smelled the night air and threw his hearing outward. He hadn't detected anything yet, but he had a bad feeling.
Isaac had gone still in his arms. Scott turned his face toward his own. "Isaac?" Isaac's eyes were shut, his breath slow and heavy. "Isaac?" Scott frantically listened to his heart. Beating, but too fast, too thready. The wolfsbane was infiltrating his system.
Deaton. He needed Deaton. Scott fumbled for his phone.
His mind was going blank with fear. He'd watched Allison die. It had nearly destroyed him. He couldn't stomach the idea of losing Isaac too.
He managed to dial Deaton. He prayed their emissary wasn't a heavy sleeper.
Deaton picked up on the second ring. "Scott?"
"Deaton! I–I– it's–" Fear was choking him.
"Scott, listen to me. Are you hurt?" Evidently Deaton could judge by the sheer panic in Scott's voice that something was very wrong.
"No, no, it's not me, it's Isaac. He just showed up at my house. He's– he's really hurt, Deaton. I think it's wolfsbane, I don't know what to do." He managed to explain Isaac's injuries, and the fact that he said hunters had done it to him.
Deaton sounded grim. "It does sound like wolfsbane, but I think it's a rare strain. It will kill him very soon if I don't treat it. Take him to Derek's loft; it's more defensible against humans than the clinic. I'll meet you there in ten minutes."
"Okay. Okay. Derek's loft. Meet you there." Scott went to hang up.
"Scott," Deaton said. "He's going to be okay. Just get him there."
Deaton hung up. Scott thought fast. He couldn't take Isaac on his bike, and his dad had given his mom a ride back from the hospital, which meant his was the only car at the house. Scott really didn't want to give his dad the whole I'm-a-werewolf-and-I-need-your-keys talk with a dying Isaac in his arms.
He called Stiles.
When his best friend answered, his voice was thick with sleep.
"Scott, what the hell–?"
"I need to you to drive to my house right now," Scott urged. "I don't have time to explain. Please just come, Stiles, now."
"Oh– oh, shit, okay, what–" Scott heard through the lines the sounds of Stiles stumbling out of bed, a light coming on. "Are you okay? What–"
"I'll explain everything when you get here, I promise. Just get here as fast as you can." Scott hung up, knowing that Stiles wouldn't stop trying to figure out what was going on.
In his arms, Isaac tensed and moaned. He started coughing again. Black liquid ran from the side of his mouth.
"Hey, hey, Isaac." Scott cradled his head against his shoulder, wiping the blackness off his face. "Take it easy, dude. You're safe. You're here with me."
Isaac stilled again. His skin, already naturally pale, was ghostly in the yellow of the street light and covered with a sheen of sweat despite the chilly night. Scott pulled him in, wrapping his arms around Isaac's torso and hugging him close.
"Listen, you dumbass," he murmured in Isaac's ear. "You didn't say goodbye last time. So if you die on me now I swear I will pull some kind of darach/werewolf voodoo thing and bring you back just so I can tell you off for it."
Isaac was fully unconscious. Scott didn't expect him to hear. He kept talking anyway.
"We all missed you, you know. I wish you hadn't gone. I know you had to. I know you had to get away from…all this. Hell, I wanted to for a while there, after everything." He rested his chin gently on the crown of Isaac's head. His blonde curls were tamped down with sweat and blood. "I still missed you, though."
Isaac stirred slightly. His hand reached up, groping in sleep, and found purchase on Scott's sweatshirt. He gripped tight. Scott covered Isaac's hand with his own, and gripped back.
Headlights came cutting down the driveway. Stiles's Jeep appeared moments later and jerked to a stop next to where Scott knelt. Stiles tumbled out of the driver's side.
"Scott! Are you okay? What the hell is going–" His face went jet white. "Holy shit, is that Isaac?"
"Yeah, and he's dying. We have to get him to Derek's, Deaton will meet us there." Scott stood carefully, holding Isaac bridal-style. The other boy was a good half-foot taller than him, and even with his wolf strength, Scott struggled to keep him steady. "Open the back door for me."
Stiles didn't say anything, a testament to how shocked he actually was. Scott climbed into the back of the Jeep, laying Isaac out next to him and resting his head in his lap. Stiles closed the door, got back in, and drove. They broke every speed limit in Beacon Hills as they tore through the night toward the loft.