Beacon Hills- Present Day- 1:30 am
It never really went away, the pain of the loss. The gaping hole grew smaller, but it never healed, never went away. It became part of life- it became managable.
Every year, on the eve of the anniversary, Scott lay awake, replaying that day in his head and the snippets he had of the aftermath. He didn't see the event itself, but he remembered the aftermath. He remembered the blood, and the shocked faces of the students. He remembered Jerry's eyes flicking to him before they fluttered shut, his body mangled and twisted. He remembered grabbing Stiles hand, and the Coach picking them up, carrying them to his office. He remembered sobbing into his chest. He remembered babbled voices melding together. He remembered it was nearly dark when Stiles' dad showed up, bringing them to his house, where Mrs. Stilinski wrapped both him and stiles in a big hug.
Scott was brought out of his musings when his phone vibrated. A message icon with the name Stiles flashed on the screen. He flicked it open.
"I get buddy. I'm going through it as well, now get some sleep or I will tell Liam and get him to go over and puppy pile you," it read.
'Easier said than done,' Scott thought, as he listened to his mother sobb herself to sleep.
000
Everyone at Beacon Hills High knew the story, even if they had never meet Scott. It was an urban legend around the school, and the town. The kid who ran in front of the school bus. All day long, people sent both Scott and Stiles sympathetic looks. Liam and Kira had no idead what was going on, why the normally manic Coach Finstock spoke to both boys in a low, soothing voice. It was up to Lydia to explain what had happened, how it had caused Scott's dad to first drink, and then leave his family. How both boys had spent untold hours with a councillor. Nothing more had to be said. That evening at precise, sitting in the stands, Lydia filled in Malia as to what was going on, as Derek Hale lurked in the woods, brooding on how he had seen that young kid run straight in front of the bus and yet, couldn't stop him. The Coach was apprehensive about letting Scott and Stiles play on this day in particular- he still remembered the two eight year olds who had sobbed into his chest as he rushed them to his office. But he was assured that this was what they needed, to run off steam.
No one noticed the fog swirling under the stands, or how it consolidated into the prone figure of a child. They felt the cold though, and the hairs on the back of their necks stand up. Everyone was sure they heard a voice sigh 'It's time little one, time to come back.' No one could place the voice, it just floated on the breeze. Under the stands, the eyes of twelve year old Jerry McCall flew open as he drew a shuddering breath. His entire body ached. So much so it brought tears to his eyes as he struggled to get to his feet. All he could think about was the last image he had- blood on the front of a school bus and Scott's frightened face. Scott was in danger and he had to help him. He stagger blindly, his eyes swimming with tears of pain, until he collapsed onto grass. He frowned, and looked around after he wiped his eyes clear. An athletics field? When had this gotten here? And who were all these people looking at him? He tried to stand, but his head spun and he collapsed into a strong pair of arms. He looked up into a familiar pair of brown eyes, set in a familiar, if slightly different face.
"Scottie, your ok," Jerry said, before he passed out.