This story is a collaboration between TheCatalystX and Hurricane.'97

We henceforth disclaim all rights and ownership to any characters or familiar story elements that might be found in the following chapter. Which is a fancy way to say: Teen Wolf doesn't belong to us. Duh.

Enjoy! :)


"Climate is what we expect, weather is what we get." – Mark Twain


Chapter Two:

Some things, no matter how unfair, are just the facts of life. Buses, for example, are incredibly unreliable. They're never on time and you can almost always expect the person in the seat next to you to fart. Which is why Stiles got her driver's license the same day she turned sixteen.

Something that seems particularly unfair? The litany of double standards in the rules of attraction. When a cute guy watches a girl, it's romantic, but when an ugly guy does it, it's creepy. And if, for example, a geeky-nobody girl does it, it's just plain weird.

That's probably why Lydia Martin won't look twice at Stiles. Or, let's be frank, she won't even look once. Stiles can vividly remember the first time she saw Lydia. It was also the first instance she realized she was feeling more than just admiration for a girl—feelings that ran conspicuously deeper than the typical: Wow, she's pretty. I wish I looked like her.

Stiles was immediately stunned by the cute girl with the red hair and the lacy white dress. She often wonders how her life would have changed if she went back in time to that first day and didn't make eye contact with Lydia. She really blames the eye contact. That's what did it. That's what changed her forever. If that hadn't happened, if she was put in a different class or if her bus had been on time and she got there just a little bit earlier so as to not be in that exact spot at that precise moment in time then… would she ever have fallen in love with Lydia Martin?

If she's totally honest, she thought the attraction would fade. And she didn't even realize it was attraction she was feeling for a very long time. She thought it was more like a fascination. And as is the case for most fascinating things to a child, she thought it would diminish over time. It didn't. If anything, her fascination for Lydia Martin only grew, and before she knew what was happening it morphed into something akin to obsession.

What really sealed the deal were her brains. Or maybe it was her stupefying ability to disguise it. Of course, the shock of Lydia's beauty never truly went away—Stiles just grew used to being struck silly at Lydia's appearance. After that, she began to notice other things about her. Like how Lydia's beauty barely scratched the surface of who she truly was. She always seemed one step ahead of everyone else in the class, as though she'd been reading and writing since she popped out of the womb. And she enjoyed learning. She really reminded Stiles of her favorite fictional character, Hermione. At least, she used to.

Once Lydia's height started changing, so did her attitude. It was like they came back from summer break one year and suddenly Lydia had mastered the art of feminine persuasion—and used her newfound weapon at every given chance. She always had a good fashion sense (a skill that eluded Stiles) and now she had deception to compound it. It didn't take long for Lydia to discover that being smarter than a boy while also trying to seduce him into doing what she wanted was counterproductive. So she started playing dumb.

Meanwhile, Stiles watched all these changes from afar. She was captivated and for the first couple years of her obsession, she waited for the feelings to fade. But as she said, they never did, until finally Stiles could deny it no more, and it all culminated to a final boiling point. It was around their sixth grade year when Stiles spoke to Lydia for the very first time. She can't remember now what the context of the conversation was, but she can vividly remember one specific part.

Lydia said something to her. And after Stiles responded, there was a pause. Just that: a pause. But in that small span of time, a part of Stiles that she had been aggressively repressing for the better part of three years surfaced. Stiles and Lydia locked eyes, and Stiles' mind just went blank. She looked down and noticed how naturally red Lydia's lips were colored, and suddenly she felt compelled to kiss her, to test if they were as plush as they looked. Lydia was the one who moved away first, turning around like nothing had happened. She was completely unaffected and oblivious; while Stiles felt like she'd been struck by lightening and was paralyzed.

As soon as she realized what she'd almost done—what she would have just done—what she still so deeply wanted to do—she became very confused.

She didn't understand. Most of the girls her age were still fangirling over Troy Bolton or a Jonas brother. None of them ever mentioned feeling anything remotely similar for another girl. Of course Stiles had been known to daydream about Lydia in the past, but those daydreams were more about befriending her, not lunging at her with her lips!

And it was scary because she found that she wanted it badly, and once it was right there in front of her she couldn't ignore it, and she couldn't stop thinking about it. Since then that moment has played over and over in her mind for years. Like an old photograph you keep in your pocket, it was faded and worn from age, but the feelings were still there.

The fantasy tortured her for days before Stiles was forced to admit to herself that she was experiencing feelings that were wholly unusual for girls to have about other girls. She can remember the confusion, the shame and the guilt. She worried she was unnatural. It was the most complicated thing in the world, because her feelings for Lydia felt simultaneously right and wrong. And every time she was in the room with her Stiles worried that Lydia would figure it out.

Could she see the effect she had on her? She was so smart; she saw everything, like Sherlock Holmes or something. Could Lydia sense the attraction that screamed so loudly in Stiles' head that she was sure others nearby could hear? It took many, many years for Stiles to become comfortable with it.

In fact, it wasn't until others in her school started coming out as gay that it dawned on her that she wasn't alone. Danny Mahealani was best friends with Jackson, the boy who stole Lydia's heart at a very young age, and he was gay. And everyone loves Danny! No one looks down on him for the way he feels.

And that's when Stiles understood that you can't help who you're attracted to. Once she was able to accept her feelings, she finally opened up a little. Things got better after that.

Stiles grew to embrace this side of herself. Once she freed herself of the guilt and shame, she found that the weight of the world had been lifted from her shoulders. And suddenly she could see so clearly. She likes girls; girls who have long hair, girls who smell good; smart girls with a sweet smile and a mean tongue. Confident girls, especially.

And all of these frantic, statically charged hormones raging inside Stiles were still focused with laser-like intensity upon one single female: Lydia Martin. But luckily, Stiles has had plenty of time to grow.

She's had time to overcome her childhood anxiety about it all and now, as a mature sixteen year old, she's much more rational about Lydia's blatant rejection.

Stiles turned around and smiled at Scott. School was about to start, and they needed to head inside. Over his shoulder, she caught sight of Lydia coming down the sidewalk.

A squeak escaped her lips and Stiles grabbed Scott's shoulders before ducking behind him. Confused, he tried to turn around, but she held fast. "Hide me!" She frantically whispered.

"What?" Scott frowned but did as he was told.

"Lydia is coming!" Stiles explained with a hiss.

"Ohhh," Scott said in understanding. This happened a lot. "Yeah. There she is. She's getting closer."

"Scott!" She latched onto the back of his jacket with all her strength. "Don't. Even. Think about it!"

"Hey Lydia," Scott said pleasantly, waving at her as she passed. "Have a good—"

Stiles yanked him backwards and cut him off. Usually, such a harsh yank would have knocked Scott on his ass. But it simply made him stumble and his words catch in his throat before he could finish his sentence. He was laughing so hard at her, there were tears in his eyes.

"Hahah—yeah, very funny, asshole!" She reached up and pushed his head down with her hands, his thick black hair disheveling, and he laughed heartily.

"Pay back, Stilinski!" Scott cackled. "That's for last night. For being such a douche."

"Fine," She relented. "We're even now, alright? So never ever do that ever again."

Scott made no promises as they let a beat pass to calm their excitement.

"Hurry up and show me the damage," Stiles told him, pointing at his side.

He lifted his shirt, revealing a large square of white gauze that had already bled through. She hissed in sympathy and shook her head.

"It's not so bad," Scott told her. He smoothed the bandage down and let his shirt fall back into place. "It looks worse than it is."

"Sure you don't wanna tell your mom?" Stiles suggested. Scott shook his head vehemently.

"I can handle it," He assured her, and she tilted her head skeptically.

"If you say so…"


Last class of the day, done. Kafka's Metamorphosis: The book their teacher assigned them on the first day of English class. Also known as, a book about a man transforming into a cockroach. Or, technically a 'grotesque vermin' but to Stiles that conjures an image of a cockroach.

Stiles was discussing the book to Scott. Or rather, she was trying to discuss the book. Scott didn't seem to be paying much attention and that was just starting to grate on Stiles' nerves when the girl who had a locker beside Scott spoke up, which was unusual since she seemed to go out of her way to ignore Stiles most of the time.

"Superpowers are overrated," Jennifer declared. Stiles turned to her with a face of complete and total offense.

"Overrated?"

"Yeah. That's right." Jennifer closed her locker and turned to raise her eyebrows at Stiles. "I think the truth is, becoming mutated with superpowers would ruin a person's chances at a normal life."

"Who wants a normal life?" Stiles practically sneered. "Normal lives suck!"

"You're just saying that because you don't know what it's actually like to have to live with a mutation."

"You're right," Stiles agreed in a tone that seemed to suggest that Jennifer was also wrong. "I don't have a mutation. In fact, Scott and I are both pretty much as boring as they come. Average everything—nothing about us stands out—which is why we're so low on the totem pole. Mutations get a bad rap. Just look at Lydia."

Jennifer all but scoffed. "There isn't a single mutated hair on Lydia Martin's body."

Stiles put her finger up. "See, that's where you're wrong! Red hair is a genetic mutation."

The sneer on Jennifer's face melted in surprise. Collectively, the pair of them turned to look at Scott, expecting him to break in and mediate at any second now. But he was still watching something down the hall. Finally they turned to see what had captured his undivided attention—and Stiles gasped before leaping to hide.

"What the—" Jennifer frowned at the unexpected movement. "What the hell! What is she doing!?"

Scott snapped out of his reverie to look down at his best friend, who was on her knees and grasping him by his hips. He blinked. "Stiles? What are you doing?"

Their position looked very suggestive. The truth is, Stiles didn't think before she dropped to the ground after spotting Lydia—as always, she completely stopped thinking altogether and hid.

The fight or flight instinct is strong in Stiles' subconscious, and apparently her first instinct is flight. Or more to the point: hide. Which is why she ducked behind Scott this morning as Lydia passed and she panicked, and why she's done it again. Except this time it left them in an extremely… unfortunate position, where Stiles was on her knees and grabbing her very male best friend by the hips, his crotch mere inches from her face.

This is what happens when logic flees the brain.

Stiles barely had time to form a response when the very thing that inspired this disaster passed by. Lydia didn't seem to be paying a lick of attention, but the new girl with brown hair quietly observed them with a small frown beside a taunting Jackson. He was laughing loudly at them and raised a mocking eyebrow at their position, drawing his girlfriend's attention in the process. "I thought you were gay, Stilinski? Make up your mind!"

"Jackson," Lydia admonished, and Stiles' cheeks burned bright red as she fell away from her best friend like he'd struck her. At the surprised and mildly irritated look that Lydia's public reprimand earned from her boyfriend, she smoothly switched gears. "We don't have time for this!" She covered as she dragged him along. "Do you want to be late for your first practice?"

And she continued to tell Jackson and the new girl all the reasons why being late to his first practice was not an option. The chief reason? He's captain, Lydia claimed, and he had to set a good example. He's not. Not yet. But he was captain last year and that's as good as precedence in common law to Lydia.

Stiles huffed and brushed herself off, accepting Scott's help to stand.

"What a jerk!" Jennifer frowned at Jackson's retreating form. "He's an asshole," She reassured Stiles and gave her a rare encouraging smile. "But maybe next time don't… do whatever you just did."

Dryly, Stiles tried not to let too much venom enter her voice because she knew she was just embarrassed. "Thanks for the tip."

"But Lydia stood up for you!" Scott enthused with a giant overeager grin. "Did you guys see that? She stood up against Jackson!"

"Of course she did," Stiles instinctively snapped. "She's not a bigot."

"Neither is Jackson," Jennifer noted. "He's just an opportunistic asshole. And he hates you guys."

Scott and Stiles exchanged a knowing glance. Can't argue with that.


It's not very often that Stiles gets to actually cheer for her friend. Cheer up, sure, absolutely—countless times. They've spent countless hours of their friendship cheering each other up over the years. But they haven't spent a whole lot of time cheering each other on.

It felt good, for both of them, but probably more so for Scott since he was the one who kicked ass in lacrosse today. Stiles kept the same spot on the bench she always did. Coach typically lets her play at least once a game, to avoid any and all accusations of gender-bias, but for the majority of the time she was just a sub. And so was Scott. Until now.

He was a completely new person at practice. He caught balls thrown by Jackson—Jackson—and that was no small thing. Scott's been over the moon ever since. Stiles seized the opportunity laid before her with both hands (sometimes she felt more Slytherin than Gryffindor) and rode Scott's unusual swell of pride all the way to the Preserve. She didn't even have to drag him.

Here's some context to their Preserve Adventures: Part Two: As soon as practice was over Stiles and Scott quickly realized that his inhaler was still missing, and that's a huge issue. He started to suggest simply claiming that he lost it since it had basically been empty anyways—but Stiles dashed that and insisted upon going into the woods to find it. She was prepared to draw up a list of reasons why it would be better to return to the woods to find his inhaler, but she found that she didn't need to. Surprisingly, Scott agreed almost immediately.

It didn't take a genius to figure out why Scott was so willing to go explore in the woods so soon after his attack; he's still boasting about his unprecedented success at practice today.

"—it was like I had all the time in the world to catch the ball," Scott turned to look at Stiles' reaction to this bit of news where he stood ankle deep in the frigid water of the stream that stretched across the Preserve.

Stiles raised her eyebrows and gave his elbow a gentle push to hurry him along. "Speaking of all the time in the world, I'd really like to get out of this creek before my toes freeze and snap off my feet."

"Sorry," Scott rushed to the edge and turned to help Stiles climb onto dry land with him. Just another weird instance in a day filled with crap that didn't make sense—Stiles mentally added another mark to her running tally. Scott's increased balance this morning when he didn't fall after she gave him a rough shove, his weirdly increased agility, the fact that he's the one helping her out of the creek today when he could barely crest a molehill last night.

"Maybe you're finally hitting puberty," Stiles joked with no small measure of teasing in her voice, and she snickered when Scott nudged her arm and she stumbled as she lost balance.

"Shut up," Scott grinned despite his words. "Jerk."

"Anyways, that's not the only weird thing." Scott continued, and it took Stiles a moment to process what he meant. "I can hear stuff I shouldn't be able to hear, smell things!"

Stiles raised her eyebrows at him and paused. "Smell things? Like what?"

"Like the Chapstick and mint mojito gum in the front pocket of your jacket."

Stiles scrunched her face and shook her head. "Chapstick and…" Her fingers hit the smooth cap of a tube of Chapstick and her eyes bulged as she dug the contents of her pocket out.

Stiles gawked at the objects she held aloft in her palm, but Scott just appeared sort of uneasy and knowing and he was more worried about the expression on his friend's face than the fact that he was apparently right.

"That was a…" Stiles weakly tried to rationalize. "That was a pretty good guess."

Scott's eyes glinted with childlike uncertainty. "Yeah," He lamely agreed, though they both knew they were lying to themselves.

She looked away and continued through the woods. She thought over her tally. "And you're saying all this started with the bite?"

"Well, what if it's like an infection?" Scott suggested as Stiles pushed up her sleeves and frowned at the thought. "Like what if my body is flooding with adrenaline before I got into shock or something?"

She gave him a wry grin and her tone matched her face as she replied. "Okay, chill out you hypochondriac. You're sounding a little paranoid now. I'm sure you don't have rabies."

"Rabies?" Scott exclaimed, his eyes wide and frightened as he froze and then turned to her. "Rabies!"

Stiles' grin faltered on her face and she shook her head. "No, that was a joke."

"But think about it!" Scott persisted. "It was a wild animal, of course it could've had rabies—"

"Scott stop," Stiles touched his arm and her voice was gentler as she reassured him. "The symptoms of rabies are flulike, not—superhero like."

"Oh," Scott sighed. "Well good then."

"Yeah." Stiles rolled her eyes. "Come on, let's find this inhaler and get out of here. I wanna play that new videogame tonight."

"It was right about…" Scott stopped and looked around the forest floor. He led her over to a spot a good stretch away, right next to a tree. "Right here, I think, but the body is gone."

To Stiles, she had no idea how he could tell a difference. This spot looked the exact same as the spot next to every other tree they've passed. She hoped he couldn't smell it or something creepy like that. "Maybe the killer moved the body," She morbidly mused.

Scott rolled his eyes up at her and then agreed. "Well hopefully they didn't take my inhaler. Those things cost like eighty bucks…"

Stiles felt the prickle of someone watching her. Like the paranoid goosebumps that rise at the back of your neck, and she turned around. A man stood in the middle of the woods some distance off, watching them. He wore all black, and in the dreary background of the muted tan and beige color of the woods, he stuck out like an angry black stake in the ground.

Stiles' heart leapt in her throat and she didn't dare take her eyes off the strange man as she smacked Scott's arm to grab his attention. She saw her friend turn curiously to her from where he knelt on the ground and then when he turned further and saw the man he quickly jumped to stand beside her.

Finally the stranger started towards them. His pace wasn't calm or polite—he loped with the gait of an extremely pissed off man, stalking over the leaves so hard that even Stiles could hear the crunch under the man's boots as he advanced, and Stiles couldn't help but back up a step in apprehension.

That fight or flight instinct was bubbling up like bile in her throat and the only reason she didn't immediately bolt was because Scott stood bravely beside her, almost defiantly.

"What are you doing here?" The man demanded once close enough. Now that he was closer Stiles could make out features beyond white skin and dark hair. Everything about him was striking—the dark leather jacket he wore, the sharp angular features of his face and his black hair that was styled shortly and swept up from his forehead. And something stubborn poked at the back of her overwhelming panic and whispered that she knew him. She knew who he was. She ignored the thought.

Scott glanced sidelong at Stiles.

Their lack of response seemed to irritate the man even more. "This is private property," He stressed.

So it was a matter of trespassing. This was familiar territory to Stiles; laws were not something she was afraid of addressing. Still, her voice betrayed her trepidation. "Uhh—sorry man, we didn't know."

He looked remarkably unimpressed at this explanation but she sure as hell didn't intend to justify her actions any further to the strangely familiar man. He owns property out here? What was his name?

Scott followed her lead and kept his eyes trained on the stranger. "Yeah we were just… looking for something, but…." He trailed off and the man raised his eyebrows at him impatiently. Irritation sparked in Stiles stomach and she felt her insolence rear its ugly head—she hated bullies, and right now this man felt unmistakably like a bully. "Just forget it," Scott finished with a frown.

Stiles was about to chime in when the man withdrew something from his pocket and tossed it over to Scott. He caught it, which should have been another tally to her list, but Stiles was too distracted to make note of it.

Her heart, which was already pattering quickly in distress, dropped to her stomach before vaulting up into her throat when she saw that he had tossed Scott his inhaler. Alarms blared in her mind and she tried to keep the blatant fear from her face but she knew she probably failed if the poorly disguised sneer on the stranger's face was anything to go by, and Stiles couldn't help but take a step back.

How did he get it? Why did he have it? They had just been joking about the killer moving the body and taking his inhaler, and now… this is how the news articles always start in the paper when they talk about murders. This exact type of situation. And right now her dad's voice was in her head demanding that they turn around and politely leave before anything else can happen.

But then the stranger turned his back and started to leave and it was as she watched him turn around that another news article suddenly streaked across her mind like an airplane dragging a banner behind it in the sky. The Hale Family Fire!

"Dude!" She urgently hissed, smacking Scott's arm. "That was Derek Hale!" Scott shrugged blankly at her and aggravation flared in her stomach as she impatiently explained. "You remember, right? He's only a few years older than us…"

Scott shook his head. "Remember what?"

"His family?" Stiles stressed. "They burned to death in a fire like ten years ago."

Scott looked thoughtfully towards the retreating figure that was little more than a black figure passing through the trees at this point, a frown on his face. "I wonder what he's doing back?"

He looked to Stiles like he expected her to have an answer but she only shrugged in response. "Come on," She told him, grabbing his arm to hook through hers as a source of comfort. "Let's get out of here. Apparently we're trespassing."


Stiles sat in her room that night with two lists laid out in front of her. She transferred her mental tally of Scott's weird developments onto paper. Her thoughts are usually frenzied and complicated and hard for even herself to follow, so putting them out in a linear fashion usually clears things up and helps keep things in perspective. And after this afternoon she desperately needed some perspective.

Scott is changing, there's no doubt about it. It's funny that what she had dreamed about for so long was finally happening, but not at all in the manner she'd imagined. Scott is already rapidly gaining popularity and it's not even the end of the first day of school.

She looked over the paper and ran her thumb thoughtfully along her bottom lip.

Scott's Changes

· Reflexes. As in, he's got them now.

· Supposed changes in hearing and smelling. To an extreme.

· Confidence?

· Crush on new girl. Definitely.

Her best friend is different, for sure. She would keep a close eye on him.

Next up: the mystery in the woods. Several things had happened there in the span of less than twenty four hours—things that needed further investigating, as far as Stiles is concerned, because whatever is going on is now effecting her life, and more directly, her best friend's life. And that's something that demands Stiles' attention.

This second list wasn't as straightforward. Actually, it was more like a web than a list. The changes and facts connected, but not in a linear fashion because Stiles couldn't see a logical explanation just yet.

This is what she knows.

A young woman, as yet to be identified, was killed. Brutally. Ripped in half, her remains scattered across the Preserve. There's a lot of mystery surrounding this young woman but Stiles doesn't have nearly enough concrete facts to even begin to guess at any sort of explanation.

Next, her killer. Human or animal? Obviously, it was a savage way to kill someone. Whatever did it is not fit to roam freely, be it human or otherwise. It's difficult to imagine what sort of animal could possibly rip a person in half like that and then not proceed to eat it. A macabre thought, but true nonetheless.

Derek Hale. He's unexpectedly returned to Beacon Hills, where he has no family left and certainly only horrible memories to haunt him. He left soon after his family died. She hadn't seen or heard of him in years, until just a few hours ago when she and Scott were literally confronted by him in the woods. He's not a suspect though. As far as she knows her father has not been able to come up with any suspects for all the reasons Stiles has already listed, and certainly many more that she is not privy to.

Could it be mere coincidence that Derek Hale shows up right after the young woman was brutally killed? No, that doesn't seem true. He was out in the woods this afternoon. If she had seen Derek in a supermarket or a gas station, that would be one thing. But out in the woods exactly where Scott claimed to have found the dead body? And he was in possession of Scott's inhaler? No, that was more than a little suspicious. Coincidence doesn't fit anywhere in that scenario.

She had that foreboding, heavy feeling of being in over her head. Something about this whole thing didn't sit right with Stiles. She's not a stupid girl. She's naturally suspicious, and add onto it all the horrible crap that's been happening lately, along with the sudden changes in her best friend, and Stiles is positively beside herself with theories that scared her.

She was unsurprised to find her dad in his office. He was studying an open file. His shirt was unbuttoned and his hair looked messy, as though he'd run his hand through it more than once, and beside him sat a mostly empty cup of coffee.

Stiles gently rapped her knuckles against the doorframe. Sheriff looked up and flipped a file shut, a motion that irritated Stiles since she immediately knew that meant it was confidential and she's got this insatiable streak of curiosity that ran through her and demanded to know what the contents of the file were. "Hey, kiddo," Sheriff greeted with a smile on his face. "How was your first day? And lacrosse; I hear Scott really impressed everyone this afternoon. That's great!"

"He definitely surprised everyone, but I don't know if he impressed everyone," Stiles ruefully smirked. "Jackson was pretty angry, actually."

Sheriff raised his eyebrows. "That's just because he thinks Scott will try to usurp his throne."

Stiles snorted and gleefully fantasized about that, and Sheriff eyed his daughter carefully.

"How about you?" He asked measuredly. Stiles focused on him again, a silent question on her face. "Think you'll make first line this year?"

Stiles sighed and her pride didn't allow her to say no, though that's exactly what she thought. "I don't know," She said instead. "We'll see how it goes. Maybe Scott's good luck will rub off on me."

"Luck?" Sheriff scoffed, and quickly schooled his features to prevent hurting his daughter's feelings. "You practiced a lot with Scott this summer, and you've always been an important part of the team."

"Thanks dad," Stiles tried not to let any of her sarcasm peek through her words but by the look on his face it didn't work. "What about the case? Anything new?"

He leveled her a glare that expressed what he said even before he said it. "Stiles," He warned.

"I'm not asking to read the files!" She quickly defended. "I just want to know if I have to be on the lookout for some crazy killer!"

"Like I always tell you, be aware of your surroundings. And stay away from the Preserve, if that wasn't already obvious, and you should be fine." Sheriff paused to consider his daughter with a cynical look on his aged face. "Don't look at me like that. I know you want to go back out there, but I'm serious. This poor girl—" He broke off and looked down at the file that rested under his hand, a darkness passing across his face now. "Just stay out of there, okay?"

"Because the killer returns to the scene of the crime?" Stiles guessed, and she felt a small surge of victory when her dad's eyes snapped up to her.

He scowled. "Stiles," He warned again, with more ire in his voice. "Stop it!"

"What?" She put her hands out. "What did I say?"

"You're not a cop," He scolded, and Stiles felt a bit of her pride wounded. It would've hurt less for him to slap her on the wrist and he seemed to immediately regret his choice of words when he saw her expression because he visibly softened. "You're a kid. My kid."

And he didn't want her to end up like that other girl. She sighed and looked down at her socked feet, scuffing the carpet dejectedly. "Fine," she muttered and he echoed her sigh and rubbed his face tiredly. "Night, dad."

She fled before he could respond. It was childish, she knew, but his words did actually sting. There were few things that she and her dad could connect over. She inherited all her nosiness and natural suspicion from him, and those are the traits that made him such a great Sheriff. Their shared trait was both a gift and a curse.

At times it seemed to bring them closer together. Some kids tossed a baseball with their dad as children—Stiles watched crime shows and talked about criminals. The both paid attention to the national news and would often share cases that they found disturbing or interesting with each other. But when those cases found their way into Beacon Hills, it stopped being interesting and started becoming personal. And that's where the hobby turned dangerous for Stiles.

Unfortunately, oftentimes their relationship strained as a result. Because Stiles is relentless and her father is still her father, and so his duty to protect her and his duty to protect their city would war with each other, and sometimes Stiles was the one whose feelings were sacrificed. And the mature response would be to suck it up and recognize that she shouldn't be trying to play detective. But she couldn't help it anymore than he could.

Anyways, it was late, and she still had reading to do. Time to go get inside the head of a mutated cockroach.


The next morning Stiles lay in bed staring at the ceiling. She woke up and for a blissful moment, she completely forgot about the past few days. Her mind was on breakfast. Her stomach growled already, and she was thinking specifically about the frozen waffles in the freezer, considering whether she would want peanut butter on them or fruit.

Then she thought of her dad and everything came rushing back. As she lay there and rubbed her face, she knew that she needed to go make amends. So by the time she had dressed and made her way through the house to the kitchen, she had a whole speech drawn up in her head.

She would gauge his mood first. Then from there, she would either cheerfully greet him like nothing happened, or apologize. But she heard him speaking on the phone and—well, old habits die hard.

Stiles lingered in the dining room outside the kitchen and listened closely.

"And you're absolutely sure about that? The animal hairs found on the body was a—a wolf hair?"

Everything she'd rehearsed flew out of her head and she stifled a gasp as she hopped away from the kitchen, her mind racing. A wolf? A wolf had attacked the young woman?

Scott was attacked by an animal in the woods, and it bit him on the side. The girl had been ripped in half across the middle of her stomach. The spots were similar—could it be? It had to be.

It had to be the same thing. Whatever killed the girl attacked Scott, but for some reason it left him with only a bite. In comparison to how the girl died, Scott's wound was little more than a scratch.

And yet, it was still a scratch. The wolf drew blood. And damn her for being such a nerd, but Stiles' mind connected Scott's changes with the bite he'd received and the wolf that killed the girl and suddenly it was all adding up—not to rabies, but to something else entirely.

She had to talk to Scott. The front door slammed shut behind her, breakfast and apology long-since forgotten.


Of course the revelation this morning was little more than a hunch. It was something—something big, she knew that much. But she hadn't really been convinced of it until tryouts.

Scott blasted straight past reflexes into an entirely new category. He wasn't just catching the ball and dodging a tackle, he was stealing the ball and back flipping over the defense players. He wasn't just getting the ball to the goal—every single shot he made got past the goalie. And he made it look easy.

Sure, she and Scott practiced this summer. But this was something completely different. This was more than he could've achieved through practice. So Stiles zipped straight home and dove headfirst into research. At first she was researching with the hopes that what she found would prove her theory wrong.

But the more she found, the more it was looking like she was right on the money. A wolf didn't kill that girl, and a wolf didn't bite Scott. It was a werewolf. That's why he's changing. That's why, after a full summer of practicing and barely learning to properly pick the ball up in the stick, Scott's inexplicably become better at lacrosse than their team captain seemingly overnight.

And he did not respond well to her theory—not that she could blame him. But she's pacing her room right now because—well, for a lot of reasons.

One, he doesn't seem to believe her. That's never happened before, by the way. He always believes whatever cockamamie theory she comes up with—or at least he plays along. Something about this is different though; it's like he's terrified of the possibility that she's right, and that he is rapidly transforming into a werewolf.

But all the evidence is there, right there in front of them! His heightened senses and reflexes, and miraculous recovery from asthma? Explain that.

Two, tonight is the full moon. And according to all the research she's done, Scott is going to transform for the first time ever. Tonight. And he wants to go to a freaking party. On a date! With a girl!

When it became clear that he wouldn't listen to reason, Stiles tried to take matters into her own hands. She picked up his cellphone and informed him that she was personally canceling his date with Allison, and Scott snapped. Seriously, he snapped.

He came inches from hitting Stiles, and to say that he scared the crap out of her would be the understatement of the century. Scared her, partly because he came close to hitting her, mostly because it was proof that she was right. That he was dangerously close to losing control already, and the moon hadn't even risen yet—and he wanted to go on a date!

Three, the party would be thrown by none other than Lydia Martin. Stiles has a whole novel of reasons why that gives her anxiety, but the leading reason is that she knows that as long as Scott attends that party tonight, so will she. Which would put her in the direct path of Lydia Martin, and that scares the shit out of her. What if she sees her? What would she say? What would she wear?

A dress was too much. Scott was being stupid and she was definitely mad at him for being such a complete douche this afternoon—he wrecked her favorite chair!—but she was going to that party primarily to keep an eye on him. She wouldn't talk to him (the idiot would be on a date after all) but she would stick close by in case anything happened and he needed her. And she strongly suspects that he will need her.

So a dress was out of the question. Those are annoying and require too much attention. Stiles is unused to wearing them. Every time she wears one she runs the risk of flashing someone or, frankly, looking as uncomfortable as she felt. And she didn't have the patience, time, or desire to put up with all of that. So even though this was sure to be at least a mildly formal party (it is Lydia's after all) she wore shorts and her favorite party shirt under her favorite red and black plaid shirt. Her dark t-shirt read lucky party shirt and her plaid shirt was just… well, that was just Stiles' taste.

Makeup. She could use a mascara wand, sort of. She kept the makeup wipes close by to clean up all the inevitable messes that occurred when her hand eventually went haywire and smeared a lovely splotch of black onto her face. That was the extent of her makeup expertise.

Satisfied with her appearance, Stiles got in her jeep and puttered over to the Martins' residence, arriving only twenty minutes after the party started so that she could park along the street and insure herself a quick getaway. High school social etiquette said anyone who came to a party within the first hour was apparently lame, but Stiles would rather be lame than risk her best friend… mauling someone. To death. Literally.

She found someone to talk to fairly quickly and kept an eye on the door. When Scott and Allison arrived, he barely looked at her. His eyes darkened in annoyance at seeing her there and he turned away in uncharacteristic pettiness, and it appeared that Stiles and Scott were apparently engaged in their first ever friendship-fight. So be it.

Stiles didn't let her friend's bitterness impede her vigilance. She kept watch over him as best as she could, but eventually his childishness gave way to her own annoyance, and as the night grew on Stiles' temper became more and more frayed.

Scott was being a dick. Lydia and Jackson were literally dry humping against one of the exterior walls of the house, meanwhile Lydia kept throwing Scott glances—a fact that did not escape Stiles' notice—and actually, the conversations around her about being young and being at a party became infectious. Soon enough she found that she stopped watching Scott's every move and instead let herself become just the slightest bit absorbed in the atmosphere of the party.

That was her first mistake. Her second was not chasing after her friend as fast as she could when he abandoned Allison and started through the crowd. Allison was calling after him in confusion, and Scott barely seemed to respond as he wove through the crowd. Stiles didn't get a great look at him but something about the whole thing seemed off. He'd been so determined to have this date, and now he's just leaving in the middle of it?

She knew exactly why he was leaving, actually, and she was certain that it had everything to do with the moon that was now at its full peak. So Stiles fought her way through the thick crowd of her fellow students and followed Allison outside.

Alarms wailed in her head again when she spotted Derek Hale leading Allison over to his car. She barely had time to register that Allison was willingly getting into Derek's car before logic took control of her brain again and Stiles flew over to her jeep.

Allison got into Derek's car. Stiles hoped to god that meant she knew the man, and that of course sprung about a hundred new questions in Stiles' head, but she quickly shoved them back to the recess of her mind and focused on following his black Camaro down the street. He undoubtedly knew she was following them, but quite frankly, she didn't give a damn. If Derek Hale is the killer and he tried to take Allison anywhere except home, Stiles is calling her dad.

She followed them a fairly short distance just a few blocks over and into a separate but equally affluent neighborhood. The black car pulled to a serene stop in front of a large mansion that had its porch light on, and Stiles had no choice but to continue past the pair of them. She turned the corner of the next street and parked by a stop sign, turned her lights off, and waited with bated breath, her fingers stuck over the speed dial on her phone.

Stiles didn't have to wait long. Soon enough, the black car crept up the stop sign. She could feel that same familiar prickle of being watched as the car stopped for an intermittent period of time and just as she was about to press the call button, the car pulled away. She watched it until it went all the way to the end of the neighborhood before finally pulling out onto the street that led back toward the Preserve.

Stiles flicked her headlights back on and drove past the house again. There was no one outside, but the front porch light was now turned off. She took that as a reassuring sign and sighed in relative relief. Now, the next issue. Scott.

Scott's house was dark. His had taken his mom's car to the party and now it sat half in the yard and half on the driveway. She knew Melissa was at work, which meant Scott was home alone.

She didn't hesitate to just walk through the front door—which was unlocked, and that attested to the fact that Scott was losing control and unfocused. He was usually very good about locking the front door. But something had distracted him.

It didn't take long to track him up to his room, and she pounded loudly against the wood of his door. "Scott, it's me!" She called, turning the doorknob and pushing against the door. But it was pushed back and she just had time to jam her foot between the door and the frame to keep it open. "Let me in, Scott, I can help!"

"No!" He panted. His voice quaked and there was an unfamiliar note of roughness to it, like he had a cold or something. "Just—just go find Allison, okay? Make sure she's alright for me."

"I did, she's fine," Stiles quickly reassured. "She got a ride home from the party. She's totally fine, alright?"

"No; I think I know who it is!" Scott frantically insisted through the closed door. Stiles frowned and gave a gentle shove, but it was like pushing against a wall. "Derek," Scott finally elaborated. "Derek Hale—he's the werewolf—he's the one who bit me—he's the one that killed the girl in the woods!"

Stiles' blood ground to a screeching halt in her veins. It was a suspicion that had been nagging her all day, a theory that she had kept at bay in fear of overreacting or jumping to conclusions. With a quieter tone, Stiles said, "Scott, Derek's the one who drove Allison from the party..."

Hoping that this would be the thing that finally convinced Scott to let her in, she waited to hear his response. But she was only met with silence. Giving the door a push, she was surprised to find it opened easily. "Scott?" She asked, but his room was empty.

The window was open and the light was still on in his bathroom. She heard a roar from outside—loud enough that it shook the glass in the window and seemed to shake the entire foundation of the house. The roar was inhuman, it was a monstrous thing that triggered her fight or flight instincts. She grit her teeth and waited for a moment, going against every fiber in her body that screamed at her to take cover, and the moment of irrational fear passed.

Or perhaps not such an irrational fear, since once she got to the window and looked at the yard below she saw that Scott was nowhere to be found and concluded he was going to find Allison.

Shit.


Allison was home. Stiles sped straight there, knocked on the door and almost fell over in relief at seeing Allison home and unharmed. She's pretty sure that Allison's mom has the impression that Stiles suffers from brain damage or something, but that's neither here nor there. What was really important was that Scott was still MIA.

And now Stiles was steering her jeep aimlessly through the city, hoping—praying to catch sight of her best friend. She must have called him about a thousand times. Every part of her wished fiercely that she could just call her dad and have the entire police force out searching for Scott, but what would she say, exactly?

Hey, by the way, you haven't happened to see Scott out and about on the town, have you? He'd be acting pretty weirdly—maybe look hopped up on drugs. No, he's not actually on drugs, he's just transforming into a mythical creature because of the full moon, and I'm worried that he's going to rain terror and strife down upon the city. So yeah, it's pretty imperative that we find him.

That feeling she mentioned last night about being in over her head? It had multiplied, and she was in full-blown panic mode. Surprisingly the panicky part of her panic mode had broken and given way to numbness. Her hands and legs were freezing and she wished, not for the first time, that the heat in her jeep worked.

She combed through the streets of suburbia and the longer she looked the more her numb-panic turned sour. It had been about forty-five minutes since she started looking for Scott, and her bitterness was pretty much on full blast right about now.

She had half a mind to start whistling out the window and calling his name like the dog he was. No sooner did she have the thought then she spotted a dog trotting alongside the road, and her heart lodged itself in her throat.

Should she? Did she dare?

Her jeep crept to a stop and she put it in park. The dog wasn't massive—it looked like some sort of Border Collie—and it cowered away from the jeep. When Stiles whistled, it turned to peer curiously at the jeep and paced back and forth on the sidewalk.

She got out and her heart thrummed loudly in her chest as she put her hand up, coming around the front of her jeep. "Um…" She softly said, shifting her tone to be gentle and unassuming. "Scott?"

The dog's ears fell back and it practically trembled with excitement, quickly scampering forward when it saw her hand was out and she was talking to it. Stiles wanted to panic at the thought that this small dog could actually be her best friend, but she put on a brave face and set her jaw. Before she really had time to think about it the dog was curling back and forth around her legs in barely contained excitement, snorting at her ankles and licking her legs every chance it got.

But Stiles was sighing and grinning in relief and exasperation, because there was a bright blue collar fastened around its neck. She took a knee and scruffed the top of the dog's head as it lunged forward and tried to shower her with enthusiastic kisses as she grabbed its collar to read the metallic dog-bone-shaped tag hanging from it.

"Ollie," she sighed at the dog, and it gave a happy snort and nudged her hand with its nose, its tail wagging so fast that it kicked up a small wind. "Ollie, you scared the shit out of me…"

The dog was hanging halfway out the window of the jeep. Ollie barked at streetlights as they drove, and was happy to listen to Stiles as she vented to him.

"It's not that I'm trying to complain about him," Stiles confided. "It's just that he's being such a dumb ass! Who does that? Who leaves in the middle of the night like that?"

The dog turned to look directly at her briefly before it looked away with a huff and craned its neck outside the window again.

"Oh," Stiles barely suppressed a smirk. "I forgot. What's with your species, anyways? You always run away for no good reason! People are only trying to help and you just take off!"

The dog wasn't even listening anymore as it practically exploded in excitement when it caught sight of its house. It was barking quite frequently and loudly at this point, and to be honest Stiles would be glad to return it home.

It took about three minutes to return the dog to its rightful owners. They were surprised to find that their dog had snuck away—and she could relate to that. But she was somewhat baffled to find that they didn't scold it more. They just seemed grateful to have it back.

Whatever. Stiles was already back in her jeep and she spent the next five hours going over every known inch of Beacon Hills with a fine tooth comb, until she finally decided to go try her luck at the Preserve. After all, that's where they last saw Derek, isn't it?

She stayed out searching until long after the sun had risen. Stiles was just on her last lap around the winding roads of the Preserve when she finally found him, walking along the side of the road much like Ollie had been, and she cheered briefly before exasperation took over.

Deciding to be just a little petty, Stiles quietly rolled the window down and came to a gentle stop beside Scott. She leaned over and whistled out the window like she was calling a dog. "Scott!" She hollered. "Come here, boy!"

Her friend shot her a scathing glare and he seemed to want to turn away and leave. Stiles smirked and reached over to push the door open, and Scott rolled his eyes before he finally trudged over and climbed into the passenger seat.

As soon as he was in they both paused and turned to each other as if waiting to hear the other apologize. Stiles snorted and returned her attention to the road, putting the jeep in gear and pulling away.

Scott sighed and leaned against the window, apparently exhausted.

A few minutes passed before Scott finally broke the silence. He started explaining his night, and everything that had happened from the moment he left his room to the moment Stiles picked him up in her jeep.

He'd tracked Allison's scent back to the woods. He found her jacket hanging in a tree, and soon after that he was ambushed. Hunters. He explained Derek showing up and saving him, and then Derek declaring the bite a gift. And claiming that Scott and he were brothers now. Stiles particularly didn't like that last bit.

And after Scott revealed that despite all that had happened last night, he was the most worried about Allison, Stiles had actually felt physically sick to her stomach.

Sick because she was so frustrated with him. Sick because it's true, and he's a werewolf now, and apparently there are werewolf hunters, and apparently Derek Hale is going to be bothering them for a very long time to come. Sick because in the wake of all of this, Scott is more worried about whether or not a girl likes him. Sick because at the same time, she can't blame him for that.

She simply sighed and reassured him that Allison didn't hate him. "Trust me," She said. "I'm a girl, I know these things."

Scott seemed unconvinced. "What do I say to her?"

Stiles drew a breath. "Most people would say that honesty is the best policy," She told him, and Scott looked at her like she was crazy. She shrugged defensively. "I said most people! And it's an option, don't look at me like that! It's a valid option. You could tell her the truth… or, you could tell her a version of the truth and say you were sick. She can't fault you for that, right?"

Scott groaned. "I hate that I'm already lying to her. I hate that I messed up our first date to begin with."

"Yeah," Stiles couldn't help but comment. "Probably should've rescheduled."

Scott glared at her but Stiles just smugly grinned in return.

"Next time don't go out with her on the full moon. Problem solved."